“I’m shocked,” Enrique replies. “And of course that can’t be. People must have the flu or something. You’ve all seen the scientific evidence of the effectiveness and safety of Atlas Energy. There’s absolutely no basis in fact for any negative reactions to the miracle formula.”
“Enrique, sorry to hit you with some more bad news. I’m Elinor Ridge from the St. Louis Center. We’ve had complaints of severe lower back pain after clients use Titan machines.”
“Enrique, I can answer this, if you don’t mind,” says Albert Smith. “Clients are obviously not using machines properly. It is impossible for Titans to cause physical damage of any kind. The physics of their engineering is so precise and reliable, that using it can’t hurt anyone, even if they tried. It would automatically compensate for it. That’s how innovative Titans are. I know it sounds eerie, but they almost think.”
“I’ll vouch for that,” Thor Rentgen adds. “The only time I’ve ever had clients complain about lower back pain is when they’ve done exercises outside of their Titan regimen. They’re told not to deviate from their Atlas program, but of course too often they do. Some people don’t want to listen. So, you’ve gotta make absolutely certain that your clients know they have to follow their regimen precisely.”
“We value all of your observations—yes, even something that might be critical or negative,” Enrique says dismissively. “But as you know, we stand 100 percent behind Atlas Fitness. Well, unless we have any more non-problem problems—and I repeat that we welcome them—let’s move on to expansion. As I mentioned, we need to get to 200 centers fully operational by December 31 of this year. That’s a tall order in a little more than six months. But the more people who drug themselves on Atlas, the more profitable we’ll all be. And I don’t have to remind you that the bottom line is our bottom line, our only bottom line. And the best way to expand is for each of you to clone yourselves. Open another branch. Spread the word. Reap the profit. Let’s take a twenty-minute break. And during that time, please schedule your one-on-one meeting with one of our staff members to discuss your center’s expansion strategy, including putting in place an ‘Elite Client Program.’ Believe me, that will pay off more than you can ever imagine. It’s now 11. Be back at 11:20 sharp.”
After the break, when everyone is seated, Zora Tremmon makes a grand entrance into the training room, smiling at all the franchisees and walking backwards down the middle aisle with both hands outstretched, palms open. “Waaay to go,” she says. “I see that everyone signed up for a one-on-one expansion strategy session.” Pointing to the sixty-five inch TV screen on the wall, she says, “In a few minutes you’re going to have the honor and privilege of hearing from the god of Free-for-All economics, my idol and mentor Professor Hilton Manfreed. But first, I can’t tell you how delighted I am to meet all of you in person. I feel as though I know all of you from our emails and videoconferences. I know it’s heresy to say it these days, but there’s nothing like face-to-face time between people working together.
“Every time I hear Professor Manfreed speak, I get high on our mission and purpose. Of course, I drink Atlas Energy faithfully every day. But the professor is his own kind of drug—and the more you absorb his wisdom, the more successful you’ll be. You all know him as the father of Free-for-All economics, the inspiration for the ongoing Galtian Restoration. Without him, I don’t know where we’d be today. Oh yes I do. We’d be wallowing in socialistic bombast and none of you would be here. His sweeping vision of the world is directly responsible for the success of Atlas Fitness. So, I’m thrilled to be a part of Atlas Fitness, because it ‘gives back’ to New Atlantis.
“Professor Manfreed,” Zora continues, “we are thrilled to have you with us.”
“Thank you, Zora,” he replies, grinning broadly. “And as usual, thank you for your glowing introduction. Knowing that someone like you is carrying the torch of John Galt’s vision, following in my footsteps, means everything to me. You are our future—and so is every franchisee of an Atlas Fitness Center. So, let me say right off the bat that no one should have any doubts that the spirit of John Galt is alive and well. Don’t believe any of the nonsense you’ve heard about our being on the verge of being destroyed. Quite the contrary! Of course, our enemies—we’ve always had them and we always will—want you to believe we’re about to go under. They’ll keep lying about us—and the rogue press will continue to twist and exaggerate their claims. But it won’t do them any good because our message is positive and most citizens of the Corporate States know it. It’s the only message that people want to hear because it liberates them from servitude and frees them to pursue their dreams without guilt.
