The Minority Report and Other Classic Stories tcsopkd-4
Page 48
“Right, Max,” the Attorney General agreed. “I noticed that.”
“Comrades,” Jim Briskin was saying soberly on the TV screen, “as you may know, originally President Maximilian Fischer and I got along very well.” His hand on the red phone, Max thought to himself that what Jim-Jam said was true.
“Where we broke,” Briskin continued, “was over the issue of force—of the use of naked, raw power. To Max Fischer, the office of President is merely a machine, an instrument, which he can use as an extension of his own desires, to fulfill his own needs. I honestly believe that in many respects his aims are good; he is trying to carry out Unicephalon’s fine policies. But as to the means. That’s a different matter.”
Max said, “Listen to him, Leon.” And he thought, No matter what he says I’m going to keep on; nobody is going to stand in my way, because it’s my duty; it’s the job of the office, and if you got to be President like I am you ‘d do it, too.
“Even the President,” Briskin was saying, “must obey the law; he doesn’t stand outside it, however powerful he is.” He was silent for a moment and then he said slowly, “I know that at this moment the FBI, under direct orders from Max Fischer’s appointee, Leon Lait, is attempting to close down these stations, to still my voice. Here again Max Fischer is making use of power, of the police agency, for his own ends, making it an extension—”
Max picked up the red phone. At once a voice said from it, “Yes, Mr. President. This is General Tompkins’ C of C.”
“What’s that?” Max said.
“Chief of Communications, Army 600-1000, sir. Aboard the Dwight D. Eisenhower, accepting relay through the transmitter at the Pluto Station.”
“Oh yeah,” Max said, nodding. “Listen, you fellas stand by, you understand? Be ready to receive instructions.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. “Leon,” he said to his cousin, who had now finished his cheeseburger and was starting on a strawberry shake. “How can I do it? I mean, Briskin is telling the truth.”
Leon said, “Give Tompkins the word.” He belched, then tapped himself on the chest with the side of his fist. “Pardon me.”
On the screen Jim Briskin said, “I think very possibly I’m risking my life to speak to you, because this we must face: we have a President who would not mind employing murder to obtain his objectives. This is the political tactic of a tyranny, and that’s what we’re seeing, a tyranny coming into existence in our society, replacing the rational, disinterested rule of the homeostatic problem-solving Unicephalon 40-D which was designed, built and put into operation by some of the finest minds we have ever seen, minds dedicated to the preservation of all that’s worthy in our tradition. And the transformation from this to a one-man tyranny is melancholy, to say the least.”
Quietly, Max said, “Now I can’t go ahead.”
“Why not?” Leon said.
“Didn’t you hear him? He’s talking about me. I’m the tyrant he has reference to. Keerist.” Max hung up the red phone. “I waited too long.”
“It’s hard for me to say it,” Max said, “but—well, hell, it would prove he’s right.” Iknow he’s right anyhow, Max thought. But do they know it? Does the public know it? I can’t let them find out about me, he realized. They should look up to their President, respect him. Honor him. No wonder I show up so bad in the Telscan poll. No wonder Jim Briskin decided to run against me the moment he heard I was in office. They really do know about me; they sense it, sense that Jim-Jam is speaking the truth. I’m just not Presidential caliber.
I’m not fit, he thought, to hold this office.
“Listen, Leon,” he said, “I’m going to give it to that Briskin anyhow and then step down. It’ll be my last official act.” Once more he picked up the red phone. “I’m going to order them to wipe out Briskin and then someone else can be President. Anyone the people want. Even Pat Noble or you; I don’t care.” He jiggled the phone. “Hey, C. of C.,” he said loudly. “Come on, answer.” To his cousin he said, “Leave me some of that shake; it’s actually half mine.”
“Sure, Max,” Leon said loyally.
“Isn’t no one there?” Max said into the phone. He waited. The phone remained dead. “Something’s gone wrong,” he said to Leon. “Communications have busted down. It must be those aliens again.”
And then he saw the TV screen. It was blank.
“What’s happening?” Max said. “What are they doing to me? Who’s doing it?” He looked around, frightened. “I don’t get it.”
Leon stoically drank the milkshake, shrugging to show that he had no answer. But his beefy face had paled.
