“He was making that when he croaked,” one of the union officials said as he set down Max’s suitcase. “He could tell you any fact there is about those old preturbine cars—any useless bit of car knowledge.”
Max nodded.
“You got any idea what you’re going to do?” the official asked him.
“Aw hell,” Max said. “How could I decide so soon? Give me time.” Moodily, he picked up the Studebaker Starlight coupe and examined its underside. The desire to smash the model car came to him; he put the car down, then, turning away.
“Make a rubber band ball,” the official said.
“What?” Max said.
“The stand-by before Gus. Louis somebody-or-other… he collected rubber bands, made a huge ball, big as a house, by the time he died. I forget his name, but the rubber band ball is at the Smithsonian now.”
There was a stir in the hallway. A White House receptionist, a middle-aged woman severely dressed, put her head in the room and said, “Mr. President, there’s a TV news clown here to interview you. Please try to finish with him as quickly as possible because we have quite a few tours passing through the building today and some may want to look at you.”
“Okay,” Max said. He turned to face the TV news clown. It was Jim-Jam Briskin, he saw, the ranking clown just now. “You want to see me?” he asked Briskin haltingly. “I mean, you’re sure it’s me you want to interview?” He could not imagine what Briskin could find of interest about him. Holding out his hand he added, “This is my room, but these model cars and pics aren’t mine; they were Gus’s. I can’t tell you nuthin’ about them.”
On Briskin’s head the familiar flaming-red clown wig glowed, giving him in real life the same bizarre cast that the TV cameras picked up so well. He was older, however, than the TV image indicated, but he had the friendly, natural smile that everyone looked for: it was his badge of informality, a really nice guy, even-tempered but with a caustic wit when occasion demanded. Briskin was the sort of man who… well, Max thought, the sort of fella you’d like to see marry into your family.
They shook hands. Briskin said, “You’re on camera, Mr. Max Fischer. Or rather, Mr. President, I should say. This is Jim-Jam talking. For our literally billions of viewers located in every niche and corner of this far-flung solar system of ours, let me ask you this. How does it feel, sir, to know that if Unicephalon 40-D should fail, even momentarily, you would be catapulted into the most important post that has ever fallen onto the shoulders of a human being, that of actual, not merely stand-by, President of the United States? Does it worry you at night?” He smiled. Behind him the camera technicians swung their mobile lenses back and forth; lights burned Max’s eyes and he felt the heat beginning to make him sweat under his arms and on his neck and upper lip. “What emotions grip you at this instant?” Briskin asked. “As you stand on the threshold of this new task for perhaps the balance of your life? What thoughts run through your mind, now that you’re actually here in the White House?”
After a pause, Max said, “It’s—a big responsibility.” And then he realized, he saw, that Briskin was laughing at him, laughing silently as he stood there. Because it was all a gag Briskin was pulling. Out in the planets and moons his audience knew it, too; they knew Jim-Jam’s humor.
“You’re a large man, Mr. Fischer,” Briskin said. “If I may say so, a stout man. Do you get much exercise? I ask this because with your new job you pretty well will be confined to this room, and I wondered what change in your life this would bring about.”
“Well,” Max said, “I feel of course that a Government employee should always be at his post. Yes, what you say is true; I have to be right here day and night, but that doesn’t bother me. I’m prepared for it.”
“Tell me,” Jim Briskin said, “do you—” And then he ceased. Turning to the video technicians behind him he said in an odd voice, “We’re off the air.”
A man wearing headphones squeezed forward past the cameras. “On the monitor, listen.” He hurriedly handed the headphones to Briskin. “We’ve been pre-empted by Unicephalon; it’s broadcasting a news bulletin.”
Briskin held the phones to his ear. His face writhed and he said, “Those ships at eight hundred AUs. They are hostile, it says.” He glanced up sharply at his technicians, the red clown’s wig sliding askew. “They’ve begun to attack.”
Within the following twenty-four hours the aliens had managed not only to penetrate the Sol System but also to knock out Unicephalon 40-D.
