The tall white man by the fire put a hand on the kanaka’s shoulder. “Come, Aani Paul. It’s time to go home.” The kanaka arose, and they walked away down the beach, the black man hobbling on a twisted leg, supported by the white man.
“How did he make that four hundred miles without food?” I asked when the last sound of their footsteps had disappeared. “I would have said it was impossible.”
Charlie’s voice had lost all expression when he spoke. It came out like a dead, flat calm. “And so it would have been for most people,” he said. “If you knew the language, though, you would see it: he is Aani Paul—literally, the man who is closest to Paul.” The voice became grim. “He buried his master at sea back there, south of the Line Islands … all except the legs!”
Science Fiction
Public Hearing
With an increasing sense of unease, Alan Wallace studied his client as they neared the public hearing room on the second floor of the old Senate Office Building. The guy was too relaxed.
“Bill, I’m worried about this,” Wallace said. “You could damn well lose your grazing rights here in this room today.”
They were almost into the gauntlet of guards, reporters, and TV cameramen before Wallace got his answer. “Who the hell cares?” Custer asked.
Wallace, who prided himself on being the Washington-type lawyer—above contamination by complaints and briefs, immune to all shock—found himself tongue-tied with surprise.
They were into the ruck then, and Wallace had to pull on his bold face, smiling at the press, trying to soften the sharpness of that necessary phrase: “No comment. Sorry, no comment.”
“See us after the hearing if you have any questions, gentlemen,” Custer said.
The man’s voice was level and confident. He has himself overcontrolled, Wallace thought. Maybe he was just joking … a graveyard joke.
The marble-walled hearing room blazed with lights. Camera platforms had been raised above the seats at the rear. Some of the small UHF stations had their cameramen standing on the window ledges.
The reporters noted, then picked up tempo as William R. Custer—“The Baron of Oregon,” they called him—entered with his attorney, passed the press tables, and crossed to the seats reserved for them in the witness section.
Ahead and to their right, the empty chair at the long table stood waiting with its aura of complete exposure.
“Who the hell cares?”
That wasn’t a Custer-type joke, Wallace reminded himself.
For all his cattle-baron pose, Custer held a doctorate in agriculture and degrees in philosophy, math, and electronics. His western neighbors called him “The Brain.” It was no accident the cattlemen had chosen him to represent them here.
Wallace glanced covertly at the man, studying him. The cowboy boots and string tie added to a neat, dark business suit would have been affectation on most men. They merely accented Custer’s craggy good looks—the sunburned, windblown outdoorsman. He was a little darker of hair and skin than his father had been, still light enough to be called blond but not as ruddy and without the late father’s drink-tumescent veins.
But then, young Custer wasn’t quite thirty.
Custer turned, met the attorney’s eyes. He smiled.
“Those were good patent attorneys you recommended, Al,” Custer said. He lifted his briefcase to his lap, patted it. “No mincing around or mealymouthed excuses. Already got this thing on the way.” Again he tapped the briefcase.
He brought that damn light gadget here with him? Wallace wondered. Why? He glanced at the briefcase. Didn’t know it was that small … but maybe he’s just talking about the plans for the crazy device.
“This is the only thing that’s important.”
Into a sudden lull in the room’s high noise level, the voice of someone in the press section carried across them: “… greatest political show on earth.”
“I brought this as an exhibit,” Custer said. Again he tapped the briefcase. (It did bulge oddly.)
Exhibit? Wallace asked himself.
It was the second time in ten minutes that Custer had shocked him. This was to be a hearing of a subcommittee of the Senate Interior and Insular Affairs Committee. The issue was Taylor grazing lands. What the devil could that … gadget have to do with the battle of words and laws to be fought here?
“You’re supposed to talk overall strategy with your attorney,” Wallace whispered. “What the devil do you…?”
He broke off as the room fell suddenly silent.
