“By that you mean that you’ve bought the Electoral College. You call that legal?”
“Look at this thing with pure vision, Hunter,” Brian said, suddenly fired. “How does a Presidential candidate go about getting electors?”
“Huh? Why, he usually appoints them. Or his party does.”
“So... I appointed mine.”
“Yeah, but—” Hunter laughed, suddenly struck by the ludicrousness of the argument. “You see, these electors are still charged with the responsi- of allowing the people to vote on their electors. There is a slight difference there.”
“Of course,” Brian agreed. “But you lose sight of a peculiar situation. The candidate chose the electors, the people voted the electors in...and now the man who chose the electors in the first place is no longer living. Under Constitutional processes, these electors are still charged with the responsibility of selecting a President and Vice-President. Now, who are they going to select?”
“That’s the sixty-four dollar question, if you stay out of it,” Hunter told him. “Actually, those electors belong to the party which won the election. The national chairman of the party, I’m sure, can appoint a replacement candidate who is acceptable to a majority of the electors.”
“Exactly,” Brian said. “And what voice do the people have in this replacement candidate?”
“Well...”
“We aren’t really talking about democratic government, are we, Hunter? Our nation wasn’t constituted as a democracy.”
“We have become a democracy, by virtue of—”
“By no virtue whatever!” Brian asserted fiercely. “The Constitution is the foundation of this republic, and the Constitution doesn’t provide a government by the people. Those are just grand words for patriots to utter at ceremonies and for school children to recite. The founders knew the truth about people. Make no mistake: These were strong men, the founders of this nation. They knew that a true democracy couldn’t work, and America became strong as a controlled democracy. Things have been going to hell fast, haven’t they. Mob rule, anarchy, political opportunism, manipulation of self-interest on a group basis, the entire—”
“You’re out of your mind!” Hunter cried. “We’ve become the strongest and the most effective and the most secure nation in the history of the world, and we’ve done it through democratic ideals! We’ve-”
“Aha! That’s the key word, isn’t it? Ideals. Is this a nation of ideals, or is it a nation of law?”
“Both,” Hunter said. “It’s—”
“Then how is it that Brian Donaldson is going to become the next President of the United States?”
Hunter’s mouth opened, then closed. He glared at Brian, and finally grinned. “You’ve got me there,” he said. “Okay. I’m damned if I do and I’m damned if I don’t. All I want from you now is a simple little yes or no reply to a very simple question: Did you in any way arrange or encourage the deaths of Jim Younghart and Howard Thompkins?”
“No.”
“I accept that. But one more question, while I’m at it: Why do you put up with so much shit from me?”
Brian gave him a faint smile. “Because, quite simply, you are another of those fixed and unalterable events in my destiny.”
Again, Hunter didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. “Mannclift told me the same thing,” he said slowly. “Now...what does it mean?”
“You’ll be told, when the time is right.”
“When will the time be right?”
“You’ll be told that also.”
Hunter shrugged in exasperation. “I’d like to meet this guy Winfried. Is the time right for that?”
“I’ll arrange it for the first thing tomorrow. Would you like to watch the television with me? I’m very curious about how my destiny has been made manifest.”
He paused, then asked abruptly, “Do you like Doris, the red-headed sociologist with the magnificent hips? I’ll ask her to join us. I’ve noticed her looking at you. And I believe it’s about time I gave some attention to Harriet. Let’s see...how about some ham and some yogurt? I can’t stand to watch television without food and females; can you?”
Hunter shook his head resignedly, secretly admitting that he was developing the habit himself. Maybe it was all a matter of destiny, he decided. He seemed to be unable to find a pathway out of it. And maybe he didn’t want to find one. He suspected that weakness was the mother of destiny.
Tell it like it is, Hunter, he told himself. He looked out over the Olympian bed and the bumper crop of sensual female forms. He couldn’t have located the hippy sociologist if she’d had purple hair. “Yeah,” he said aloud.
“What?” Brian asked, smiling quizzically.