News of this reached Maximilian Fischer in an indirect manner as he sat in the White House cafeteria having his supper.
“Mr. Maximilian Fischer?”
“Yeah,” Max said, glancing up at the group of Secret Servicemen who had surrounded his table.
“You’re President of the United States.”
“Naw,” Max said. “I’m the stand-by President; that’s different.”
The Secret Serviceman said, “Unicephalon 40-D is out of commission for perhaps as long as a month. So according to the amended Constitution, you’re President and also Commander-in-Chief of the armed forces. We’re here to guard you.” The Secret Serviceman grinned ludicrously. Max grinned back. “Do you understand?” the Secret Serviceman asked. “I mean, does it penetrate?”
“Sure,” Max said. Now he understood the buzz of conversation he had overheard while waiting in the cafeteria line with his tray. It explained why White House personnel had looked at him strangely. He set down his coffee cup, wiped his mouth with his napkin, slowly and deliberately, pretended to be absorbed in solemn thought. But actually his mind was empty.
“We’ve been told,” the Secret Serviceman said, “that you’re needed at once at the National Security Council bunker. They want your participation in finalization of strategy deliberations.”
They walked from the cafeteria to the elevator.
“Strategy policy,” Max said, as they descended. “I got a few opinions about that. I guess it’s time to deal harshly with these alien ships, don’t you agree?”
The Secret Servicemen nodded.
“Yes, we got to show we’re not afraid,” Max said. “Sure, we’ll get finalization; we’ll blast the buggers.”
The Secret Servicemen laughed good-naturedly.
Pleased, Max nudged the leader of the group. “I think we’re pretty goddam strong; I mean, the U.S.A. has got teeth.”
“You tell ‘em, Max,” one of the Secret Servicemen said, and they all laughed aloud. Max included.
As they stepped from the elevator they were stopped by a tall, well-dressed man who said urgently, “Mr. President, I’m Jonathan Kirk, White House press secretary; I think before you go in there to confer with the NSC people you should address the nation in this hour of gravest peril. The public wants to see what their new leader is like.” He held out a paper. “Here’s a statement drawn up by the Political Advisory Board; it codifies your—”
“Nuts,” Max said, handing it back without looking at it. “I’m the President, not you. Kirk? Burke? Shirk? Never heard of you. Show me the microphone and I’ll make my own speech. Or get me Pat Noble; maybe he’s got some ideas.” And then he remembered that Pat had sold him out in the first place; Pat had gotten him into this. “Not him either,” Max said. “Just give me the microphone.”
“This is a time of crisis,” Kirk grated.
“Sure,” Max said, “so leave me alone; you keep out of my way and I’ll keep out of yours. Ain’t that right?” He slapped Kirk good-naturedly on the back. “And we’ll both be better off.”
A group of people with portable TV cameras and lighting appeared, and among them Max saw Jim-Jam Briskin, in the middle, with his staff.
“Hey, Jim-Jam,” he yelled. “Look, I’m President now!”
Stolidly, Jim Briskin came toward him.
“I’m not going to be winding no ball of string,” Max said. “Or making model boats, nuthin’ like that.” He shook hands warmly with Briskin. “I thank you,” Max said. “For your
congratulations.”
“Congratulations,” Briskin said, then, in a low voice.
“Thanks,” Max said, squeezing the man’s hand until the knuckles creaked. “Of course, sooner or later they’ll get that noise-box patched up and I’ll just be stand-by again. But—” He grinned gleefully around at all of them; the corridor was full of people now, from TV to White House staff members to Army officers and Secret Servicemen.
Briskin said, “You have a big task, Mr. Fischer.”
“Yeah,” Max agreed.
Something in Briskin’s eyes said: And I wonder if you can handle it. I wonder if you ‘re the man to hold such power.
“Surely I can do it,” Max declared, into Briskin’s microphone, for all the vast audience to hear.
“Possibly you can,” Jim Briskin said, and on his face was dubiousness.
“Hey, you don’t like me any more,” Max said. “How come?”
Briskin said nothing, but his eyes flickered.
