Don Pendleton's Science Fiction Collection, 3 Books Box Set, (The Guns of Terra 10; The Godmakers; The Olympians)

by Don Pendleton

  “You jest in truth,” Winfried said, smiling and nodding his head. “The young Sagittarian will be the Omega of the old, the Alpha of the new. It is written in the stars as a fixed event. It shall be.”

  “Obviously you know nothing at all about politics,” Hunter said, struggling back to reality with a stab at humor. “The veep is the nonentity of the heavens and the earth. If there’s any alpha-ing and omega-ing to be done, it will be done by the Olympian, not by the Sagittarian.”

  “There’s the mystery,” Winfried declared somberly.

  “Well I’m not buying it!” Hunter snarled, seeming to break out of the near-trance state he’d fallen into.

  “Be sensible, Hunter.” The old man was practically pleading. “This great mystic nation, conceived in mystic principles, needs—”

  “Mystic nation!” Hunter roared. “What in the name of God is mystical about the United States of America?”

  Winfried seemed terribly affronted. “Surely you... Oh, dear, Hunter, your education is sadly lacking. Why, the United States is the New Egypt—more, perhaps, the new Atlantis.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud!” Hunter wailed.

  “Listen to me, Hunter. The founding fathers of this nation were no idle dreamers. They were visionaries—mystic visionaries—and moreover, of them were master astrologers.”

  “What? Astrologers! Name one! Just name me one!”

  “The names Franklin, Adams, and Jefferson perhaps mean something to you. But they were esoteric astrologers, each of them; mystics of the highest order.”

  “You’re a lunatic, Winfried!”

  “No, sir, I am not. These three I named were commissioned by the Congress to design the Great Seal of the United States. You are familiar with the design, of course. The mighty Phoenix, or fire bird, of ancient times came forth this time as the American eagle for one side of the seal, and the mighty uncompleted pyramid on the reverse side. Upon the shield of the eagle, thirteen stripes; again, above his head, thirteen stars; again, the pyramid with thirteen levels; again, in the eagle’s talons, thirteen arrows, thirteen branches; thirteen berries; again, thirteen letters in the legend E Pluribus Unum; again, a total of thirty-nine letters and numerals on the reverse side of the seal, or thirteen three times, you see.”

  “What are you babbling about?” Hunter asked in an awed voice. “What’s so great about thirteen? There were these thirteen colonies, you see, and these fellows thought—”

  “No, Hunter; it will not hold. Thirteen is a number of destiny, and the thirteen colonies were destined. This is the message from the forefathers! Can’t you see? Listen to me, Hunter! The Christ and his twelve apostles number thirteen, the Buddha and his twelve apostles number thirteen; the Aztec god-king Quetzalcoatl and his twelve followers, the Confederate flag and its thirteen stars although there were but eleven Confederate States... It is a number of destiny, you see!”

  “God, you do jump around, don’t you? I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Winfried.”

  “I am talking about the destiny of a nation. Be still and listen to me and learn. A new order for mankind was established on this continent, and the fulfillment is near. Certainly you are acquainted with the popular mystery connecting two of our greatest Presidents, Lincoln and Kennedy. But listen again, and learn, this time. Lincoln was elected to the Congress in 1847, Kennedy in 1947; Lincoln tried for a Vice-Presidential nomination in 1856, Kennedy in 1956; Lincoln was elected to the Presidency in i860, Kennedy in i960; both found their destiny in the problems of the races and civil rights. Lincoln had a secretary named Kennedy who begged him to not attend the theater; Kennedy had a secretary named Lincoln who urged him to not go to Dallas. Both Presidents were shot in the back of the head, with their wives looking on. Each of these Presidents’ wives lost children in the White House. John Wilkes Booth was born in 1839, Lee Harvey Oswald was born in 1939, and both were themselves assassinated before they could be tried. Both Lincoln and Kennedy married pretty, 24-year-old dark-haired women who spoke fluent French. Lincoln was shot in a theater and his assassin fled to a warehouse. Kennedy was shot from a warehouse and his assassin fled to a theater. The names John Wilkes Booth and Lee Harvey Oswald both contain exactly fifteen letters. Now listen. Listen! Andrew Johnson was born in 1818 and succeeded Lincoln. Lyndon Johnson was born in 1908 and succeeded Kennedy. Both Lincoln and Kennedy died on a Friday.”