“Yeah, I said. Weakness is the mother of destiny. Send her over here. Two or three others, too, if you like. Suddenly I feel very very Olympian.”
3: THE CHOICE
Below is another item from Richard Hunter’s unpublished papers.
Here I am thinking through my typewriter again. I’m so tired I can hardly sit here, and I can barely see the paper, but I can’t close the day without reaching for some perspective on the present situation.
I don’t know if Brian’s lying to me or not, and even that isn’t the crucial consideration. What has happened to me? Am I in Olympia or am I in Euphoria? Look, Hunter, you’re no kid, you know. I mean, you’ve been hiding behind this prodigy bit for a mite too long now. All your life you’ve been operating just a wee bit over your head, and every time you failed to handle something properly, you've always had that idea to fall back on. But it isn’t going to work here, mon ami. You’re holding a poker hand, and all that has ever had meaning to our life is in the pot. That’s the situation, isn’t it?
Brian said I should look at the thing with pure vision. Pure vision. Now, what the hell does that mean? It means, I believe, to let go of all the programming of a lifetime; see it like it really is. Okay, pure vision—with all the ifs, buts, and whereas’s left out.
Here are the facts, ma’am: My ancestors carved a nation out of a wilderness, and they had some grand and revolutionary ideas about how a country should be run. Then they drew up a charter for this grand new idea, and left this neat little flaw in it to warm the heart of any would-be Olympian, and sat back and waited for one to come along. Well, he’s come. It matters not a damn how Younghart came to death; not in this discussion. The thing is, he did die, and very inconveniently before a batch of electors could put the official rubber-stamp blessing on the people’s choice. The article of the Constitution that spells out the procedure for selecting a President and Vice-President has been amended two or three times—I don’t know for sure; maybe three—and still they’ve never closed the most destructive loophole of all.
Could Brian be right? Is it possible that an elected government body—representatives of the people who elected them—has never wanted that loophole closed? And if not, then why not? Why have we suffered along with this insufferable Electoral College bit, for all these years? Has it just been some grand political game? Who stands to gain by the Electoral College setup? And who stands to lose? For damn sure, it’s the people, the common electorate, who stand to lose the most. But who stands to gain? Need I ask? The pro’s, Hunter buddy. The pro’s stand to gain.
Brian says it’s the nature of common people to desire to be governed. It isn’t a new idea, of course. But what does this mean to Brian? He’s built a ginch society here at Jackass Crags. Does he think the whole nation would be better and happier with a ginch society? And how would he go about instituting such a thing? He talks about extremism and love of country and all that, but what is he really talking about? Does he imagine that he can run the United States the way he runs Jackass Crags? It can never happen. It will not happen. Election loopholes or not, this is still a constituted democracy. There’s the balance of power among the branches of government. He can’t do a damn thing without the blessing of Congress and the courts.
Or can he? I can remem
ber it was just a few days ago when Martens and I were assuring each other that no man could buy the Presidency. Can you buy a Congress—a whole damn Congress? Well...they’re being bought piecemeal every day of the year, aren’t they? Look at the gun lobby, the manufacturers’ lobby, the labor lobbies... Look at all the damn lobbies, all the damn pork barrels...and yeah, I begin to get a glimmer of what Brian means when he says that we don’t have government by the people. All the people do, by and large, is install somebody to serve their special interests. Everybody has a special interest, and everybody thinks his candidate will serve that interest. And he can’t serve them all, can he?
Is this why so many politicians become so cynical? They know that everybody’s just out for himself; just hoping the politician will serve him better than he’ll serve the other guy? Sure. So the politician decides, hell, he’ll serve himself first. Government of the people, by the people, and for the people, eh?
Suppose all this happened just the way these fruitcakes say it did. Say it’s destiny, or the stars. Say it’s anything, but that Brian had absolutely no hand in it. And say that he isn’t feeling very Olympian, and he decides he doesn’t want the Presidency. Then who will we be stuck with? By what democratic process will our democracy be served? None, I take it. We’ll get a party man. Brrrr! Any man who’s ever observed a party convention will say Brrrr right along with me. The machinations, the wheeling and dealing...By God, I think I like Brian’s way best. By God I do like his way best! And God forgive me if I’m wrong.