“It’s too late,” Max said. “For some reason it’s just too late.” Slowly, he hung up the phone. “I’ve got enemies, Leon, more powerful than you or me. And I don’t even know who they are.” He sat in silence, before the dark, soundless TV screen. Waiting.
The speaker of the TV set said abruptly, “Psuedo-autonomic news bulletin. Stand by, please.” Then again there was silence.
Jim Briskin, glancing at Ed Fineberg and Peggy, waited.
“Comrade citizens of the United States,” the flat, unmodulated voice from the TV speaker said, all at once. “The interregnum is over, the situation has returned to normal.” As it spoke, words appeared on the monitor screen, a ribbon of printed tape passing slowly across, before the TV cameras in Washington, D.C. Unicephalon 40-D had spliced itself into the co-ax in its usual fashion; it had pre-empted the program in progress: that was its traditional right.
The voice was the synthetic verbalizing-organ of the homeostatic structure itself.
“The election campaign is nullified,” Unicephalon 40-D said. “That is item one. The stand-by President Maximilian Fischer is cancelled out; that is item two. Item three: we are at war with the aliens who have invaded our system. Item four. James Briskin, who has been speaking to you—”
This is it, Jim Briskin realized.
In his earphones the impersonal, plateau-like voice continued, “Item four. James Briskin, who has been speaking to you on these facilities, is hereby ordered to cease and desist, and a writ of mandamus is issued forthwith requiring him to show just cause why he should be free to pursue any further political activity. In the public interest we instruct him to become politically silent.”
Grinning starkly at Peggy and Ed Fineberg, Briskin said, “That’s it. It’s over. I’m to politically shut up.”
“You can fight it in the courts,” Peggy said at once. “You can take it all the way up to the Supreme Court; they’ve set aside decisions of Unicephalon in the past.” She put her hand on his shoulder, but he moved away. “Or do you want to fight it?”
“At least I’m not cancelled out,” Briskin said. He felt tired. “I’m glad to see that machine back in operation,” he said, to reassure Peggy. “It means a return to stability. That we can use.”
“What’ll you do, Jim-Jam?” Ed asked. “Go back to Reinlander Beer and Calbest Electronics and try to get your old job back?”
“No,” Briskin murmured. Certainly not that. But—he could not really become politically silent; he could not do what the problem-solver said. It simply was not biologically possible for him; sooner or later he would begin to talk again, for better or worse. And, he thought, I’ll bet Max can’t do what it says either… neither of us can.
Maybe, he thought, I’ll answer the writ of mandamus; maybe I’ll contest it. A counter suit… I’ll sue Unicephalon 40-D in a court of law. Jim-Jam Briskin the plaintiff, Unicephalon 40-D the defendant. He smiled. I’ll need a good lawyer for that. Someone quite a bit better than Max Fischer’s top legal mind, cousin Leon Lait.
Going to the closet of the small studio in which they had been broadcasting, he got his coat and began to put it on. A long trip lay ahead of them back to Earth from this remote spot, and he wanted to get started.
Peggy, following after him, said, “You’re not going back on the air at all? Not even to finish the program?”
“No,” he said
.
“But Unicephalon will be cutting back out again, and what’ll that leave? Just dead air. That’s not right, is it, Jim? Just to walk out like this… I can’t believe you’d do it, it’s not like you.”
He halted at the door of the studio. “You heard what it said. The instructions it handed out to me.”
“Nobody leaves dead air going,” Peggy said. “It’s a vacuum, Jim, the thing nature abhors. And if you don’t fill it, someone else will. Look, Unicephalon is going back off right now.” She pointed at the TV monitor. The ribbon of words had ceased; once more the screen was dark, empty of motion and light. “It’s your responsibility,” Peggy said, “and you know it.”
“Are we back on the air?” he asked Ed.
“Yes. It’s definitely out of the circuit, at least for a while.” Ed gestured toward the vacant stage on which the TV cameras and lights focussed. He said nothing more; he did not have to.
With his coat still on, Jim Briskin walked that way. Hands in his pockets he stepped back into the range of the cameras, smiled and said, “I think, beloved comrades, the interruption is over. For the time being, anyhow. So… let’s continue.”