  “Yes, of course. This is all very interesting, Winfried, and as you said, I’ve heard it before. The coincidences are amazing, I’ll grant; perhaps a little too amazing for coincidence. But where does all this leave me? Where does it leave me, Winfried?”

  “I have told you much already,” the old man said sadly. “Perhaps too much. One thing more, though: The Vice-Presidents who succeeded these two destined Americans: The names of each of these successors contained a total of thirteen letters.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. How many letters does your name contain, Richard Hunter? How many colonies began this destinednation, Richard Hunter? Who is to be the Archer of the New Aquarian Age, Richard Sagittarius Hunter? And remember—remember, my reluctant young friend, the number of days intervening between this date and the inauguration of the destined new President: Thirty-nine, Hunter. Thirty-nine! Three times thirteen, Sagittarian! The writing finger of history is poised upon the stars. Whose names are being written there, Mr. Destiny, in the mathematics of the universe?”

  Hunter shivered violently and showed the old mystic a wan smile. “That’s the mystery, eh?” he asked quietly.

  “That’s the mystery,” Winfried assured him.

  6: THE SERVICE

  Saturday, December 14, saw a number of startling developments in the nation. The incumbent President, first, renewed his pledge to remain in office until a successor could be chosen by democratic process, again demanding that all congressmen return to their seats and provide the necessary legislation. A national commentator for television, however, declared that both houses of Congress were “emptier than they were yesterday,” and predicted that the President’s plea would be ignored.

  Shortly thereafter, President Jenkins issued a proclamation of national emergency, convened the National Security Council, ordered the National Guard to active duty throughout the nation, directed the Army to seize and operate the nation’s transportation and communications facilities, and ordered all stock-exchange and Federal Reserve Bank transactions frozen.

  Within hours after the emergency actions were announced, students at Columbia University and the University of California seized these schools in massive demonstrations of protest. Riots broke out in New York City, Washington, Atlanta, Montgomery, Memphis, Chicago, St. Louis, Denver, Dallas, and in every major city on the West Coast.

  The President vacated his emergency powers and nullified the orders before nightfall, but demonstrations, protests, riots, burnings, and lootings continued throughout the night and into the next day. Chaos and confusion ruled the nation.

  At 1 p.m. (E.S.T.) all three major television networks carried a special program sponsored by “The Americans for Donaldson Committee.” It was a paid political telecast, and was sprung unannounced on a reeling American public.

  The legendary hero of the rags-to-riches American success story presented an appealing picture and a comforting message to the people of America. The 54-year-old mystery man evinced directness and charm as he spoke of the nation’s destiny, of the victories behind and the challenges ahead, and of his personal commitment to the problems of a troubled nation. He predicted that he would be chosen to lead the nation, and hinted that, indeed, such was his destiny. He offered no political platform, no solutions to specific world problems, no governmental philosophies. He spoke instead of the American dream, and of the fulfillment of a great nation’s destiny.

  In the closing moments of the talk, he introduced a lanky young man who reminded many viewers of a bygone motion picture idol, though perhaps the name of Richard Hunter needed no introduct
ion in millions of American homes, due to his journalistic talents and exposure.

  The mystery millionaire then offered the Donaldson-Hunter candidacy for the public’s consideration, urging viewers to express their reaction in telephone calls to newspapers, city halls, television stations, or by any other orderly means available. The program ran only ten minutes, but was repeated at one-hour intervals throughout the balance of the broadcast day.

  A new phenomenon thus broke upon the American scene, and newsmen would coin a new political expression: “Mini-campaign.”