“Our enemies are guilt-inducing predators who try to subjugate the rest of society. They are orchestrating the downfall of western civilization. They say they want to protect the environment. But they scream that the sky is falling down without reliable scientific proof—unless you think that just because someone has won a Nobel Prize they’re credible. Then, they concoct rules to end crises they fabricate and that simply take money out of all of our pockets. The bounty of the Earth is to be conquered by the strong, not redistributed to the weak as their reward for simply breathing in and breathing out. There are no disasters—natural or manmade. They are buying opportunities. Human beings rule nature. We’re not just one of many equal species in the scheme of things. And the strongest among us are destined to thrive and rule the weakest.
“Our enemies preach social responsibility so they can take what you’ve got and give it to the weak and lazy. Do you see the pattern here? Of course you do! You’d be on the giving end of the equation if John Galt were really dead—but you’re not and you won’t be as long as I’ve got anything to say about it.
“Remember this above all, a cardinal principle of Free-for-All economics: There’s no such thing as an economic downturn. I know that you’ve been hearing for years that totally free markets exploit people, throw them out of work, and simply make the rich richer. But again and again, research has proven the validity of ‘The I-Factor,’ the natural law of inequality. Nature abhors similarity and equality. Only the unique survive. You have a moral obligation to think ‘I’—that you are all there is—and to protect your ‘I’ from the deadly ‘we’ mentality.
“Let me tell you a story about a family that, as the saying goes, ‘had it all,’ but then had it taken from them, literally stolen, in the name of equality, doing right by others. In sixty years, they grew a small farm into a major agribusiness—HarvestCo in Southern California. Their laborers were migrants who chose their way of living, chose to marry, chose to have children, and chose to work where they were working. Everything was working just fine. Things were the way that had always been. The business thrived. Everybody knew their place.
“But then, outside agitators came in like snakes and tried to form a union. They poisoned the workers. They claimed the business was exploiting them, that it was underpaying them, should have been providing healthcare, should have seen to it that children were going to school not harvesting in the fields. They had a bagful of ‘shoulds’ for everybody and everything. They claimed that all the growers in the area were acting illegally because they said they conspired to set wages. So, they said workers had a right to join together to fight their exploiters and oppressors. You know, they just spouted all the socialist, communist rhetoric we’ve heard for years. There’s nothing new in economic class warfare. You’ll keep hearing it until they finally give up or we crush them once and for all, which may happen sooner than you realize.
“They demanded, and demanded, and demanded. They demanded what they called a ‘living wage’ for everyone, some figure they made up. It was way more than the minimum wage, which they weren’t getting anyway. They demanded housing with electricity and inside plumbing and free rent. They demanded that a nurse be present in the fields at all times and that a doctor be on call. And they demanded that children under sixteen be able to go to school. Well, none of those deman
ds were met—or were ever going to be met. So, they flexed their muscles, and for the first time ever, just before the harvest, workers packed up and walked out. They targeted only HarvestCo to make an example of it for all the other growers. Eventually, everyone else caved in and met their demands.
“But we didn’t. I say ‘we’ because my family owned HarvestCo. My father said he would never give in to demands. We were forced into bankruptcy. And the only way we could settle our debts was to sell our land, literally dirt cheap, to a developer who built cheap tract housing. My family lost everything after decades of working and building equity. I was robbed of my inheritance. I was born to wealth that was stolen from me. I was in my teens when it happened, but I never forgot it. How could I?
“You’ve got a God-given right to hold on to everything you’ve got. You don’t owe anybody anything. You’ve got a right to run your business the way you want to—and that’s that. If someone doesn’t like it, they can quit or not come to work for you in the first place. If customers don’t like it, they can spend their money somewhere else. The market trumps some government intruder in your affairs telling you what to do and how to do it. Follow your arrogance. There is too much ‘we’ in the world, not enough ‘I.’ Life is a competition. You live and die in your own skin. In the end, no one’s on your team but you.
