Sci Fiction Classics Volume 4 (74 page)

Our man kept his thoughts on specially printed forms:

There were also memoranda, agenda, briefs and résumés always
stacked on top of the elegant polished
¹
desk. The Great Seal liked to be well
supplied with business at hand. It enabled him to expedite and finalize
things with obvious efficiency at any time, ready to deal with work and
get it out of the way before he relaxed, working hard to play even harder,
making his guiding principle Throughput.

MEMO: From the President

I do not tolerate noisy press conferences. If possible, the next press
conference should be arranged to maximize silence.

I, the State, further do not like science fiction cops. If it is really
necessary for them to wear those helmets, plastic visors, tunics,
gauntlets, and jump boots, will they please keep out of my sight.

"I can see how this is going to build up into something," Filcup warns.
"Remember when he didn't like certain news analysts? My God, remember when
he didn't like brown eggs?"

Karl Wax brought up the subject of uniforms at the Tuesday meeting of
Special Advisers. His "birthday cake" suggestion was voted down ("We have
to make a pleasing offering to the President, but this is ridiculous.
Anyway, a naked guard is just the kind of thing that could backfire. We
all know how He feels about nakedness."), and Dan Foyle gained the upper
hand with "a uniform of evening clothes, slightly modified in some
distinctive manner—anyone who's seen Turhan Bey and Susanna Foster
in
The Climax
will know what I mean. This has been a long and
bloody war—though not pointless or without compensations—and
He sorely needs a little formal relaxation."

Agenda for Wednesday

Commission stamps to commemorate Walt Disney, Louisa May Alcott, Ty Cobb;
provisionally Billy Mitchell, Ralph Nader. Check figs on Indochina: Gen.
H. claims 2,250 megatons reqd for reconditioning, Op. Orpheus. Check
position on Tanzania vis-à-vis South African bloc. Could recredit
our reputation in Brazil, renew Arab franchise.

Presentation of award from Mothers of American Insurrection (blue suit).
Read speech of Q's for decontamination efforts, constitutional loopholes.
Lunch with leading blacks. Press conference on Martha's blood clot.
Important:
P.M.
conference with Bissell,
psychologists, police reps on physical/mental reconciliation of
disaffiliatees, dealing with
radical element.

While Tichner and Groeb arrange his urgent memos, he runs over the morning
mail résumé, made up as a composite letter:

Dear Mr. President:

While 47% of me would like to congratulate you on your courageous stand
on the Chile question, 21% of me also wonders if you've lived up to our
expectations regarding … and though 17% of me disagrees, a
massive 36% thinks you handled the Moral Pollution bill wisely, and for
the rest, I can't make up my mind.

Sincere good wishes,

Your friend,
J.Q. Public

Suggested Uniforms for White House Police

Brocade, knee breeks, and periwigs
Minutemen, "dressed for
Sunday"
Student Prince
Uncle Sam
Henry Clay
gaiters, panamas
Christy's Minstrels
Custer's cavalry
Commodore Perry
Rough Riders
The Climax
Mysterious Island
Dickensian ragamuffins (struck off,
replaced by "Leopard tuxes and light-up bow ties")
Texas A
& M
Diamond Horseshoe
Each Night I Die
Zoot
blues
Nice neat business

The GS follows no suggestions, however. For a time, while he reads a
digested condensation of the life of FDR, the palace guards are persuaded
to imitate that eminence. Bang seven-thirty every morning the guardroom
doors slide back and out rolls a parade of large-jawed men in gleaming
wheelchairs, champing their cigarette holders and assuring the president
that he has nothing to fear but fear itself. And even that phase is
preferable, they all agree, to his Peter Stuyvesant period.

After the mail, his condensed news digest:

Wednesday, February 12
^th

PRESIDENT SIGNS CONTROVERSIAL DUCK BILL

Conservation leaders praise forward-thinking leader. President disclaims,
says only small step forward, but "little strokes fell great oaks."
President To Announce New Peace Plan
President's Wife Feared Ill
Cabinet Changes?

He was vaguely aware that the real press hardly ever mentioned him; these
items had been gleaned from the
Rood City Post,
the
Oslo
(Nevada)
Times
and the
Budget Junction O'erseer.
He knew the
press laughed at him for his sincerity, for his supposed vanity, for the
way he conducted the war. They crucified him if he looked solemn, and when
he smiled there were unkind remarks about his woodenness. The press! What
did they know? Let them go on calling him an unsaleable commodity, a snap,
an empty suit. They would one day look the ape!

Not a Gem

During morning coffee, he felt like a visit to the Reagan Room, but curbed
it (PRESIDENT MASTERS OWN CONDITION).
There was still the award ceremony (The confounded press! More pix with
eyes closed, mouth open) and the luncheon with its precarious handshakes.
And first of all there was Operation Orpheus and fat, freckled General
Hare.

"We call it Orpheus, sir, because there's no turning back. We thought of
calling it Operation Lot, but people might get it confused with Operation
Sandlot, our talent-recruiting program, and with Operation Big Sandy.
Operation Sodom was even worse. So we—"

"Get to the point, Hare. Where do you get this figure of 2,250 megatons?"

The general set down his coffee cup carelessly, so that the cookie fell
from its saucer perch. Disorder. Reagan Room. Operation. Or Free Us. The
music of the nukebox means a dance with China. I'd like to get you. On a
slow boat. China, angina, regina, vagina.

"Let's see now." General Hare jotted figures on the edge of a soggy paper
napkin. "We have North Zone, South Zone, Countries Able, Baker, Charlie,
Dog …"

Slow bull to china.

