Program for a Puppet

by Roland Perry

  “No. There were also my own secret designs for Cheetah. Or perhaps I should say my technical refinement of a Brogan design idea. You see, the Brogans had this all-pervasive motto—‘What the mind can perceive, the mind controlling the computer can achieve.’ I had to make or program their ideas in practice.”

  “What was it he forced you to design, that you objected to?”

  “The main one was a tapping device. This could extract information electronically from any Cheetah installed anywhere in the world. The Old Man wanted to be able to sit in his war room and call up any data, at any time, from anywhere. So Lasercomp scientists spent years perfecting it. Finally, all he would have to do would be to activate a code, get into a computer and steal any information he wanted. If it was on the other side of the world, he could still do it via a satellite.”

  The implication hit Revel. “That would certainly give him colossal power!”

  “When you think of it—ultimate power. Most information is stored on Cheetah equipment, and he can get his hands on it.”

  “How many people know about this secret device?” Graham asked.

  “Perhaps ten or twelve. About one hundred and fifty scientists helped in parts of the design. Another five hundred workers put the programs together.”

  “If the attempt on your life was ordered by the Old Man, he must believe he has the means of neutralizing the information you have about Cheetah.”

  “That’s why I’ve decided to speak to you. They may just call off the dogs if I fight back.… I don’t see any other possible way out.”

  “Is there anything else you told Jane?”

  “Yes. I told her about Lasercomp’s secret programs.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ten years ago, some of my Lasercomp colleagues and I were asked by the Brogans to prepare a PPP, or Program for a Potential President. The aim was to design a computerized path to show how to get someone into the White House.”

  Gordon paused to sip his drink.

  “It seemed like a management plaything at first. Using computers to work out a presidential candidate’s campaign strategy was not new. But soon we found ourselves building far more complex programs than had ever been thought of before. Every imaginable factor was to be incorporated. We became intrigued as we were all soon ordered full-time on to the assignment. Within weeks it had become very sophisticated. About three hundred programmers were working on it. Within eight months, we had a model covering every contingency for a ten-year run at the presidency.”

  The scientist got up slowly from his chair and moved to the fire.

  Graham asked, “What kind of things did you feed into the model?”

  “Well, the simple, early programs were based on those for past campaigns, and covered a wide range—people for a candidate to see, people to be seen with, analysis of all previous winning and losing campaigns. We even threw in analysis of what made some Presidents appear strong and popular. There were also the mundane things, like being seen in a particular state a certain number of times in the actual presidential election year. It wasn’t until new concepts became important that I wanted to cut out of the whole damned assignment.”

  “What were they?” Revel asked.

  “Brogan Junior added a guy to the PPP team I’d never met before. He was a psychiatrist. He wanted us to build emotional factors into the program. They were to be quantified like everything else.”

  “Such as?” Graham asked.

  “We were supposed to do extensive surveys to see how people reacted to certain words in a candidate’s speech. Statements like ‘Trust me’ or ‘I would never lie to you’ were measured in every state. This allowed the PPP to instruct speech writers how many times these words should be used, depending on where the candidate was to say them.”

  Gordon laughed joylessly. “We even measured how different people reacted to knowing a candidate was religious, or sexually permissive. They were known as the ‘God factor,’ and the ‘sex factor.”’ The scientist swallowed the rest of his drink. “Anyway, that was it for me. I wanted out.”

  “You kept in touch with it?” Revel asked.

  “Yes. Colleagues would often brief me. I guess it was morbid curiosity on my part.”

  “How would the PPP account for the unexpected over those eight years?” Revel asked. “Say, for instance, a President was impeached. Wouldn’t that throw the PPP out of kilter?”

  “Not at all. In fact, this was its strength. The programs were ongoing, and automatically changeable. New information was continually fed into the PPP at one end and instructions and calculations kept coming out the other. One new factor like that would immediately change the calculations for millions of others.”

