“You seem to forget you were caught redhanded and the whole world has heard your heartless scheming. Everyone knows that you were at the secret meeting with Cooper and your partners in crime to profit after the hurricane hit Florida. It was a crime, you know. Everyone heard how you plotted to make millions off of other people’s misery. People were literally dying, but you were thinking only of how you could steal their land out from under them and put your department stores in better locations than they were in before the hurricane hit. I honestly don’t know how people like you sleep at night.
“For decades, we’ve heard your mantra, and the mantra of Free-for-All economics, that government is the cause of all of our problems, not their solution. It’s wasteful, unproductive, and obstructionist, you and others have insisted. On the flip side of your broken record, you’ve repeated that business does everything right and good. But we know the truth, we know that Free-for-All economics is a smokescreen for you to lie, cheat and steal.
“We’ve done it your way for decades. Boy, I’ve got to hand it to you and the others. You sold ‘the people’ a bill of goods and they fell for your promises of the good life! You rolled them, and they just rolled over for you. The Corporate States destroyed the lives of millions of Americans. But times have changed—forever. People finally woke up and saw that business and government don’t mix. A successful business and good government operate under a different set of values and goals. Boards of directors and Wall Street don’t reward CEOs because they create a lot of jobs. Investors and owners are interested in bloated profits, not big payrolls. Our republic was not conceived as a series of profit centers created to line the pockets of corporations. You can no longer invoke our founding fathers while you pervert their ideals and twist their words. In the United People of America, there’s a firewall between business and government. And anyone who tries to cross it gets burned big time.
“Of course, under some circumstances, government and business may be complementary. When it is in the public interest, government should support the for-profit sector—certainly not create unreasonable barriers to success. But breach the firewall, tilt the balance to profit over people, and you get the corporate welfare state, except no more!
“Have you forgotten what happened when your money put CEOs in the Oval Office? Ham Cooper was incompetent, but at least he self-destructed. Ironically, he and his Administration, in cahoots with New Atlantis, did away with all regulations on the development, testing, and distribution of prescription drugs and medications—which led to the Atlas Energy Drink fraud and criminal prosecution and his getting forced out of office. But most of his predecessors were downright thieves. The first president of the CSA was Boss Roper. He was in the front pocket, the back pocket, the hip pocket, under the thumb, and on the short leash of big business. He made the case for naming the country the Corporate States of America—and, once that was done, he replaced his cabinet with a Corporate Council that drafted a new constitution that transferred executive power to them. It was a coup, but the people hardly knew what hit them.
“Everyone said Roper had a ‘ten-gallon smile,’ because when he took a bribe, he always tipped his hat, smirked, and put the checks under it. More than once, he’d forget he had a fresh stash under there, play the gentlemen to a passing lady, and scramble to pick up the ‘letters from his pen pals,’ as he called them. He signed over government leases for oil and gas rights for just enough money to make them seem like legal transactions and deregulated energy prices so they went up fifty percent in two years. He peppered his rhetoric with populist twaddle and a homegrown twang, promising to rescue America from bad government. But he made his real money from the company he founded, but which he turned over to his son, that raked in billions from a nobid contract to sell computers made in Mongolia that had no hard drives to what was left of federal agencies.
“And then there was President ‘Bucks’ Cott. His real name was Burton, but no one ever called him that. He had a sign on his desk that read ‘Your bucks stop here.’ It took him three terms in the Oval Office, but, when he was through, he had turned every government agency and health program over to private businesses—half of which he’d invested in and the other half his wife owned. And these are the good guys you made president, Mr. Gayle—because eventually we knew what they were up to, even if we couldn’t stop it.
“But the crowning glory of the CSA was the Political Stock Exchange and Commodities Market, an idea Hilton Manfreed hatched at New Atlantis. H.R. ‘Horse’ Trott was president then. They called him ‘Horse,’ because he was famous for trotting out of any jam he got himself into and letting everyone else take the blame. Well, the two of them held a news conference to announce the PSECM. As Manfreed explained it, it was just another example of ‘the beauty’ of the market: like pork bellies, the futures of elected officials and candidates would be publicly traded. That way, politicians could make millions, and average Americans could buy and sell them and make a profit. Under the Exchange, Trott could have become a stock corporation while he was running for president. Investors who were smart enough to buy shares in his IPO could have made a killing when he was elected and his price-per-share skyrocketed. When I was elected, I announced that my first act as president would be to disband the PSECM by executive order. Immediately, prices plummeted. That was the quickest way I knew to clear out the Congress. I’m guessing you took a big hit, Mr. Gayle. But you know how it is in the marketplace: You take risks. You win some. You lose some. This time you lost big. But you can win again by working for ‘the people.’
