by Ben Bova
Her smile returned, but now it was etched with acid. “Sometimes.”
“Ahh, shit!” I bolted out of the chair, turned and kicked it, sending it clattering into the row of chairs behind it.
“There are differences among them, you know,” Laura said, gloating, getting even, rising to her feet so she could pour the poison into my ears. “Even in the dark. Meric, they’re each a little different.”
“I don’t give a damn!”
“But it’s so fascinating. One of them likes to be sucked, one of them likes my ass. One of them—I think it’s Joshua—just lets me do whatever I want to him. And then there are the parties… the grand balls, we call them…”
I should have socked her. I wanted to. Instead, I just headed up the aisle toward the exits at the back of the ballroom. Fast as I could. Nearly running.
“Meric!” she called to me.
I got to the last row of seats before I turned. I could hardly see her, my vision was blurry. I was gasping for breath. I felt like I was going to die. I wanted to.
“Cancel the press conference,” Laura commanded. “We’ll find the newsmen you sent those tapes to and shut them up—and you—and your two friends—one way or another.”
I shook my head and staggered out of the ballroom, blubbering like a kid who’s just had his last hope of joy taken away from him.
SIXTEEN
Hank drove me back to my apartment. My hands were shaking too badly even to hail a taxicab.
“What th’ hell went on between yew two?” he asked, frank astonishment on his face. “Y’all look like somebody put yew through a meat grinder.”
“Somebody did.”
“Th’ President’s lady?”
“She’s no lady”
He shrugged and weaved his way through the mounting afternoon traffic.
“Look at ’em,” Hank said, more to take my mind off my troubles than anything else.
The streets were filling up with demonstrators for the big Neo-Luddite rally that was going to meet at the Capitol at sundown. The local authorities had forbidden a rally during the daylight hours, while the Capitol building was open to visitors. So the Neo-Luddite leaders found a loop-hole in the official decision and organized their people to congregate on the Capitol’s main steps at sundown. They were expecting a hundred thousand people.
“Yew think all these people lost their jobs t’ computers?” Hank asked as we threaded through cars and buses festooned with signs reading STOP AUTOMATION and PEOPLE NOT MACHINES.
“It’s the second Industrial Revolution,” I said. “It’s happening all over again. People have been bombing computer facilities here and there.”
Hank nodded. “They tell me there’s even a new kinda robot that’s working foot patrol with the New York Police Department. Guess my job’ll be next.”
I said nothing, just watched the crowds. They seemed to be more in a holiday mood than anything else, laughing and hollering at each other. Drinking beer, inside the buses we passed.
“Maybe I oughta join ’em,” Hank muttered.
“No,” I said. “There’s something more important for you to do. Find Vickie and get the two of you out of town. Tonight. As soon as you let me off at my place.”
“Now that’s a damn good way t’ get me fired,” Hank said. “My orders are t’ stick with yew…”
“I’ll be all right,” I said. “They’re after you and Vickie, too.”
“How d’yew know?”
“What the hell do you think shook me up back there?”
His jaw dropped open. “Th’ First Lady? She’s in on it?”
“Deep enough to know that you two are in as deep as I am. Get Vickie and disappear. Go up to Boston and live with Johnny Harrison for the next day or two. Wait ’til after my press conference before you come back.”
“But yew…”
“Jesus Christ Almighty! Will you do what I tell you, or do you want to get yourself killed? And Vickie too?”
“I’ll get one of my buddies to fill in with yew…”
“No, that would tip them off. Just grab Vickie and get the hell out of town. I’ll lock myself in my apartment and phone the cops if I even hear a mouse squeak.”
With a shake of his head, “I dunno…”
“But I do. And if Vickie gets hurt I’ll blame you for it.”
His face tightened. “God damn! Life jes’ gets more complicated ever’ goddamned day.”
“Do what I tell you,” I said.