  “What about the emergence of rivals to a candidate?” Graham asked.

  “They were also catered for. I want to come back to that later. But first, let me tell you how the PPP was initially used.” He moved across to a cabinet and poured himself another bourbon. “When the model was finished, several ‘guests’ were individually invited to meet Lasercomp’s senior executives—the Brogans, Huntsman and Strasburg. These guests were mainly bright young senators and budding governors. The meetings were to see if one of them might fit the PPP. Only one was told that the corporation would be willing to help, if he wanted to be President of the United States. Lasercomp offered to help plan his long-term strategy and campaigns.”

  Gordon took a hefty swig of his drink. “He really took on the PPP idea wholeheartedly.”

  “Who was it?” Revel asked.

  But Gordon was taking his time. “He had worked on the Apollo program at NASA before going into politics. He was very experienced in computers.”

  “Mineva was a computer engineer at NASA at one time, wasn’t he?” Graham asked.

  Gordon hesitated, but finally nodded his head. “You’re right, Mineva.”

  “You believe Mineva has followed the PPP for ten years?” Revel asked disbelievingly.”

  “Yes, perfectly. Right down the line. And I can show you the most important aspects of the original PPP. You can check the step-by-step Mineva campaign, right from when he ran for Nevada governorship to chalk up a record in government.”

  “But how do you account for MacGregor?” Revel asked.

  “That was virtually Mr. Graham’s question about rivals before, and this is what I hope will worry Lasercomp.”

  “You mean assassination was in the PPP if an unbeatable rival appeared?” Graham asked.

  “Exactly.”

  “But it would not have specified Ronald MacGregor ten years ago as the target.”

  “Not then, of course, but elimination by assassination was a built-in contingency. MacGregor’s name would have come up fast in the instructions and calculations when he started winning the primaries.”

  “You said you had a copy of the original PPP?” Revel asked.

  “Yes.”

  “That should be strong proof of a Lasercomp-Mineva connection, and a link to MacGregor’s assassination!”

  “Not necessarily. The corporation would deny it and say the PPP was similar to just another macabre Rand-type study.”

  “Then how do you prove a Mineva-Lasercomp connection?” Graham asked.

  “Perhaps the only way is to get conclusive evidence that the PPP is in operation on Lasercomp computers at HQ.”

  “Did Mineva know about the secret devices in Cheetah?” Graham asked.

  “I’m not sure. Cheetah was not completely developed when he took on the PPP.”

  “But the secret devices had been designed then?”

  “Oh, yes. It was just a matter of a firm management decision when the new machines would be mass produced and marketed.”

  “It could have been demonstrated to Mineva?”

  “Definitely.”

  “It would have been a great incentive to become President,” Revel said. “Using those secret devices, he would know what everyone using a Cheetah was doing. Including the Soviet U
nion.”

  “Is there anything significant in the PPP that Lasercomp may have yet to exploit fully to win the election for Mineva?” Graham asked.

  “Yes: television. That doesn’t mean simply how much exposure a candidate gets. More important was the actual manipulation of television.” Gordon was slurring his words. The drink and general fatigue had taken its toll. “I feel it was the main factor in getting the whole damned PPP to work. Alan Huntsman interfered a lot here and insisted that his former protégé at FBS, Philpott, the then rising star of the networks, would soon be the most important commentator on television. Huntsman said we could count on Philpott supporting whoever was chosen as the Lasercomp puppet. He insisted we allow for it in the PPP.”

  “Do you think there is a connection with the PPP and the Haussermann tape rumors?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because exhaustive analysis was done for the PPP on how false information used in the press and other media could be used against Mineva’s rivals for the presidency.”

  “Including information on tape?”

  Gordon nodded. “Tape is very evocative. It’s one of Lasercomp’s and FBS’s main ways of pushing rumor and vicious innuendo against Rickard. Vilification is one of the oldest tricks in American politics. Only goddamn difference is, Lasercomp has quantified and computerized it!”