“Mr. Gayle, the CSA turned this country into the equivalent of a dead land crab—an empty shell, picked apart and left to rot on the beach. You’ve gotta feel the desperation that average people feel. You’ve gotta get your humanity back. I’m convinced it’s still there, although you haven’t really tapped into it for a while. I forgive you. We all forgive you. Now, you’ve gotta forgive yourself enough to do the right thing. I’m not asking you blindly to believe me. I’m not a saint. But I’m sure as hell not a sinner, either. I’m asking you to work with me to make things happen as we all want them to. You give a little. I give a little. I give a lot. You give a lot. Before you know it, we may actually be able to work together. It isn’t gonna take a miracle for this to happen; it’s gonna take rational people coming together. If you’re ready to come to the table and work together with others as an equal partner to create a fair and just society, I welcome you, we welcome you. But I stress the word together, Mr. Gayle. Profit, yes, of course you’re entitled to it, but not at any cost—especially not at the cost of your soul! The days of profit over people are over.
“Thanks for hearing me out, Mr. Gayle. I rest my case. You don’t have to tell me now whether you’re on board. Only time will tell. I’m ready whenever you are. Together, we can change the world. If not, I’m gonna do my best to do it with everybody and anybody I can find. ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty.’
“Before we leave here today, there is another group of people whom I want to acknowledge, though they insist upon remaining anonymous. Without them, we would not be here, I would not be here, and there would be no United People of America. The world knows them as members of the Prometheus Project. Individually, they are known as Zeus, Olympus, Pandora, Mercury, and Adonis. Individually, each is enormously powerful. Together, once aroused, they are unstoppable. They remain the sworn enemies of the followers of Atlas, who so drug themselves, that they lose reason and judgment and turn their victims into objects of crass exploitation. The Prometheus people are living breathing human beings, but they are also symbols of the undying spirit of ‘the people,’ a force beyond any one person’s or any group of people’s ability to trample and suppress forever. They rose up before and they and others like them will rise up again if we, or others, betray their trust.”
As Pete Seeger’s version of “This Land Is Your Land” is piped in over the loudspeaker, Hinton walks down from the stage and makes her way over to Mortim
er Gayle, who’s taken aback.
“Come with me,” she says, smiling, beckoning him to join her, then taking him by the hand so together they walk up the middle aisle of the pavilion, shaking hands with and greeting people. Leaning against the back wall of the pavilion is a young, red-headed man. When Hinton reaches him, she shakes his right hand with hers, then places her left hand warmly over both of theirs. He’s the last person she sees before she exits by the back door.
The young red-head thinks to himself, How much has changed! How much remains to be done! Exactly one year ago today, Hilton Manfreed tried to humiliate him when he dared to ask a question about the morality of Free-for-All economics. He laughs now thinking of how, a little later that day, he smirked as he watched Manfreed’s minions leaving the d’Anconia Pavilion, outraged at the “John Galt Is Dead” banner flying over head. Just a year ago, he had no idea that those four words would spark a revolution.
Startled by a loud ringing, he quickly reaches into his pocket to silence what he assumes is his cell phone, only to discover that it isn’t the source of the noise. He wonders what tomorrow will bring, and the day after, and the day after, and a year from now—and if he should wonder at anything or just take one day at a time, instead of killing the moment as usual with premonitions of what might be. Something is definitely troubling him. He can’t put it into words. But he can see it—a fuzzy, amorphous grayness that gives him a funny feeling in his stomach, like nothing he’s ever felt before, a feeling that could foreshadow impending delight or doom, but without a clear cause or even the certainty that it’s simply one or the other. It might be both, he thinks. Here I go again, driving myself crazy. I can never just let things be.
The ringing gets louder. What the hell is that? Who the hell can that be? he wonders. Am I the only one who hears that infernal noise? But as aware as he is of “something out there,” he refuses to let it or any of life’s petty annoyances distract him. Nothing is going to keep him from relishing every minute of being at New Prometheus this minute, today. History is being made, and he can say he has been here from the beginning. It’s been like a dream-come-true. EPILOGUE
EPILOGUE
EGO VIDI SOMNIUM
6 A.M.: WEST 79th STREET, MANHATTAN. Awakened from a sound sleep by a loud ringing, Dan Ryan grabs for his pants from the floor and reaches into its left pocket to silence what he assumes is his cell phone, only to discover that it isn’t the source of the noise. Who’s calling me so early? he wonders. He checks his alarm clock, but it isn’t coming from there, either. “Go away. Stop ringing,” he shouts out loud. But it only seems to be getting louder. Finally, he forces himself to get out of bed and traipses over to the other side of the room, looking for his land line, which is buried under a pile of newspapers.
