A Creed for the Third Millennium (41 page)

Harold Magnus had given Mrs Taverner her
orders to begin negotiating with the mental health arms of the various Services
in search of Dr Carriol's heavies; now he was ready to finish his discussion
with the chief of Section Four.

'You were saying that you don't think he
stands a chance of lasting the distance,' said the Secretary, sliding down in
his chair and watching Dr Carriol over the rim of his glass; he was concluding
his scratch meal with a fine old malt whiskey.

'Yes. Oh, I think he'll continue to do
well as long as he's in the north. What worries me is when he moves south again.
At our present rate of progress, he'll hit the thirty-fifth parallel around the
first of May. And May further south will see gigantic crowds wherever he goes. I
can't be sure how he's going to react with so many people going wild around him,
but I imagine it will give his Messianic zeal an enormous boost. If he was a
cynic, or he was in it for the money, or if this was a simple power trip,
there'd be no problem. But, Mr Secretary, he is utterly sincere! He
thinks he's helping. Well, of course he is helping. Immeasurably. But can you
even imagine what it will be like when he hits L.A.? He'll insist on walking,
and there'll be millions of people out to walk right along with him—' She broke
off, caught her breath audibly. 'My God! My God!'

'What? What?'

'An idea The germ of one, anyway. Leave
it for a while, it's growing. Back to what I was saying. May. May is the cutoff
point. We
must
finish Dr Christian's public appearances in May. It may be
that after some first-rate treatment he'll come right again, in which case he
can resume his tour where he leaves off.'

'What are we going to do? Just pull him
out and issue a statement to the effect that he's sick?'

'I was thinking that, but not any more.
Mr Magnus — what if we could finish with a bang instead of a whimper? It's been
nagging away inside me ever since he went on Bob Smith, the germ of an idea.
Blast-off!, I thought then. Not an endless publicity tour, but a long countdown
to some cosmic blast-off. Think of it, Mr Secretary! A super-super-super last
public appearance!'

A grin was spreading across the
Secretary's face. 'My dear Judith, you are wasted as a mere back room boy. At
heart I suspect you are an entrepreneur. Because you're right. He ought to go
out with a bang. A cosmic public appearance.'

'Washington,' she said.

'No! New York City!'

'No! No! A walk, Mr Secretary!
A walk!
The one he has been dying to do ever since Decatur! A walk from one town to
another, all the goddam way on foot. New York City to Washington D.C., in May.
It's going to take some organizing, but let him have what he wants. Let him
walk! From New York City to Washington in the spring, with the leaves coming on
the trees, and those who have had to come back from the
south just slipping into a new routine — man alive, what a walk! And for once
we'll let him have his head. He can draw the people in all the way, from the
Battery end of Manhattan to the banks of the Potomac. The march of the
millennium.' She stiffened, suddenly all snake, eyes staring, reared back to
strike. 'Oh! Oh! That's what we'll call it, of course!
The March of the
Millennium!
At the end, he can address the crowd from the steps of the
Lincoln Memorial, say, or some place else near the monuments, where there'll be
plenty of room for the people to gather to hear him. And after it's all over — we
put him into temporary retirement in a nice quiet sanatorium.'

'God! My God!' The Secretary for the
Environment sat awed and a little frightened. 'A march that size, Judith? We'd
have a riot on our hands!'