He hated the idea of leaving his assigned responsibility, but he was enough of an old-style Westerner to worry more about Vickie than about me. And I was old-fashioned enough to know that if they grabbed Vickie, I’d do whatever they told me to.
I sprinted from Hank’s unmarked car to the lobby of my apartment building, waved to him through the glass doors, and went up to my rooms. The first thing I did was snoop around the place, poking into closets and even the shower stall, to make certain I was alone. The first thing after triple-locking the front door, thatis. Than I put a frozen dinner in the cooker and called the door guards and told them I didn’t want any visitors allowed up, under any circumstances. They could talk to me on the phone if they needed me.
I settled down with the aluminum dinner tray in my favorite living room chair and flicked on the TV. The evening news was mostly about the gathering horde of Neo-Luddites congregating at the Capitol. Congress had courageously adjourned early, so that the Congresspersons and Senators could be safely home and far from their demanding constituents. The Capitol building itself was now closed to all visitors, and there were thousands of DC and Capital police ringing the venerable old marble pile.
“Unofficial reports from generally reliable sources,” the TV commentator added, “claim that the Army has several regiments of troops standing by in nearby locations, ready to deal with any emergencies that might arise.”
“Generally reliable sources” was me. We had argued in the office a good part of the day about tipping off the press that the Army was standing by for riot duty. Finally I decided it was better that the people hear about it from us, beforehand, than to have the troops show up as a surprise or, worse still, have some enterprising snoop like Ryan find out about them in spite of us. The President had agreed with my views and let the balloon float out into the public airways.
“There is also a rumor,” the TV commentator went on, “completely unconfirmed, that the President himself will address the demonstrators later this evening. As I say, this rumor is completely unconfirmed…”
That was news to me. Watching the gathering crowd on the TV screen, I didn’t think they looked particularly dangerous. But I knew that in a throng as big as that, a riot could erupt as easily as spitting on somebody’s sandal. And a crowd that size would need tanks and water cannon before they were calmed down. Or maybe worse.
So I picked listlessly at my dinner, drank damned near a whole bottle of white wine, and watched the special coverage of the demonstration that came on after the regular news show. The speakers were dull, inane, making absurd demands that, if met, would turn the economic clock back a generation and throw everybody out of work.
But the people cheered every asinine punchline and waved their signs: COMPUTERS MUST GO! HUMAN DIGNITY REQUIRES HUMAN JOBS. I couldn’t see anything dignified about being a secretary or a copyboy or even a typesetter, for that matter. On the other hand, I had a job that exercised my brain, not my hands and legs, so who the hell was I to complain?
It was a combination of the wine and the moronic speeches droning from the TV that put me to sleep. It was the phone’s insistent buzzing that woke me up.
I blinked. The TV was still on, and both in the panoramic view of the Capitol showing on the screen and through my own living room windows, I could see that it was dark outside. Night, as they say, had fallen.
The TV audio was saying, “And now, the President of the United States.” The view zoomed down to a makeshift podium that had been set up on the Capi
tol steps. And there he was, James J. Halliday, smiling confidently at the assembled multitudes.
“I don’t have a prepared speech,” he said disarmingly. “I thought I’d come out here and listen to what you have to say.”
They roared their approval. Must be John, I thought. He’s the charmer.
The phone was still buzzing, louder and more insistent. I reached over from my chair and tapped the ON button.
On the phone’s picture screen, the features of James J. Halliday took form.
“Good evening, Meric,” said the President.
I glanced from the phone to the TV, where the President was saying, “I understand that automation has taken many jobs, but that’s just a short-term situation…”
“Good evening,” I said to the phone image. “Your brother’s out there walking on water.”
“That’s Johnny for you,” said the President. “He loves it.”
“You don’t?”
“I’m not much for crowds. I’ve always preferred Hamilton to Jefferson.”
I squinted hard at the phone screen. The wine was making my head thunder.
“It won’t do you any good to try to figure out which one I am. You can’t tell by looking, and I’m not going to spell it out for you”
“Why’d you call?” I asked.