“I know all of you have heard about the recent unpleasantness at New Atlantis. So I want to reassure you that we are in the process of implementing a dynamite, two-part strategy to put an end to our opposition. All of you are key to the success of part one: Getting rid of the blight of Coopervilles. They are a black eye on Ham Cooper’s presidency. He even goes ballistic when he hears the word. We can’t have any of them around before the next election. They have to be eradicated, along with all the human trash living there. It makes me physically ill to see what they’ve done to Central Park, just a few blocks from you.
“We need all of you to help bug Coopervilles near you. Send someone in, or go in yourself if you can stand it, hire as many people as you can for a few hours on different days, even if it’s just to sweep your floors. The important thing is to pump them for information. We need to find out who the leaders are and what they’re planning. Transmit any intelligence you get to Atlas Fitness Headquarters as soon as you can so it can be forwarded to the proper authorities.
“Part two of our strategy is, well, I think, brilliant. And I can say that because I didn’t think of it. It is the work of Professor Doppelmann, the world’s leading expert on psycho, psycho-lexicality—or something like that. We are about to blanket the country with a public relations campaign that will overpower our enemies. The phrase ‘John Galt is dead’ is going to be on land, sea, and in the air. No one will be able to escape it. We’re going to…”
Everyone in the training room becomes visibly agitated. “Professor Manfreed, I’m sorry to interrupt,” Enrique says openly troubled. “But you said that ‘John Galt is dead’ is going to be on land, sea, and in the air?”
“That’s impossible,” Manfreed replies. “Of course, I said, ‘John Galt is dead.’”
“I’m sorry, Professor, but you said it again.”
“Let’s move on. You all know what I actually meant,” Manfreed says, dismissively.
Suddenly, the video connection is lost and the screen goes black. A strange voice repeats, “John Galt is dead.” The audience is noticeably confused. Multiple hands raise. “Let’s wait to ask questions until after lunch,” a puzzled Enrique says. “Be back at 1:30.”
SIX
Invade, Raid, Crusade
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 22, 4:30 A.M.: WASHINGTON, D.C. In the summer, even before dawn, everywhere in the nation’s capital feels like a steam bath. There is no refreshing, evening cool—ever. The heat of the previous day never evaporates entirely. After the sun goes down, it morphs into an invisible, cloying, omnipresent, wet, gray sultriness that enshrouds people, places, and things. Nothing escapes. Memorials and buildings weather the discomfort in their stride. Lincoln, Jefferson, and the White House are indifferent. But living, breathing people fare badly. A languor overtakes everything they do, even how they move their eyes. Rain, fierce or gentle, makes matters worse. After it, the air feels heavier and stickier than before. Breezes intensify the heat. You can take temporary refuge in air conditioning. But you know you’re only fooling yourself. The heat always gets you when you go from place to place. It is relentless and unbeatable.
Today, as every day shortly before dawn, the daytime heat is waiting to ambush Cooperville and its residents on the National Mall. Rows of stately elms provide some relief to those lucky enough to camp under them, but they pay the price of waking to gobs of early morning dampness. Commonly referred to as “the capital of destitute America” and a black eye for Free-for-All economics, the Washington Cooperville is now a fortified city-within-a-city. Tourists don’t come here anymore to luxuriate in history and genuflect before marble monuments. From a healthy distance, they gawk and squawk. More than one can be heard wondering what diseases the population carries. At row after row of makeshift housing, they shake their heads, disapprovingly from side to side, in disbelief that anyone—let alone families with children—can be living so tentatively, in such squalor, in spitting distance of the president and Congress. And they are personally affronted that such sights—especially crowds bathing in the reflecting pool—have ruined their trips to the capital. “Why doesn’t somebody do something about getting rid of such an eyesore?” most can be heard asking. “Why don’t they get off their lazy asses and find jobs?” From time to time, trucks with sound systems drive around the Mall harassing them with messages like “Get to work, you bums” or “You’re pieces of shit.”