Wallace looked up to see the subcommittee chairman, Senator Haycourt Tiborough, stride through the wide double doors followed by his coterie of investigators and attorneys. The senator was a tall man who had once been fat. But he had dieted with such savage abruptness that his skin had never recovered. His jowls and the flesh on the back of his hands sagged oddly. The top of his head was shiny bald and ringed by a three-quarter tonsure that had purposely been allowed to grow long and straggly so that it fanned back over his ears.
The senator was followed in close lockstep by syndicated columnist Anthony Poxman, who was speaking fiercely into Tiborough’s left ear. TV cameras tracked the pair.
If Poxman’s covering this one himself instead of sending a flunky, it’s going to be bad, Wallace told himself.
Tiborough took his chair at the center of the committee, noting how many other members were present. Senator Spealance was absent, Wallace noted, but he had party organization difficulties at home, and the senior senator from Oregon was, significantly, not present.
Illness, it was reported.
A sudden attack of caution, that common Washington malady, no doubt. He knew where his campaign money came from … but he also knew where the votes were.
They had a quorum, though.
Tiborough cleared his throat, said, “The committee will please come to order.”
The senator’s voice and manner gave Wallace a cold chill. We were nuts trying to fight this one in the open, he thought. Why’d I let Custer and his friends talk me into this? You can’t butt heads with a United States senator who’s out to get you. The only way’s to fight him on the inside.
And now Custer suddenly turning screwball.
Exhibit!
“Gentlemen,” said Tiborough, “I think we can … that is, today we can dispense with preliminaries … unless my colleagues … if any of them have objections?”
Again he glanced at the other senators—five of them. Wallace swept his gaze down the line behind that table—Plowers of Nebraska (a horse trader), Johnstone of Ohio (a parliamentarian—devious), Lane of South Carolina (a Republican in Democrat disguise), Emery of Minnesota (new and eager—dangerous because he lacked the old inhibitions), and Meltzer of New York (poker player, fine old family with traditions).
None of them had objections.
They’ve had a private meeting—both sides of the aisle. It was another ominous sign.
“This is a subcommittee of the United States Senate Committee on Interior and Insular Affairs,” Tiborough said, his tone formal. “We are charged with obtaining expert opinion on proposed amendments to the Taylor Grazing Act of 1934. Today’s hearing will begin with testimony and … ah, questioning of a man whose family has been in the business of raising beef cattle in Oregon for three generations.”
Tiborough smiled at the TV cameras.
The son of a bitch is playing to the galleries, Wallace thought. He glanced at Custer. The cattleman sat relaxed against the back of his chair, eyes half-lidded, staring at the senator.
“We call, as our first witness today, Mr. William R. Custer of Bend, Oregon,” Tiborough said. “Will the clerk please swear in Mr. Custer?”
Custer moved forward to the “hot seat,” placed his briefcase on the table. Wallace took a chair beside his client, noting how the cameras turned as the clerk stepped forward, put the Bible on the table, and administered the oath.
Tiborough ruffled through some papers in front of him, waited for full at
tention to return to him, then said, “This subcommittee … we have before us a bill, this is a United States Senate bill entitled SB-1024 of the current session, an act amending the Taylor Grazing Act of 1934 and … the intent is, as many have noted … we would broaden the base of the advisory committees to the act and include a wider public representation.”
Custer was fiddling with the clasp of his briefcase.
How the hell could that light gadget be an exhibit here? Wallace asked himself. He glanced at the set of Custer’s jaw, noted again the determined confidence he’d seen in Custer’s eyes. The sight failed to settle Wallace’s own nerves.
“Ah, Mr. Custer,” Tiborough said. “Do you … did you bring a preliminary statement? Your counsel …”
“I have a statement,” Custer said. His big voice rumbled through the room, requiring instant attention and the shift of cameras that had been holding tardily on Tiborough, expecting an addition to the question.
Tiborough smiled, waited, then said, “Your attorney … is your statement the one your counsel supplied the committee?”
“With some slight additions of my own,” Custer said.