The President said, “I wanted to make one final appeal to you to call off this ridiculous press conference tomorrow afternoon.”
“No deal,” I said.
His face hardened. “You’ll never get to it. You understand that?”
“Doesn’t matter. The story will pop.”
With just a hint of exasperation, “You still don’t seem to understand, Meric, the power in my hands. By tomorrow afternoon those tapes you mailed out will be destroyed. The people who’ve been working with you will be silenced. It won’t work, Meric. It’s doomed.”
“Then why call me?”
“Because I’m not a willful slaughterer. I don’t want to kill anyone…”
“Tell that to your deceased brethren. Tell it to the General, I’m sure he’ll understand.”
“Meric! Don’t force me to act.”
“Mr. President… this nation has survived an awful lot of stupidity in the White House. We’ve had ignoramuses for Presidents, we’ve had innocent do-gooders and out-and-out crooks. But I’m not going to willingly allow a madman to take the job.”
“You’re a fool, Albano.”
“I know it. And I’m scared shitless. I don’t want to die. But I can’t step away and let you take over. I literally cannot do it! Understand that? Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. What the hell good would it be to live, if I couldn’t live with myself?”
“We’ve already got Ms. Clark,” he said flatly. “And Solomon’s…”
I didn’t hear the rest. I felt as if I’d been quick-frozen into solid ice. From somewhere far away, I heard my own voice, grim and tight, whisper, “No deal. It doesn’t matter. No deal.” And I hated myself for saying it.
I’ve never seen James J. Halliday’s face look so ugly. “All right, Albano. You won’t make it through the night.”
The phone screen went blank. I clicked it off. On the TV, James J. Halliday was saying: “That’s what the Presidency is for—to listen to the problems of the whole nation, not just one section or one state, and then to take actions that will solve those problems.”
They had Vickie. And I wouldn’t, couldn’t, make a trade for her. I don’t know how long I sat there, trying to rationalize it. But the simple truth was that Vickie wasn’t as important to me as nailing the Halliday murderer. And my own skin.
I realized that my apartment was no longer safe. Especially with Hank gone. But where the hell was there safety? My eyes fixed on the TV screen again. That vast crowd. Out there, they’d never be able to get to me. I could blend in and disappear.
And besides, I thought,that’s James John out there. If I can get to him and stick with him for the next eighteen hours, we might both make it out of this alive.
SEVENTEEN
But first I had to get out of my apartment alive.
I peeked through the window shutters and saw people walking along the street outside, and the usual solid line of parked cars. Could be an army of hired assassins out there. And I didn’t have a car; I’d have to get the door guards to call a taxi for me.
I paced the living room fretfully for a few minutes, certain that I couldn’t stay in the apartment, scared at the thought of stepping out into the open, trying not to think about Vickie and what might be happening to her.
Finally I couldn’t stand it any longer. I went out into the corridor, after a careful peek from my door, took the emergency stairs two flights up, walked all the way across the building to the elevators on that side, and rode down to the laundry room. The garage was one more level down, and if anybody was waiting for me, he’d at least have a scout down there. And out in the lobby.
Tiptoeing back to the delivery ramp behind the laundry room, I looked out into the night-shadowed driveway where the trucks pulled up. There was a gray minibus parked out there, with two men sitting in the cab.
Good Christ, I thought, they really are out there waiting for me!
I hurried down to the laundry room. Alex, one of the night security guards, was whistling down the hall toward the guards’ locker room.
“Hi, Mr. Albano,” he said cheerfully. “Washin’ somebody’s dirty laundry?” He laughed uproariously at his own joke; he knew my job, and knew that I could take a kidding.
“What’re you doing down here?” I asked.
“Gotta take a leak. Hey, you been watchin’ those protesters on TV? That’s a helluva crowd they got out there. Your boss is talkin’ to ’em.”
“I know.” Then the sudden inspiration came. “Alex… do you have a spare uniform in the locker room I could borrow?”
“Huh?”