The noise of canned applause—manipulated by Ed Fineberg—swelled up, and Jim Briskin raised his hands and signalled the nonexistent studio audience for silence.
“Does any of you know a good lawyer?” Jim-Jam asked caustically. “And if you do, phone us and tell us right away—before the FBI finally manages to reach us out here.”
In his bedroom at the White House, as Unicephalon’s message ended, Maximilian Fischer turned to his cousin Leon and said, “Well, I’m out of office.”
“Yeah, Max,” Leon said heavily. “I guess you are.”
“And you, too,” Max pointed out. “It’s going to be a clean sweep; you can count on that. Cancelled.” He gritted his teeth. “That’s sort of insulting. It could have said retired.”
“I guess that’s just its way of expressing itself,” Leon said. “Don’t get upset, Max; remember your heart trouble. You still got the job of stand-by, and that’s the top stand-by position there is, Stand-by President of the United States, I want to remind you. And now you’ve got all this worry and effort off your back; you’re lucky.”
“I wonder if I’m allowed to finish this meal,” Max said, picking at the food in the tray before him. His appetite, now that he was retired, began almost at once to improve; he selected a chicken salad sandwich and took a big bite from it. “It’s still mine,” he decided, his mouth full. “I still get to live here and eat regularly—right?”
“Right,” Leon agreed, his legal mind active. “That’s in the contract the union signed with Congress; remember back to that? We didn’t go out on strike for nothing.”
“Those were the days,” Max said. He finished the chicken salad sandwich and returned to the eggnog. It felt good not to have to make big decisions; he let out a long, heartfelt sigh and settled back into the pile of pillows propping him up.
But then he thought, In some respects I sort of enjoyed making decisions. I mean, it was—He searched for the thought. It was different from being a stand-by or drawing unemployment. It had—
Satisfaction, he thought. That’s what it gave me. Like I was accomplishing something. He missed that already; he felt suddenly hollow, as if things had all at once become purposeless.
“Leon,” he said, “I could have gone on as President another whole month. And enjoyed the job. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I guess I get your meaning,” Leon mumbled.
“No you don’t,” Max said.
“I’m trying, Max,” his cousin said. “Honest.”
With bitterness, Max said, “I shouldn’t have had them go ahead and let those engineer-fellas patch up that Unicephalon; I should have buried the project, at least for six months.”
“Too late to think about that now,” Leon said.
Is it? Max asked himself. You know, something could happen to Unicephalon 40-D. An accident.
He pondered that as he ate a piece of green-apple pie with a wide slice of longhorn cheese. A number of persons whom he knew could pull off such tasks ... and did so, now and then.
A big, nearly-fatal accident, he thought. Late some night, when everyone’s asleep and it’s just me and it awake here in the White House. I mean, let’s face it; the aliens showed us how.
“Look, Jim-Jam Briskin’s back on the air,” Leon said, gesturing at the TV set. Sure enough, there was the famous, familiar red wig, and Briskin was saying something witty and yet profound, something that made one stop to ponder. “Hey listen,” Leon said. “He’s poking fun at the FBI; can you imagine him doing that now? He’s not scared of anything.”
“Don’t bother me,” Max said. “I’m thinking.” He reached over and carefully turned the sound of the TV set off.
For thoughts such as he was having he wanted no distractions.
What’ll We Do with Ragland Park?
In his demesne near the logging town of John Day, Oregon, Sebastian Hada thoughtfully ate a grape as he watched the TV screen. The grapes, flown to Oregon by illegal jet transport, came from one of his farms in the Sonoma Valley of California. He spat the seeds into the fireplace across from him, half-listening to his CULTURE announcer delivering a lecture on the portrait busts of twentieth-century sculptors.
If only I could get Jim Briskin on my network, Hada thought gloomily. The ranking TV news clown, so popular, with his flaming scarlet wig and genial, informal patter… CULTURE needs that, Hada realized. But—
But their society, at the moment, was being run by the idiotic—but peculiarly able—President Maximilian Fischer, who had locked horns with Jim-Jam Briskin; who had, in fact, clapped the famous news clown in jail. So, as a result, Jim-Jam was available neither for the commercial network which linked the three habitable planets nor for CULTURE. And meanwhile, Max Fischer ruled on.