4: BLACK FRIDAY
Saul Martins’ office was a beehive of activity—the door flung wide to permit a steady stream of back-and-forth traffic with the larger editorial office outside, teletypes clacking ceaselessly, and the sounds of excited voices smothering the atmosphere. A girl popped in and elbowed her way through a small mob standing at Martens’ desk, waving one hand wildly in front of her in an attempt to capture the boss’s attention.
Martens lowered a telephone which had been clamped to the side of his head. “What is it, Lola?”
“Mr. Hunter has been trying—” A jostling behind her unbalanced the girl, and she lurched forward across the desk. She remained there and went on without dropping a beat, “—to get through from Jackass Crags, and the lines have all been busy. He says, quote: Code Five, and pull out all the stops, unquote, and you’re to call him as soon as you can.”
“What the fiery hell does he think I’ve been trying to do!” Martens roared, banging the phone receiver onto the desk. The girl jumped back, unaccustomed to such outbursts from her M.E. “Thank you, Lola,” Martens added in his customary tone. He pulled her back to her earlier position, bent across the desk-top, and spoke into her ear to make certain she heard his words. “Get word to Franklin to stop all production. He’s to junk everything if he has to, but get all the mess cleared away and start setting up the special issue as the material comes in.”
The girl nodded her understanding and slipped away.
“Everybody settle down, goddammit!” Martens bawled, banging his desk with the telephone, using it like a gavel. “Everybody but editors to get the hell out of here, and close that damn door.”
The crowd began to thin out immediately, the noise gradually subsiding. Cigarette and cigar smoke hung in clouds just below the ceiling. Martens wheezed and coughed, then swiveled around to crank open a small window. Frigid air rushed in immediately, but did little to clear the polluted atmosphere.
Martens was flicking searching eyes across the assembled faces. “Where the hell’s Goldman?” he asked nobody in particular.
“He’s in Rome,” someone spoke up.
“He’s got a helluva nerve going to Rome at a time like this!”
“You sent him there on Tuesday to cover the Pontifical—”
“All right! Who’s here from the international desk?”
The man who had volunteered the earlier information opened his eyes wider and said, “I am.”
Martens stabbed a forefinger in that general direction. “I want quotable reactions from every world capital. Understand? Official or not, I want responsible world opinion on what’s happening in the U.S. Good, bad or indifferent, I don’t care; I want it. Got it?”
The man nodded.
“Okay. Get going.” He turned to a man seated just to his right. “Who do you have in Washington, Al?”
“Same guy,” the editor replied whimsically. “Peter Davids. He happens to be understaffed at the moment, though. You’ll recall that Cala and Lowens resigned over the sale to Donaldson. We-”
“Okay. I just wanted to be sure Pete was still with us. Have you heard from him this morning?”
The editor nodded. “Communications are becoming impossible, but I’ve talked with him. The President’s locked in with his cabinet and advisors. Congress is in session, as you know, but I understand they can hardly get a quorum in the Senate, and it was common knowledge yesterday that the House was half empty. They’ve already broken for the holidays, it seems. I’m awfully glad you’re back, Saul. Are you feeling better? You don’t look so good.”
“I’m all right,” Martens muttered. “Listen: Get hold of Pete. Tell him to bird-dog the President until he gets his reaction to all this. History’s being made, gentlemen—” He had raised his voice, and his gaze now included all those assembled, “—and we want Weekly to be the scribe. Now I’ve heard from Jackass Crags; we have a go-ahead from the very top. The new owner isn’t interfering in any way. I have the assurance of his...” Martens’ voice dropped, and he appeared to be choking slightly, “—of his press secretary, that Donaldson wants us to cover the situation fully and with complete objectivity. You all know what to do, and you’re the best damn editorial staff in the world. We’re going to be on the stands with this special issue Monday morning. Make no mistake: Monday morning. And we’ll follow with another one on Wednesday morning, so don’t get any ideas about sleeping or any of that crap.”