“Listen,” Max said, “I’m President now; I can close down your silly network—I can send FBI men in any time I want. For your information I’m firing the Attorney General right now, whatever his name is, and putting in a man I know, a man I can trust.”
Briskin said, “I see.” And now he looked less dubious; conviction, of a sort which Max could not fathom, began to appear instead. “Yes,” Jim Briskin said, “you have the authority to order that, don’t you? You’re really President…”
“Watch out,” Max said. “You’re nothing compared to me, Briskin, even if you do have that great big audience.” Then, turning his back on the cameras, he strode through the open door, into the NSC bunker.
Hours later, in the early morning, down in the National Security Council subsurface bunker, Maximilian Fischer listened sleepily to the TV set in the background as it yammered out the latest news. By now, intelligence sources had plotted the arrival of thirty more alien ships in the Sol System. It was believed that seventy in all had entered. Each was being continually tracked.
But that was not enough, Max knew. Sooner or later he would have to give the order to attack the alien ships. He hesitated. After all, who were they? Nobody at CIA knew. How strong were they? Not known either. And—would the attack be successful?
And then there were domestic problems. Unicephalon had continually tinkered with the economy, priming it when necessary, cutting taxes, lowering interest rates… that had ceased with the problem-solver’s destruction. Jeez, Max thought dismally. What do I know about unemployment! I mean, how can I tell what factories to reopen and where?
He turned to General Tompkins, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, who sat beside him examining a report on the scrambling of the tactical defensive ships protecting Earth. “They got all them ships distributed right?” he asked Tompkins.
“Yes, Mr. President,” General Tompkins answered.
Max winced. But the general did not seem to have spoken ironically; his tone had been respectful. “Okay,” Max murmured. “Glad to hear that. And you got all that missile cloud up so there’re no leaks, like you let in that ship to blast Unicephalon. I don’t want that to happen again.”
“We’re under Defcon one,” General Tompkins said. “Full war footing, as of six o’clock, our time.”
“How about those strategic ships?” That, he had learned, was the euphemism for their offensive strike-force.
“We can mount an attack at any time,” General Tompkins said, glancing down at the long table to obtain the assenting nods of his co-workers. “We can take care of each of the seventy invaders now within our system.”
With a groan, Max said, “Anybody got any bicarb?” The whole business depressed him. What a lot of work and sweat, he thought. All this goddam agitation—why don’t the buggers just leave our system ? I mean, do we have to get into a war? No telling what their home system will do in retaliation; you never can tell about unhuman life forms—they’re unreliable.
“That’s what bothers me,” he said aloud. “Retaliation.” He sighed.
General Tompkins said, “Negotiation with them evidently is impossible.”
“Go ahead, then,” Max said. “Go give it to them.” He looked about for the bicarb.
“I think you’re making a wise choice,” General Tompkins said, and, across the table, the civilian advisors nodded in agreement.
“Here’s an odd piece of news,” one of the advisors said to Max. He held out a teletype dispatch. “James Briskin has just filed a writ of mandamus against you in a Federal Court in California, claiming you’re not legally President because you didn’t run for office.”
“You mean because I didn’t get voted in?” Max said. “Just because of that?”
“Yes sir. Briskin is asking the Federal Courts to rule on this, and meanwhile he has announced his own candidacy.”
“WHAT?”
“Briskin claims not only that you must run for office and be voted in, but you must run against him. And with his popularity he evidently feels—”
“Aw nuts,” Max said in despair. “How do you like that.”
No one answered.
“Well anyhow,” Max said, “it’s all decided; you military fellas go ahead and knock out those alien ships. And meanwhile—” He decided there and then. “We’ll put economic pressure on Jim-Jam’s sponsors, that Reinlander Beer and Calbest Electronics, to get him not to run.”
The men at the long table nodded. Papers rattled as briefcases were put away; the meeting—temporarily—was at an end.
He’s got an unfair advantage, Max said to himself. How can I run when it’s not equal, him a famous TV personality and me not? That’s not right; I can’t allow that.