If I could get Jim-Jam out of prison, Hada thought, perhaps due to gratitude he’d move over to my network, leave his sponsors Reinlander Beer and Calbest Electronics; after all, they have not been able to free him despite their intricate court maneuvers. They don’t have the power or the know-how… and I have.
One of Hada’s wives, Thelma, had entered the living room of the demesne and now stood watching the TV screen from behind him. “Don’t place yourself there, please,” Hada said. “It gives me a panic reaction; I like to see people’s faces.” He twisted around in his deep chair.
“The fox is back,” Thelma said. “I saw him; he glared at me.” She laughed with delight. “He looked so feral and independent—a bit like you, Seb. I wish I could have gotten a film clip of him.”
“I must spring Jim-Jam Briskin,” Hada said aloud; he had decided.
Picking up the phone, he dialed culture’s production chief, Nat Kaminsky, at the transmitting Earth satellite Culone.
“In exactly one hour,” Hada told his employee, “I want all our outlets to begin crying for Jim-Jam Briskin’s release from jail. He’s not a traitor, as President Fischer declares. In fact, his political rights, his freedom of speech, have been taken away from him—illegally. Got it? Show clips of Briskin, build him up… you understand.” Hada hung up then, and dialed his attorney, Art Heaviside.
Thelma said, “I’m going back outdoors and feed the animals.”
“Do that,” Hada said, lighting an Abdulla, a British-made Turkish cigarette which he was most fond of. “Art?” he said into the phone. “Get started on Jim-Jam Briskin’s case; find a way to free him.”
His lawyer’s voice came protestingly, “But, Seb, if we mix into that, we’ll have President Fischer after us with the FBI; it’s too risky.”
Hada said, “I need Briskin. CULTURE has become pompous—look at the screen right this minute. Education and art—we need a personality, a good news clown; we need Jim-Jam.” Telscan’s surveys, of late, had shown an ominous dropping-off of viewers, but he did not tell Art Heaviside that; it was confidential.
“Time of war? With whom?”
“Those alien ships—you know. That entered the Sol System last February. Darn it, Seb; you know we’re at war—you can’t be so lofty as to deny that; it’s a legal fact.”
“In my opinion,” Hada said, “the aliens are not hostile.” He put the receiver down, feeling angry. It’s Max Fischer’s way of holding onto supreme power, he said to himself. Thumping the war-scare drum. I ask you, What actual damage have the aliens done lately? After all, we don’t own the Sol System. We just like to think we do.
In any case, CULTURE—educational TV itself—was withering, and as the owner of the network, Sebastian Hada had to act. Am I personally declining in vigor? he asked himself.
Once more picking up the phone, he dialed his analyst, Dr. Ito Yasumi, at his demesne outside of Tokyo. I need help, he said to himself. CULTURE’s creator and financial backer needs help. And Dr. Yasumi can give it to me.
Facing him from across his desk, Dr. Yasumi said, “Hada, maybe problem stems from you having eight wives. That’s about five too many.” He waved Hada back to the couch. “Be calm, Hada. Pretty sad that big-time operator like Mr. S. Hada falling apart under stress. You afraid President Fischer’s FBI get you like they got Jim Briskin?” He smiled.
“No,” Hada said. “I’m fearless.” He lay semisupine, arms behind his head, gazing at a Paul Klee print on the wall… or perhaps it was an original; good analysts did make a god-awful amount of money: Yasumi’s charge to him was one thousand dollars a half hour.
Yasumi said contemplatively, “Maybe you should seize power, Hada, in bold coup against Max Fischer. Make successful power play of your own; become President and then release Mr. Jim-Jam—no problem then.”
“Fischer has the Armed Forces behind him,” Hada said gloomily. “As Commander-in-Chief. Because of General Tompkins, who likes Fischer, they’re absolutely loyal.” He had already thought of this. “Maybe I ought to flee to my demesne on Callisto,” he murmured. It was a superb one, and Fischer, after all, had no authority there; it was not U.S. but Dutch territory. “Anyhow, I don’t want to fight; I’m not a fighter, a street brawler; I’m a cultured man.”