Scrap metal was hung all over him. Ordinarily, there was a certain symmetry, a military neatness to the handicaps issued to strongpeople, but Harrison looked like a walking junkyard. In the race of life, Harrison carried three hundred pounds.And to offset his good looks, the H-G men required that he wear at all times a red rubber ball for a nose, keep his eyebrows shaved off,and cover his even white teeth with black caps at snaggle-tooth random."If you see this boy," said the ballerina, "do not - I repeat, do not - try to reason with him."There was the shriek of a door being torn from its hinges.Screams and barking cries of consternation came from the television set. The photograph of Harrison Bergeron on the screen jumpedagain and again, as though dancing to the tune of an earthquake.George Bergeron correctly identified the earthquake, and well he might have - for many was the time his own home had danced to thesame crashing tune. "My God-" said George, "that must be Harrison!"The realization was blasted from his mind instantly by the sound of an automobile collision in his head.When George could open his eyes again, the photograph of Harrison was gone. A living, breathing Harrison filled the screen.Clanking, clownish, and huge, Harrison stood - in the center of the studio. The knob of the uprooted studio door was still in his hand.Ballerinas, technicians, musicians, and announcers cowered on their knees before him, expecting to die."I am the Emperor!" cried Harrison. "Do you hear? I am the Emperor! Everybody must do what I say at once!" He stamped his foot andthe studio shook."Even as I stand here" he bellowed, "crippled, hobbled, sickened - I am a greater ruler than any man who ever lived! Now watch mebecome what I can become!"