The Emperor has commanded the messenger to kneel by his lawnchair and has whispered the message to him. So important is this message to the Emperor that he ordered the messenger to whisper it back to him.
Upon confirmation of its correctness the messenger sets off on his appointed task. The messenger is a powerful, unflappable and determined man, pushing ahead, first with his right arm and then with his left; he cleaves his way through the throngs of spectators. If he encounters resistance he simply points to his chest which bears the insignia of the Imperial Stat. But the masses are vast and have no end. If he could just reach the grass how fast he would fly and soon you would welcome the tip of his cap at your lonely station. Instead, he vainly wears out his strength, having not even made it past the batter's box. Never will he even head toward first base. And, if he succeeded in that nothing would be gained for he would next have to fight his way to second and, if he succeeded in that still nothing would be gained, as it would be third and so on and so on for thousands of years: and if at last he should suddenly dart to left field, the multitudes would be as thick and deep as eternity. Nobody could fight his way to you, not even with a message from a dead man. But, you stand at your position as the sun rises high over the park and you dream it to yourself.
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