Wallace felt a sudden qualm. They were too willing to accept Custer’s statement. He leaned close to his client’s ear, whispered, “They know what your stand is. Skip the preliminaries.”
Custer ignored him, said, “I intend to speak plainly and simply. I oppose the amendment. ‘Broaden the base’ and ‘wider public representation’ are phrases of political double-talk. The intent is to pack the committees, to put control of them into the hands of people who don’t know the first thing about the cattle business and whose private intent is to destroy the Taylor Grazing Act itself.”
“Plain, simple talk,” Tiborough said. “This committee … we welcome such directness. Strong words. A majority of this committee … we have taken the position that the public range lands have been too long subjected to the tender mercies of the stockmen advisors, that the lands … stockmen have exploited them to their own advantage.”
The gloves are off, Wallace thought. I hope Custer knows what he’s doing. He’s sure as hell not accepting advice. Wallace glimpsed shiny metal in the case before the flap was closed.
Christ! That looked like a gun or something!
Then Wallace recognized the papers—the brief he and his staff had labored over … and the preliminary statement. He noted with alarm the penciled markings and marginal notations. How could Custer have done that much to it in just twenty-four hours?
Again, Wallace whispered in Custer’s ear, “Take it easy, Bill. The bastard’s out for blood.”
Custer nodded to show he had heard, glanced at the papers, and looked up directly at Tiborough.
A hush settled on the room, broken only by the scraping of a chair somewhere in the rear and the whirr of cameras.
“First, the nature of these lands we’re talking about,” Custer said. “In my state …” He cleared his throat, a mannerism that would have indicated anger in the old man, his father. There was no break in Custer’s expression, though, and his voice remained level. “… in my state, these were mostly Indian lands. This nation took them by brute force—right of conquest. That’s about the oldest right in the world, I guess. I don’t want to argue with it at this point.”
“Mr. Custer.” It was Nebraska’s Senator Plowers, his amiable farmer’s face set in a tight grin. “Mr. Custer, I hope …”
“Is this a point of order?” Tiborough asked.
“Mr. Chairman,” Plowers said, “I merely wished to make sure we weren’t going to bring up that old suggestion about giving these lands back to the Indians.”
Laughter shot across the hearing room. Tiborough chuckled.
Custer looked at Plowers, said, “No, Senator, I don’t want to give these lands back to the Indians. When they had these lands, they only got about three hundred pounds of meat a year off eighty acres. We get five hundred pounds of the highest-grade protein—premium beef—from only ten acres.”
“No one doubts the efficiency of your factorylike methods,” Tiborough said. “You can … we know your methods wring the largest amount of meat from a minimum acreage.”
Ugh! Wallace thought. That was a low blow—implying Bill’s overgrazing and destroying the land value.
“My neighbors, the Warm Springs Indians, use the same methods I do,” Custer said. “They are happy to adopt our methods because we use the land while maintaining it and increasing its value. We don’t permit the land to fall prey to natural disasters such as fire and erosion. We don’t …”
“No doubt your methods are meticulously correct,” Tiborough said. “But I fail to see where …”
“Has he … has Mr. Custer finished his preliminary statement yet?” Senator Plowers asked.
Wallace shot a startled look at the Nebraskan. That was help from an unexpected quarter.
“Thank you, Senator,” Custer said. “I’m quite willing to adapt to the Chairman’s methods and explain the meticulous correctness of my operation. Our lowliest cowhands are college men, highly paid. We travel ten times as many jeep miles as we do horse miles. Every outlying division of the ranch—every holding pen and grazing supervisor’s cabin—is linked to the central ranch by radio. We use the …”
“I concede that your methods must be the most modern in—”
He broke off at a disturbance by the door. An Army colonel was talking to the guard there. He wore Special Services fourragere—Pentagon.
Wallace noted with an odd feeling of disquiet that the man was armed—a .45 at the hip. The weapon was out of place on him, as though he had added it suddenly in an emergency.
More guards were coming up outside the door now—Marines and Army. They carried rifles.