The girl, Lola, thrust head and shoulders into the room again, and sang out, “I have Mr. Davids on line three.”
Martens scooped up the phone, punched a button, and handed the instrument to the editor on his right. Al spoke briefly, then listened attentively, his eyes fixed speculatively on Martens. After an interval, he said, “Okay. Stay on, Pete.” He moved the mouthpiece aside. “President Jenkins will address the nation on television in about ten minutes. He’s declaring today a national day of mourning. Pete says there’s a rumor that he’ll also ask Congress to rush through legislation—in continuous session if necessary—to provide for a special election; another general election. Somebody on the White House staff told Pete in confidence that Jenkins is roaring like a dragon, says he’ll lame-duck his way clear through another four years if necessary until his successor is chosen by the people.”
“It figures,” Martens sighed. “Good for him. But I have a feeling it’s ninety-nine per cent bluster. Tell Pete to ride that one to ground, get something he can quote. I don’t have any other instructions for him right now.” He turned back to the assembled newsmen. “You can see what’s shaping up, can’t you? It’s going to be a pissing contest. Our lame-duck President is going to try to hold the fort. He’s going to ask a hostile Congress, one with an opposition-party majority, to turn its party away from victory and back into the jungle of another popular election. Can you imagine our esteemed representatives going along with anything as noble and non-political as that? I can’t. It’s going to be a pissing contest pure and simple, but not so damn pure at that. Jenkins’ only chance to pull it off, if he really tries to, is to martial enough public sentiment to force Congress to act. And I daresay there’s not time enough for that. His hands are tied by the Constitution, and Congress holds the ends of the knot. He can ask the Attorney General for an interpretation of the law, and he might possibly find some technicality to back him up. I doubt it. Let’s see: What else could he do? He is, of course, Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces, but I can’t see Jenkins... No. He’ll
try every legal means and every moral persuasion to head things off. It will not happen, gentlemen; such is my prophecy. Now, all of you get to work. There’s a lot of it to be done.”
“Do you know what day this is?” one of the editors asked, lingering at Martens’ desk.
“Yeah, I know what day it is” Martens growled. “It’s Friday, December thirteenth. And a damn black one it is.”
“Just wondering if you knew,” the other said as he drifted out.
The President of the United States was hollow-eyed with fatigue, he had a deep burning pain in his kidney, and he was sick at his stomach. What do you tell a people who are in the process of being betrayed by the very system which is sworn to uphold their life, liberty, dignity, happiness, and right to self-government? What could he tell them?
He glared out through the curtained doorway on the assemblage of newsmen and television production people in the White House pressroom. Even the timing had gone awry; he hated standing back here in the wings, waiting for a television director’s signal to enter. At any other time, he would have gone on in and started talking; if they wanted to cut him in, fine; if not, to hell with them. But it was too important today; the people were waiting to hear from him.
Or were they? How much influence had he been able to exert on the American public in these waning months of his administration? It was as though the entire nation had gone mad—the street rioting, the burning, the looting, the labor shutdowns... Even school teachers, policemen, firemen, entire city governments had struck at one time or other, and often in concert, during the past few months. Could this be the end of things? The President had seen the handwriting on the wall even earlier—back in the spring, even. Had he cheated the people by removing himself from contention? Should he have run again, if only to give them a symbol to unite against—something to hate and vilify and vent their frustrations on? Wouldn’t that have been his supreme sacrifice for his country? Well...he couldn’t have done it. He’d given every damn thing he had. He’d worked harder than any President in history, and he’d kept the country moving, too. The people had stopped him. It was that simple. They had stopped him. And why? Could Freud be right? Is there a basic destructive instinct in human nature? And do nations have the same suicidal tendencies as individuals? The President suspected that they did. History told the story very well. Cycles, the historians called it. A cycling from creation to destruction, and back to re-creation and again destruction.
Don Pendleton's Science Fiction Collection, 3 Books Box Set, (The Guns of Terra 10; The Godmakers; The Olympians) Page 39