“Hello,” he says abruptly, only half awake.
“Hey, champ, this is your wake-up call,” the voice on the other end says, laughing.
“Who the hell is this? What wake-up call?”
“It’s Oscar! Your boss,” the unbearably cheerful voice announces. “All you red-heads are alike—hot under the collar. Did you forget you have a job, which gives you a paycheck, which should make you happy to hear from me, day or night? Are you feeling all right? Have you forgotten about today, Saturday, at New Atlantis? I told you I’d call you this morning to be sure you meet up with the crew by 7:30 so you can set up the remote from there.”
“What are you talking about—New Atlantis?” Ryan snaps back. “There is no New Atlantis. It went bankrupt! It’s New Prometheus now!”
“Are you tryin’ to punk me, Dan? Have you been smoking something or popping pills?”
“There’s nothing wrong with me, Oscar. What day is today?”
“It’s Saturday, June 4th. Yesterday was Friday, June 3rd. Tomorrow will be Sunday, June 5th. That’s how it usually goes: Friday, Saturday, Sunday…”
“You don’t have to give me grief, Oscar. But what about the election? Cary Hinton won. She’s the president now, isn’t she? Ham Cooper had to resign. Are you absolutely sure New Atlantis didn’t go bankrupt?”
“Dan, I don’t know what’s gotten into you. The election isn’t until November. And, I’m sorry to break the news to you, but Cary Hinton’s never gonna be elected president of the CSA. Are you crazy? Cooper’s still president. And nothing’s happened to New Atlantis. The last I heard, it’s going as strong as ever, and they’re still raking in the bucks. You must have a fever and be delirious.”
“No. I’m okay, at least I think I’m okay,” Ryan says hesitating.
“Are you sure? I can try to get a replacement for you if you’re not feeling well.”
“No, I’m okay. But it was all so real. Everything was so real. And everything turned out so well,” Ryan says dreamily. “I dreamt that life was beauty, but I woke to find it was duty.”
“Dan, seriously, what’s goin’ on?”
“Oscar, let me go. I have to shower. I’ll meet the crew and go to New Atlantis. Honestly, I’m feeling fine.”
“And when am I gonna get your column?”
“I’ll have it for you first thing on Monday.”
Once he’s showered and dressed, Ryan looks out on 79th Street. But it’s not the cars or the pavement or the trees or the macadam he’s seeing; it’s the blank spaces between what’s there. He thought of how, as a kid, he used to envy Christopher Robin, who could fool everyone into believing that he had “sneezles and wheezles that bundled him into his bed” and kept him rolled up in a ball, safe from the world-not-of-his-making—or of his imagining or preference. Then, he laughed at himself for remembering. All at once, he realized that the fuzzy, amorphous grayness that he pictured and that had given him a funny feeling in his stomach was gone. And suddenly, he felt that there were more knowns than unknowns in his life. He turned on his computer and opened the file for his latest column, in which he had yet to type a word, and entered the following notes:
“I had a dream of what America could be—again…”
“If I am not for myself who will be for me? If I am only for myself what am I? And if not now, when?”
“Beauty is truth, truth beauty.”
“I have miles to go before I sleep.”
That’s all I need to know to write my column, he says to himself. The fire is still there, and it now feels more like a blaze.
He then writes an email to Oscar that he plans to send Monday morning, right after he files his column:
Oscar,
Effective immediately, I resign. Thanks for helping me discover that I have a real job to do. Liberté, égalité, fraternité! I’m not worried about payday. But please direct deposit my next check. I may be manning the barricades or leading a charge. Where you see any smoke, there’s likely to be my fire.
-Dan
The end of the beginning...
Copyright
ATLAS DRUGGED
©2012 STEPHEN L. GOLDSTEIN
Published by Grid Press (An imprint of L&R Publishing, LLC)
All rights reserved. All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of L&R Publishing, LLC. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Grid Press PO Box 3531 Ashland, OR 97520 www.hellgatepress.com
Editing: Harley B. Patrick
Cover Design: L. Redding
Front & Back Cover Illustrations: Lawrence M. Butler
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data (print version)
Goldstein, Stephen L., 1943
Atlas drugged : Ayn Rand be damned! / Stephen L. Goldstein.
1st ed.
p. cm. ISBN 9781555717094
I. Title. PS3607.O4856A93 2012 813'.6dc23
2012012079
ePub edition June 2012 ISBN 9781555717100
Atlas Drugged Page 25