Thank God he had a sense of humor. I told him it was a joke, and paid him fifty bucks for his extra cap and jacket, and the loan of his car. I promised to leave it at the cab stand three blocks down the avenue.
“Will you take care of the ticket I get when the Pee Dees spot it at the cab stand?”
“Sure.”
He trusted me. And my fifty dollars. So, with my heart hammering, I drove slowly out of the garage, wearing the guard’s cap and jacket.
Sure enough, there was a blocky-looking character at the exit gate.
The lights weren’t all that brilliant down in the garage although the area around the exit gate was lit better than I would have wished for. The man, whoever he was, kept the gate’s bar down so that I couldn’t pass thoroughly. He stared hard at me.
“Where you going?”
I tried to imitate Alex’s accent as best I could. “Gotta get Mr. Kent’s pree-scription.” And I made a booze-swilling motion that helped to hide my face.
He grinned and reached into the gate booth. The bar swung up and I drove out onto the avenue, very careful not to squeal the tires. I parked at the cab stand, left the cap and jacket on the front seat of the car, and took one of the cabs.
“You ain’t supposed to park there,” the cabbie said as I opened the rear door.
I ducked inside. “It’s a joke I’m playing on a friend,” I said.
His black face, staring back at me in the mirror, wasn’t at all amused. “Some joke,” he grunted.
The crowd around the Capitol was so huge that the traffic cops wouldn’t let us get within five blocks of the Hill. Or stop. They kept waving us on, until we were detoured down Virginia Avenue, halfway to the goddamned Navy Yard. The driver fumed and grumbled up front while I fumed and fretted in the darkness of the back seat.
He wormed through endless lines of parked buses up along Sixth Street Southeast and got as close as the Library of Congress Annex. The police had sawhorses and fire trucks blocking off the streets beyond there.
“Close as I can get,” the driver said.
I gave him a twent
y. “It’ll do.” I felt a little annoyed that he didn’t even go through the pretense of trying to make change.
I walked through the soft night air past an empty fire truck, toward the library’s main building a couple of blocks away. There wasn’t much of a crowd down here, but there were lots of people milling around, clustered in little groups on the corners, sitting on the curbs. Young people mostly, kids, black and white mixed. Normally, in this particular neighborhood, the streets are abandoned after dark. Too dangerous. But not tonight. These out-of-towners were strong enough in numbers to provide their own safety.
Their older peers were out in front of the Capitol, peaceably assembled—as the First Amendment puts it—to seek redress of grievances. These kids had just come along for the ride. And to be thrown in the front lines by their elders if it looked like a clash with the police or Army was coming up.
But the President was taking the venom out of the throng. There’d be no bloody confrontation; he’d turned it into a question-and-answer session, air your gripes, come to me all ye who labor and are hard pressed. He was good at it. James John, that is. Back at the White House was that other one, the one who’d phoned me, the one who had Vickie and was going to try to kill Johnny. And me.
I got a couple of odd looks from the kids as I purposefully walked toward the library’s main building. I obviously wasn’t one of them. Wrong uniform: business slacks and shirtjac instead of glitterpants and vest. Wrong age. Wrong attitude. But they didn’t bother me.
The guard at the library’s side entrance did. He was in his uniform: plastic armor, riot helmet with visor pulled down to shield his face, bandoleer of gas grenades, dartgun, electric prod, heavy boots.
“The building is closed, sir,” he said, very politely and steel hard.
I pulled rank. Dug out my ID and said, “I’ve got to get to the President, and the crowd’s too thick up front of the Capitol. Thought I’d go through the slideway tunnel.”
He bucked me upstairs. Called his sergeant on his helmet radio. The police sergeant came up and offered to provide me with an escort to get me through the crowd in front of the President. I declined. “Don’t want to make that much of a disturbance in front of The Man,” I said. Actually, I didn’t want to call that much attention to myself. I might be a clay pigeon, but there was no sense painting myself dayglo orange.