  The word swept through Washington that Haussermann was hiding out in Paris. By evening, every television and radio newscast was carrying the story about how the former State Department official had left the country before being questioned by the FBI and the CIA about his leaks of important government documents. Only Philpott had managed to track him down. He was using all his professional skills to fool the public into believing this was a spontaneous piece of “scoop” reporting. In reality, Lasercomp had set it up with his connivance. Halfway through his show’s news report a commentator announced: “Now our exclusive. Our anchorman Douglas Philpott has done it again. He has just been on the line from Paris to tell us he has an interview there ready with Gregor Haussermann, the controversial former leading State Department official. We’re ready. He’s ready, so here it is by satellite.”

  Haussermann’s hunched figure filled the screen. He was wearing dark glasses and his normally trim beard had overgrown into a splotchy mess. He smoked incessantly as the camera pulled back to show reporter Philpott shoving a microphone near his face.

  “Why are you hiding out here in Paris?”

  “Because my life is in danger.”

  “Why? Does someone want to kill you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “The-the-Pres-President of the United-ted States and the CIA.”

  “President Rickard and the CIA? Why?”

  “Be-because I have a tape.”

  “Of what?”

  Haussermann dragged nervously on his cigarette and adjusted his glasses. “A con-conversation between the Pres-President and me, which …” He looked up at the camera.

  “Which what, Mr. Haussermann?”

  “It will prove who-who kill-kill-kill …” Haussermann stopped, and waved his hand at the camera. He seemed under tremendous stress.

  Philpott was not going to let this exclusive disappear so easily. “It will prove who killed whom?”

  Haussermann nodded several times as if to force out the name. “Ronald MacGregor.”

  “Prove? What do you mean by prove? Are you suggesting President Rickard knows who killed MacGregor?” Once again it was Philpott the Inquisitor.

  “Yes-yes! On the tape! He admits it! He admits he wa-wa-wa-was responsible!”

  “I don’t believe the President of the United States would be involved in such a thing,” Philpott said skeptically. “Can we hear this tape?”

  “I-I-I-I’ll be releasing it soon. I haven’t spoken to my-my-my lawyers yet.” He stood up and moved side-on to the camera.

  Philpott followed him.

  “Why not now?”

  “Look, I’ve said enough. Sh-shut that thing off!” He waved a menacing fist at the camera. “They’ll find me!” He walked hurriedly out of view with Philpott gabbling excitedly, “That was Gregor Haussermann who has just made an astonishing statement. He claimed that President Rickard admitted on a tape in a conversation with him that he, the President, was responsible for the death of Ronald MacGregor. I’ll be back with further developments as they happen. This is Douglas Philpott reporting directly to you via satellite from Paris, France.…”

  TUESDAY, OCTOBER 28

  President Rickard appeared in the living quarters of the White House clutching a satchel full of files and newspaper reports. The turmoil resulting from the Haussermann accusations had upset his work schedule and he had taken them home to catch up.

  He was still in a rage hours after the first flying off the handle at the news report from Paris. His wife gamely tried to calm him, but didn’t get much chance because the telephone was running hot in Rickard’s study. The only way to take some of the pressure off, she thought, was to have some food prepared. This she did, and brought him a medium steak and vegetables, which he wolfed between calls.

  He got into bed at about 2:00 A.M. with reports scattered around him and on the floor. Still he wouldn’t leave the telephone alone. His wife was now beginning to lose patience. She kept going in and out of the room to persuade him to rest, only to hear snippets of wild conversation.

  “… Wait until I get my hands on that bastard …! I’m definitely going to sue …! To hell with public opinion …! I’ve got a good mind to have that sonofabitch arrested …!”

  Crash! Down went the receiver. Then he dialed his press secretary. “I want you to go along personally to FBS President what’s-his-name—Bilby—and ask him what the hell is going on! Let all the members of his board know I’m going to sue! Even with a retraction and apology! I want a few explanations out of that goddamn network …!”