Inside Cooperville, people are used to it. They develop hard skin. They have to. It’s the only way they can survive. The camp’s official greeter, Malcolm—residents go only by their first name—tells every new arrival, “Don’t get plugged in by the catcalls. Focus on surviving and doing whatever it takes to move on. And don’t talk about the past. We’ve all got one. Don’t pile your tale of woe on top of other people’s. You can tell your story outside to anyone who will listen, for whatever it’s worth. Inside, talk about the present. Talk about the future.”
For their protection from assailants and vandals, over the years, residents have sealed off the perimeter of the Mall with a series of six-foot high, makeshift barricades made out of railroad ties, garbage cans, fencing, barbed wire, almost anything to thwart an intruder. Two unarmed guards trained in the martial arts are stationed on the north at pedestrian entrances from Constitution and Pennsylvania Avenues and on the south at Independence and Maryland Avenues. There is no access from the east and west. No vehicles are allowed in Cooperville.
Today, except for a few early risers, the only people moving about before sunrise are members of the volunteer force who guard and patrol the encampment day and night. Like doting parents looking in on their sleeping children, they move up and down rows of tents, cardboard boxes, sleeping bags, and lean-tos people call home. Occasionally they straighten the flap at the entrance of a tent to restore privacy to those inside or cover a sleeper who may have rolled beyond his lean-to or her sleeping bag. But they also watch and listen for anything out-of-the-ordinary that might spell trouble—a deranged or suicidal resident or an attacker from the outside.
“How’s it going?” asks George, who’s a half-hour away from the end of his eight-hour shift, when he sees Roger pacing back and forth in front of his tent.
“Things just don’t feel right, George,” the young man in his early thirties replies.
“Have you been eating?” George says. “It looks like you’re losing weight. Do you feel ok?”
“I’m restless, haven’t been able to sleep in the heat, can’t find a comfortable spot,” Roger replies, rubbing his bloodshot eyes and combing his disheveled hair with his right hand. “Plus, Adam, my eight-year-old has been sick. We don’t know what’s wrong with him. But h
e’s got a bad cough.”
He’s got the yearning look, George thinks to himself. I’ve seen it over and over, just before people crack. “Take it easy, man. Just take it easy for as long as you can. Things have got to get better. They’ve got to.”
Every day by 6 a.m., Cooperville teems with life. No one knows the exact number of its refugees—people come and go, mostly come and stay in the last five years—but it is probably about three thousand. They are all ages. There have been marriages, deaths, births, and divorces. Some children have known no other home. Daily, billowing smokestacks confirm that breakfast is being served from 6 to 9 a.m. in fifteen different communal food tents arranged like a spine straight down the Mall. Individual grills also sizzle. Everywhere, “unity circles” form spontaneously—the hopeful just hold hands before the start of another day drawing strength from each other that their lives will change for the better; others repeat the Lord’s Prayer or share epigrammatic wisdom from the Buddha, Khalil Gibran, or fortune cookies, anywhere they can get it. People finish their morning ritual quickly. Daily, by 6:45 a.m., trucks and vans line up at entrances to pick up day laborers. A few minutes delay can mean the difference between having enough money to eat meat at dinner—or settling for what they’re serving in the soup line.
At precisely 5:30 a.m., under the cover of darkness, four mounted officers from the District of Columbia police force appear at the south entrance of Cooperville. “I’m Commander Platt. We have a warrant to search this place,” he declares dryly, brandishing a piece of paper he takes from his breast pocket.
“There’s nothing to search for here,” Jason, one of the guards replies. “There’s just a lot of people trying to live as best they can.”
“Fuck you, you piece of shit. We don’t care about what you, or any of your kind, have to say. We’ve got our orders—and they come from the top. We’ll find the drugs and guns if we have to search every miserable shack in this hellhole. This place is gonna be history when we get through. We know who’s here and what’s here, mister, and we’re gonna find it. So, get out of our way.”
Atlas Drugged Page 11