The colonel said something sharp to the guard, turned away from him, and entered the committee room. All the cameras were tracking him now. He ignored them, crossed swiftly to the Senator, and spoke swiftly into Tiborough’s ear.
The senator shot a startled glance at Custer, accepted a sheaf of papers the colonel thrust at him. He forced his attention off Custer and studied the papers, leafing through them. Presently, he looked up, stared at Custer.
A hush fell over the room.
“I find myself at a loss, Mr. Custer,” Tiborough said. “I have here a copy of a report … it’s from the Special Services branch of the Army … through the Pentagon, you understand. It was just handed to me by, ah … the colonel here.”
He looked up at the colonel who was standing, one hand resting lightly on the holstered .45. Tiborough looked back at Custer, and it was obvious the senator was trying to marshal his thoughts.
“It is,” Tiborough said, “that is … this report supposedly … and I have every confidence it is what it is represented to be … here in my hands … they say that … uh, within the last few weeks there have been certain demonstrations on your lands. A new kind of weapon. According to the report …” He glanced at the papers, back to Custer, who was staring at him steadily. “… this, uh, weapon, is a thing that … it is extremely dangerous.”
“It is,” Custer said.
“I … ah, see.” Tiborough cleared his throat, glancing up at the colonel, who was staring fixedly at Custer. The senator brought his attention back to Custer.
“Do you, in fact, have such a weapon with you, Mr. Custer?” Tiborough asked.
“I have brought it as an exhibit, sir.”
“Exhibit?”
“Yes, sir.”
Wallace rubbed his lips, found them dry. He wet them with his tongue, wishing for the water glass, but it was on the other side of Custer. Christ! That stupid cowpuncher! He wondered if he dared whisper to Custer. Would the senators and that Pentagon lackey interpret such an action as meaning he was part of Custer’s crazy antics, too?
“Are you threatening this committee with your weapon, Mr. Custer?” Tiborough asked. “If you are, I may say special precautions have been taken—extra guards on this room, and we
… that is, we will not allow ourselves to worry too much about any action you may take, but ordinary precautions are in force.”
Wallace could no longer sit quietly. He tugged Custer’s sleeve, got an abrupt shake of the head. He leaned close, whispered, “We could ask for a recess, Bill. Maybe we—”
“Don’t interrupt me,” Custer said. He looked at Tiborough. “Senator, I would not threaten you or any other man. Threats in the way you mean them are a thing we can no longer tolerate.”
“You … I believe you said this device is an exhibit,” Tiborough said. He cast a worried frown at the report in his hands. “I fail … it does not appear germane.”
Senator Plowers cleared his throat. “Mr. Chairman,” he said.
“The chair recognizes the Senator from Nebraska,” Tiborough said, and the relief in his voice was obvious. He wanted time to think.
“Mr. Custer,” Plowers said, “I have not seen the report, the report my distinguished colleague alludes to; however, if I may … is it your wish to use this committee as some kind of publicity device?”
“By no means, Senator,” Custer said. “I don’t wish to profit by my presence here—not at all.”
Tiborough had apparently come to a decision. He leaned back and whispered to the colonel, who nodded and returned to the outer hall.
“You strike me as an eminently reasonable man, Mr. Custer,” Tiborough said. “If I may …”
“May I?” Senator Plowers said. “May I—just permit me to conclude this one point. May we have the Special Services report in the record?”
“Certainly,” Tiborough said. “But I was about to suggest …”
“May I?” Plowers said. “May I—would you permit me, please, Mr. Chairman, to make this point clear for the record?”
Tiborough scowled, but the heavy dignity of the Senate overcame his irritation. “Please continue, Senator. I had thought you were finished.”
“I respect … there is no doubt in my mind of Mr. Custer’s sincerity and integrity.” His tone and expression made him look grandfatherly, a kindly elder statesman. “I would like, therefore, to have him explain how this … ah, weapon, can be an exhibit in the matter before our committee.”
Frank Herbert Page 27