  Saul Martens, however, fell back on an older journalistic expression. “Well I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch!” he muttered. He turned from the television set and directed a sick look toward his companion. “The Donaldson move doesn’t surprise me,” he said. “I’ve been expecting that, in one way or another. But the Hunter bit is surely ridiculous. He’s just a kid! He’s not old enough to be Vice-President!”

  The other man laughed, but it sounded a bit hollow. “Maybe they didn’t think of that,” he said.

  “Hunter’s a political expert,” Martens replied musingly. “He knows better. So does Donaldson; he’s no idiot. What the hell can they be thinking of?”

  “I don’t know,” replied the other. “But you know...? Let me use the phone.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “Guess I’ll call the television station and record a vote for my boss.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Sure. But hell...at least it gives me a chance to vote. That’s something nobody else is giving me.”

  Martens’ eyes narrowed. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah.”

  The President appeared ready to collapse. His shoulders were slumped to the extent that he appeared nearly hunchbacked, and his eyes had receded into telescopic hollows of seemingly charred flesh. His hands, lightly clasped atop the executive desk, appeared to be made of stone. He mumbled when he spoke, the words all but indistinguishable.

  “I want that interpretation, Bill,” he told the Attorney General. His eyes straggled to the large wall-lock. “The West Coast electors will be meeting in less than an hour. I must have it now.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the Attorney General replied, shaking his head sadly.

  “Don’t be sorry, dammit. Just give me a point of law.”

  “There is no point of law, Mr. President. There’s no precedent, no provision. There is no way to halt the Electoral College proceedings.”

  The Presidential shoulders slumped even further. “Have you talked with the Chief Justice?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. Everybody’s in complete agreement. The Constitution is quite explicit. There’s simply is no way out of it; not on such short notice, especially. The Congress—”

  “The Congress be damned!” the President said, a bit of fire reigniting in his exhausted frame. He turned to another man in the assemblage—a balding man with nervous eyes. “Well, Vance, you’re the national chairman; you operate the party machinery. I suppose you’ve accomplished nothing either?”

  The chairman spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “This communications problem is simply impossible,” he said. “I’ve managed to get hold of most of the state chairmen, but it...well, it’s just an impossible situation.”

  “You told them I’d accept another term?”

  The chairman’s eyes fled to the far side of the room. “Yes, Ben. I told them.”

  “And?”

  “Well...I told them.”

  “I see. Very well. Good day, gentlemen. Let destiny, as our billionaire benefactor calls it, take over. I shall abide by the dictates of destiny.

  “It’s done,” Brian said simply, placing a hand on Hunter’s shoulder. The time was shortly past 4 p.m., Mountain Standard Time, on Monday, December 16.

  “Officially?” Hunter asked, angling a strained glance upward into his “running-mate’s” eyes.

  “Well, as official as it can get until January sixth. The certification by each state has been made unofficially public. We needed but two-seventy, and we got four-oh-two.” He smiled. “That’s better than a hundred more than I’d counted on. The count was the same for each of us.”

  “Mine will be thrown out,” Hunter reminded for the umpteenth time. “I am not a qualified candidate.”

  “You let me worry about that,” Brian said, still smiling. “For now, let us give thanks. Or acknowledgement, at least.” His hand gripped the other’s shoulder. “Come. The feast is prepared and Olympia awaits us.”

  “I doubt that I could stand it,” Hunter replied glumly, sitting still.

  Brian laughed heartily. “You just don’t know what’s awaiting you. The aerie has been redecorated—in wall-to-wall living flesh. Wines from the continent, fruits from California...every delicacy and succulent hams from our own Olympian from the nation’s bountiful supply. Veal and lamb herds, music from the stars... It’s a celebration, Hunter—an Olympian celebration.”

  Hunter sighed and struggled to his feet. “I keep telling you people that I’m a mere mortal,” he said. But he found himself actually looking forward to the event, just the same.