  Finally, Lillian Rickard could not stand it any more. “Why don’t you relax?” she said. “Honestly, honey, it can’t be doing your health any good.”

  The tension in Rickard’s face eased slightly, and he said, smiling, “You’re right, Lillian.” He embraced her warmly, accidentally knocking some of the reports off the bed. “Can’t let those bastards get on top.”

  She lay on the bed next to him and he kissed her.

  “You’re only going to torture yourself with all these reports at this hour. You won’t take them in. Especially with this other silly thing on your mind.”

  He nodded his reluctant agreement. “Why don’t you sleep here tonight, honey?”

  Lately the First Lady had been sleeping alone in the yellow bedroom on the second floor because Rickard had been working from his bed well into the early hours.

  “Okay. Down here tonight, if you promise lights out in no more than twenty minutes. I’ll get my things from upstairs.” She padded off to her room to gather her night attire and decided to undress there. Just as she was unzipping her dress and gazing out of the window at the spectacular floodlit view of the Jefferson Memorial, she heard a muffled cry from the floor below.

  The buzzer alarm system throughout the White House began to ring. Lillian rushed downstairs, calling out, “What’s wrong, Everett? What’s wrong?” and nearly collided with two security guards at the bottom of the stairs. Agonizing groans were coming from the President’s bedroom. Half out of bed, face red, and with both hands clutching his chest, Rickard struggled for breath. He slumped on the floor. One guard tried to revive him and another fumbled with the scrambler which would bring the President’s physician. Lillian Rickard momentarily lost control and screamed, “Is he dead? … Oh, God … is he dead?”

  The first bulletin on Rickard’s condition came at 9:30 A.M., seven hours after he had suffered what the White House described as a “mild heart attack.” His doctor confined him to bed in Walter Reed Hospital for at least two weeks. All his duties were to be turned over to V
ice President Cosgrove, who had assumed most of the chief executive’s role within twenty minutes of Rickard’s collapse.

  A stunned nation, which had hardly had time to recover from the shock of the assassination of MacGregor, was sent reeling once more. Despite the medical report’s assurance that Rickard would probably be able to resume all normal duties inside five weeks, speculation was rife about his political future. Would he recover enough to carry on?

  Philpott went live on his evening newscast to expound on the dramatic interview with Haussermann. He told his public he would do everything he could to interview him again and even perhaps get the tape before the election. The main items in the news were Rickard’s condition and its possible effect on the coming election, and the significance of a nationwide Gallup Poll.

  Philpott wound up the night’s program by saying, “This latest poll shows that if the election were held today, forty-two percent of you would vote for Rickard, and thirty-eight percent for Mineva with the rest undecided.

  “Only three weeks earlier, immediately after the death of MacGregor, the figures with the same poll stood at forty-five for Rickard and thirty percent for whoever took MacGregor’s place.

  “The people of America are asking themselves tonight if they should vote for such a sick man … accused by a former high public official of being involved in a murder…”

  Brogan Junior switched off the television set in his father’s executive office at Black Flats and flopped in a chair. Next to him, seated on a comfortable couch and surrounded by reports, was the Old Man, engrossed in a weighty computer print-out.

  “Did you hear those figures?” Brogan Junior asked. “Mineva must win now. What manna from heaven Rickard’s heart attack is!”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” the Old Man said gruffly, peering over his half-moon reading spectacles. “We’ve already programmed it into PPP and it says here it means only a point three percent swing to Mineva. It even cautions that Rickard will get a sympathy vote.”

  “But he can’t be doing any campaigning, and the PPP says there will be as much as a three percent swing against Rickard if the Haussermann tape factor goes according to plan. Assuming other PPP predictions are right, Mineva will be only point three behind Rickard by the weekend. We’re practically home.”