'Nope. Not if we're properly prepared.
We'll need lots of military assistance, that's for sure. To organize shelters
along the way, first-aid stations, canteens, rest rooms, that kind of thing. And
keep order. This country loves a parade, Mr Magnus! Especially one they can
participate in. He can lead the people to the seat of the people. From where so
many came in as immigrants over a hundred years ago to where they put their
government. And why should they run riot? The atmosphere will be high carnival,
not general strike. Have you ever seen a walkathon or a marathon or a cyclothon
on a cool crisp sunny weekend in New York City? Thousands upon thousands of
people, and never a trace of trouble. They're happy, they're free, they're out
in the open air, they've left their griefs and their problems at home right
alongside their wallets. For years all the experts have been insisting that the
reason New York City has taken glaciation, the one-child family, lack of private
transport and the rest so well is that New York City's local government has
offered New Yorkers an alternative life style. So there you are. The March of the Millennium will be a
cosmic walkathon, led by The Man himself. Face it, he's led the people out of a
wilderness of pain and futility. He's given them a creed to live by that suits
the times and suits them. So let him lead them in the flesh! And while he's
walking from New York City to Washington, we can also organize a dozen other
giant walks in other major centres across the country. Dallas to Fort Worth, for
instance. Gary to Chicago. Fort Lauderdale to Miami. Mr Magnus, it will work!
The March of the Millennium!'

She had achieved the impossible; she had
set Harold Magnus on fire with an impossible dream. 'But will he do it?' he
asked, not quite able to abandon all caution.

'Try and stop him!'

'Your people — the Section Four think
tank. We'd better get them started on the logistics at once. I'll see the
President myself and sound him out. If he says it's go, it's go. Though I can't
see him turning the idea down. Being re-elected for a third term seems to have
given him a new lease on life; he's tasting success and he's beginning to see
the history books calling him an even greater President than Gus Rome. Maybe his
divorcing Julia helped too. I never thought he'd do that! Anyway, anyway. The
March of the Millennium… A whole country on the move, literally and
figuratively, to tell the rest of the world that it's finished with depression,
it's gonna
get there!
Oh, man alive, what a beautiful, beautiful
thing!'

She got up, wincing. 'I had planned to
stay a couple of days in Washington, but on second thought, I think I ought to
get back to him, like yesterday. He's the one at the centre of the scheme, so it
behooves me to keep him from flying apart until next May. However, I will try to
pay a flying visit to Washington every weekend, if that's all right with
you.'

'Good idea. Things go better in Section
Four when you're around, though I must say John Wayne is a good administrative replacement. If he
had your brains on the theoretical side, he'd do fine.'

'Then I'm very glad he doesn't have my
brains.'

He looked startled, then chuckled. 'Well,
sure! I hope Helena can find your heavies tonight.'

'I'll leave the moment I've briefed them,
anyway.'

'Judith?'

'Yes, Mr Magnus?'

'What if he doesn't last until
May?'

'Then the March of the Millennium goes
ahead just the same. Why shouldn't it? Under those circumstances, we'll call it
a vote of confidence in him by the people. You know, a kind of giant get-well
card.'

He giggled. Hallmark, eat your heart
out!' Then, so typical of the man, he felt morally obliged to display a token
revulsion. 'You know, Judith, you are the coldest-blooded bitch I've ever
met.'

Sat-is-fac-tory, Judith Carriol! You have
just ensured the entire future of your career in Environment. No one will ever
be able to knock you off this pedestal! Your grading is going to go up at least
two notches this year. For the first time in over eight years that gross
complacent ruthless old glutton Magnus has called you Judith! You are
in!
You are made. He's to the place where he's got to rely on you more than he
does on himself. You will finally enjoy the in-service status your masculine
predecessor in Section Four automatically enjoyed. Amazing how in this day and
age, they can still find valid reasons for putting a woman down. Only not this
woman! Not forever. This woman is better than the whole goddam male
establishment of this town, and she is well on her way to proving it. This time
next year you will have your own car driving you permanently to and from work,
and you will have all kinds of perks, and you can go to the occasional art
auction at Sotheby's, and — She stopped dead on the K Street sidewalk
outside her entrance to Environment, where on her
return from the White House her car and driver had been parked. Waiting for her
to come out. Waiting to take her home. The driver had known his orders. It was
close to nine o'clock. It was below freezing by ten degrees. It was just
beginning to blow and snow. She was dressed for riding in a car, not waiting for
the bus. And that fucking old bastard Magnus had sent her car away. On purpose?
Of course on purpose! To put her in her place. Oh, I will get you for this,
Harold Magnus! Halfway to the bus stop she was struck by the funny side of it,
and burst out laughing.