  The lead editorial for a special issue of Weekly, which Saul Martens hastily dashed off and passed on to the composition desk, read as follows:

  Well, we the people have been served right. For nearly two centuries we have sat dumb and happy with a clearly undemocratic election process which could have been, but never was, corrected—very conveniently, upon any number of occasions. Even when the grim moment of truth was finally upon us, we the people sat in a sterile stupor while our elected representatives “went fishing” during a moment of national peril unmatched in our history. We closed our minds and our hearts to the responsible pleas of our elected executive, and thus all of us “went fishing” also. The results of the fishing trip are now American history, and we the people have a President-elect who is a completely unknown quantity and an unknown quality of Americanism and responsible leadership; we have a Vice-President-elect who is not even old enough for the job, and who cannot possibly be accepted in the official tally by the Congress on January 6. What are the limits of lunacy for the American people? How much will we bear? How much of the clearly unacceptable will we accept? The events of the past few days carry within them the most vicious affront to the dignity of a free nation that can be sustained in sanity. And we, the people, have been served right.

  7: THE DESIGN

  Hunter lifted a velvety thigh, gripping it tenderly, then dropped it over his own naked legs. He moved his hand onto the soft roundness of a glistening belly, one finger idly tracing the outline of the navel indentation. The girl smiled at him and kissed his chest, accepting a sip of wine from the glass in Hunter’s other hand. Mannclift, on his other side, bracketed his shoulder with shiny breasts and whispered something in his ear. Hunter grinned and released the glass, its contents spilling onto his chest and forming a small pool in the chest-hollow. The girl on his right sipped the pool with her lips, then pursued the trickling fingers of wine down his torso with a practiced tongue. Hunter was drunk, and he knew it. And he hoped to never be sober again.

  “Your penis has been stiff for ten minutes,” Mannclift informed him.

  “Just leave it that way,” he said thickly, chuckling. “I want to suffer a little.” He lunged away from the foraging mouth of the other girl spilling her on to her side. The three laughed together, attracting the attention of Brian, who was several piles of flesh removed.

  Brian rose to an elbow and shaded his eyes with one hand in mock ferocity. “What’s going on over there?” he sang out. “Have you no appreciation for the dignity of the moment?”

  “Go to hell, Mr. President,” Hunter called back. “But for a tiny flaw in the basic document of this nation, there’d be no moment to be dignified for. I, Mr. President, am rendering fitting tribute to the flaw.”

  Brian laughed and settled back into his own pile of flesh.

  “It’s a fucking flaw,” H
unter added, sotto voce. “And in tribute to the fucking flaw, I refuse to fuck.”

  “There’s no need to be vulgar,” Mannclift said, frowning. The other girl, however, exploded into shrill laughter.

  “She’s getting hysterical,” Mannclift advised him. “You’d better do something about it.”

  “In a minute,” he said. “Right now I’m thinking about that fucking flaw.”

  “That flaw, as you call it, is not a flaw at all,” Mannclift said, half-irritably.

  “Then what would you call it, Madam Aphrodite?” Hunter asked.

  “Winfried says it was carefully designed.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. It was a deliberate flaw.”

  “I can’t buy that,” Hunter protested, his tone surly.

  “He’s already bought a fucking flaw,” the other girl giggled loudly.

  Mannclift gave the girl a hard look, then sighed and rolled partly atop Hunter, carefully looping one leg over and extending her knee into the girl’s groin. “Better use it,” she advised. The girl smiled, wrapped her arms about both of her companions, and began wriggling against Mannclift’s knee.

  Mannclift turned her attention back to Hunter. “The framers of the Constitution knew exactly what they were doing,” she told him. “Are you aware that there have been hundreds of attempts at legislation to throw out the Electoral College provisions of the Constitution?”

  Hunter nodded, and stole a glance at the laboring girl at his side.

  “Well,” Mannclift went on, “they all failed because your flaw was too well protected.”

  “By whom?” Hunter snorted.

  “By the stars,” Mannclift replied. “It is a flaw of destiny.”

  Hunter was suddenly aware that he was getting sober. “You’re spoiling my drunk,” he told her.

  “You’re spoiling my orgy,” she told him. “If you don’t watch it, I’m going to go find myself another pile.”