Jim-Jam can run, he decided, but it won’t do him any good. He’s not going to beat me because he’s not going to be alive that long.
A week before the election, Telscan, the interplanetary public-opinion sampling agency, published its latest findings. Reading them, Maximilian Fischer felt more gloomy than ever.
“Look at this,” he said to his cousin Leon Lait, the lawyer whom he had recently made Attorney General. He tossed the report to him.
His own showing of course was negligible. In the election, Briskin would easily, and most definitely, win.
“Why is that?” Lait asked. Like Max, he was a large, paunchy man who for years now had held a stand-by job; he was not used to physical activity of any sort and his new position was proving difficult for him. However, out of family loyalty to Max, he remained. “Is that because he’s got all those TV stations?” he asked, sipping from his can of beer.
Max said cuttingly, “Naw, it’s because his navel glows in the dark. Of course it’s because of his TV stations, you jerk—he’s got them pounding away night and day, creatin’ an image.” He paused, moodily. “He’s a clown. It’s that red wig; it’s fine for a newscaster, but not for a President.” Too morose to speak, he lapsed into silence.
And worse was to follow.
At nine P.M. that night, Jim-Jam Briskin began a seventy-two hour marathon TV program over all his stations, a great final drive to bring his popularity over the top and ensure his victory.
In his special bedroom at the White House, Max Fischer sat with a tray of food before him, in bed, gloomily facing the TV set.
That Briskin, he thought furiously for the millionth time. “Look,” he said to his cousin; the Attorney General sat in the easy chair across from him. “There’s the nerd now.” He pointed to the TV screen.
Leon Lait, munching on his cheeseburger, said, “It’s abominable.”
“You know where he’s broadcasting from? Way out in deep space, out past Pluto. At their farthest-out transmitter, which your FBI guys will never in a million years manage to get to.”
“They will,” Leon assured him. “I told them they have to get him—the President, my cousin, personally says so.”
“But they won’t get him for a while,” Max said. “Leon, you’re just too damn slow. I’ll tell you so
mething. I got a ship of the line out there, the Dwight D. Eisenhower. It’s all ready to lay an egg on them, you know, a big bang, just as soon as I pass on the word.”
“Right, Max.”
“And I hate to,” Max said.
The telecast had begun to pick up momentum already. Here came the Spotlights, and sauntering out onto the stage pretty Peggy Jones, wearing a glittery bare-shoulder gown, her hair radiant. Now we get a top-flight striptease, Max realized, by a real fine-looking girl. Even he sat up and took notice. Well, maybe not a true striptease, but certainly the opposition, Briskin and his staff, had sex working for them, here. Across the room his cousin the Attorney General had stopped munching his cheeseburger; the noise came to a halt, then picked up slowly once more.
On the screen, Peggy sang:
It’s Jim-Jam, for whom I am,
America’s best-loved guy.
It’s Jim-Jam, the best one that am,
The candidate for you and I.
“Oh God,” Max groaned. And yet, the way she delivered it, with every part of her slim, long body… it was okay. “I guess I got to inform the Dwight D. Eisenhower to go ahead,” he said, watching.
“If you say so, Max,” Leon said. “I assure you, I’ll rule that you acted legally; don’t worry none about that.”
“Gimme the red phone,” Max said. “That’s the armored connection that only the Commander-in-Chief uses for top-secret instructions. Not bad, huh?” He accepted the phone from the Attorney General. “I’m calling General Tompkins and he’ll relay the order to the ship. Too bad, Briskin,” he added, with one last look at the screen. “But it’s your own fault; you didn’t have to do what you did, opposing me and all.”
The girl in the silvery dress had gone, now, and Jim-Jam Briskin had appeared in her place. Momentarily, Max waited.
“Hi, beloved comrades,” Briskin said, raising his hands for silence; the canned applause—Max knew that no audience existed in that remote spot—lowered, then rose again. Briskin grinned amiably, waiting for it to die.
“It’s a fake,” Max grunted. “Fake audience. They’re smart, him and his staff. His rating’s already way up.”
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