By the time Dr Carriol caught up with
him, Dr Christian had made it to Sioux City, Iowa. Her stay in Washington had
been longer than she wanted, for the psychiatric nursing heavies had taken time
to round up, and she couldn't leave until they were properly briefed. Then she
was delayed in Chicago for another day by a worse blizzard than usual, even for
that icy Purgatory-on-Michigan. Luckily her six heavies — good men too, thank
God — were whisked out of Chicago in their chopper minutes ahead of the
blizzard. She, waiting for Billy, ended up waiting thirty-six hours.

Dr Christian's day had just about ended,
along with his visit to Sioux City. So he and Dr Carriol planned to meet at the
airport, where he and his mother would join her and Billy, and fly onward in the
helicopter to Sioux Falls in South Dakota.

All the way from Chicago to Sioux City,
Dr Carriol fought her apprehension and her detestation of this mission, this way
of life Dr Christian had foisted on her. How very lovely Washington had been,
how cosy and welcome her house, how glad to see her everyone from John Wayne to
Moshe Chasen had been. Between 'Tonight with Bob Smith' in Atlanta and the
too-short visit to Washington just over, ten weeks had gone by. Ten incredible, exhilarating, sickening
weeks. Ten weeks too many of Joshua Christian.

Why then be so anxious to see him again?
Why worry what he was going to say when they met?

The Christians had not yet arrived when
she and Billy landed, so she told Billy to put the machine under shelter, then
come inside to wait in the warm. Given Joshua's fits and starts, he could be
hours yet. It was snowing lightly as they entered the inhospitable small
building which was all places like Sioux City had left in the way of airport
facilities. No planes came to Sioux City any more; the actual landing strip was
kept up only as part of the national emergency-defence network.

Dr Christian came in about half an hour
later, carrying a gust of snow with him, clad in his arctic explorer gear, and
followed by about fifty or sixty people who apparently had walked with him in
spite of the weather. Well, nothing new in that! Wherever he went, they came out
to walk with him in any weather short of an actual blizzard.

Though Dr Carriol stood up and waved, Dr
Christian did not notice her and Billy against the far wall. He was too involved
with his followers, who crowded around him as he stood half a head taller than
any of them, one or two clucking as they brushed melting white flakes from his
arms and shoulders. But though they did crowd round him, Dr Carriol noted (as
she had noted many times before) that they had given him air space. A tiny
indication of their awe and reverence. No one tried to mob him, tear at him and
his clothes, as they might have done were he an actor or a pop star. It was
enough to be close. Too much to touch.

He swept off his hood and the scarf
muffling his face, ripped off his big gauntlets and tucked them into the nearest
pocket in his jacket. And stood, head thrown back,
regally.

A woman went down on her knees before
him, her face as she looked up suffused with
blatant but sincere adoration. Fascinated, Dr Carriol saw him reach out one long
sensitive hand and lay it lightly, tenderly, on top of her head; it dropped to
her cheek, its fingers trailing across her glowing skin, then lingered in the
air in front of her face, and made a movement which was almost a blessing. An
intense and shocking love mushroomed out of him and wrapped itself all around
his companions. His people. His disciples.

'Go now,' he said, 'but remember I am
always with you. Always, my children.'

And they went, like little sheep, back
into the swirl of snow outside.

On the short ride to Sioux Falls, Dr
Carriol shrank into her seat with her face turned obdurately away from Mama.
Mama had started to greet her ecstatically in the airport building, and then
seen something in her face which was terrifying.

An unusual silence filled the busy
vehicle as it rose into, then above, the clutching snow, its frequency-sniffing
black wet nose homed in with two-yard accuracy on a beacon in Sioux
Falls.