"That makes 1,939,424 square kilometers, and that comes out to only 749
megatons. Allowing a 300 percent margin for error, we get 2,250 megatons,
say 150 warheads. We wouldn't hardly miss it."

"Haha! Oh, excuse me, General, I just thought of something. What kind
of—ha—boat would a slow boat to China be? Eh? Eh?"

"I don't exactly get you, sir. You mean—?"

"It's a riddle, man! Just tell me the answer to that, and I may give you
the green light on one of these operations."

"Mr. President! I—"

"Give up? Give up?"

There was some argument about whether the general had actually given up
before the president told him the answer. To placate him, it finally
became necessary to okay Operation Big Sandy, both phases.

A Lexicon of Governmental Report Terms

alienatee:
person not sympathetic to the government
bugs:
demonstrators (hence swatting a swarm: riot control)
dealienation:
brainwashing
decontamination:
shock therapy used in dealienation
disaffiliate:
anarchist
maverick:
businessman
who defects to radical side
opinion analyst:
police
agent
rationalizing an increment:
stopping a
demonstration
reconciliation:
interrogation with
extreme force
rodeo:
suspect roundup and intensive
reconciliation
social therapist:
interrogator
technicality:
prisoner

Souplines

The president has a rich dream life. It soaks through his skin like a rich
soup and arranges the wrinkles in his "sober" business suit. Examination
of the seat of the president's business pants reveals inmost desires,
claims psychologist. A relief map of Indochina, perhaps.

His dreams boil up in projects, plans, operations, advisory committee
schemes. His dreaming eye is on the donut, says aide. Operation Big Sandy,
for instance. It may seem crazy to wall off Mexico (phase one), but there
you are. "It's so crazy," says General Hare, "it
just might work.
Or not."

The lunch with leading blacks goes even worse than he'd feared. The press
conference is cancelled and he disappears for half an hour into the Reagan
Room. Later, before he goes to meet concerned psychologists and policemen,
he checks his chin for lines of sin.

Major Operation

Operation Big Sandy was born on the littered conference table of the Great
Seal's team of "creative" advisers. Karl and Dan were cuffing and folding
maps to rearrange the world. Filcup sought truth in the depths of black
coffee.

"A door-to-door instant welfare program? Let me call it Streetheart."

"A national idea bank—"

"Yes, but unemployment."

"Unemployment, sure, but Social Security deficits."

Filcup held up an atlas. "Think of the United States as a sheep or cow,
marked into cuts of meat."

"The United Steaks?"

"Don't laugh, it's the body politic. About to be invaded by hostile germs,
coming up the anus from Mexico—"

"Now just hold on a minute!" Texas Dan Foyle demanded that Filcup
apologize.

"What we need is antiseptic. Make the Rio Grande radioactive. Build a
wall," he continued.

"A wall to write on!" Karl said. "A challenge for our painters."

"Sell off advertising space."

Dan cracked his knuckles with unrestrained excitement. "This could be
great for the old folks. Give them something to look at, a new interest in
life. You realize that there are over a hundred retirement ranches in that
area, and that more than half our retired folks live within a hundred
miles of Mexico."

Filcup seemed convulsed by a private joke. "Wait till I tell you the rest,
Dan. There's something in this for the old folks, all right, in phase two.
But for now, we'll not only sell space to advertisers, we'll build gas
stations, highways, concessions. A view of the wall. A view over it. Visit
the gun emplacements. Amazing plastic replicas of the Grand Canyon, the
Great Wall of China, the Wailing Wall of Jerusalem! It'll take up the
slack in Mexican tourism, giving our vacationers a new place to go. And of
course it'll be a sop for unemployment."

"The Great Wall!" They toasted it in cold coffee.

2. Technicalities

At Fort Nixon Retraining Center

Dr. Veck was explaining the routine to the new man, Lane. "I know
youngsters like you are chock-full of theory, itching to try everything
out," he said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Fort Nixon is just the place
for it. The normal routine isn't too irksome because most of ours are
politicals, as you know. Not much trouble except security—they will
try to escape—but I'm afraid they make dull cases."

He slid open a panel depicting the death of Actaeon (or some other deer)
to show, through the back of a one-way glass, a dozen retrainees at work
on handicrafts. "As you see, dull."

"Oh, I don't know. Who's the old-timer over in the corner? The one doing
leather work."

"Old Hank? He's pretty well beyond treatment. I'll show you his record
sometime. Looks as if he's making another bridle. He's made three already,
one white, one red, and one black. This one seems to be beige. Of course
he has no idea what he'll do with them. In fact, he told me he knows
nothing at all about horses. Poor old Hank!"

Oblivious to their concern, Hank was kicking a water pipe under his bench,
tapping out a message to his one friend.

"The government apparently has contingency plans to use some of our people
for a work camp. Some construction project. I'd guess it's either another
retirement ranch or else a dam on the Rio Grande. But of course they never
tell us anything, We only have to deal with the extra security that will
mean."

"Do you have many escapes?" asked Dr. Lane.

"We always catch them. And then we give them a taste of the random room.
Little invention of my own. The occupant doesn't know what will happen to
him, or when—all he knows is that it will be unpleasant. At
perfectly random intervals he gets cold water, hot water, shock, strobe
lights, whistles, drones, a shower of shit, whispers, heat, cold, and so
on. Life in the ordinary ward seems pretty good to them after that.
They're grateful for a secure, comfortable routine, and escape is—well—remote."

"Ah, yes, I noticed your paper on it in
Political Psychopath,
though I didn't have a chance to read it yet. Sounds interesting."

Dr. Veck acknowledged this half compliment with half a smile. "Your praxis
was at Mount Burris, was it not?" He found his hair hurt, and his breath
had to be forced.

"Yes, but not with politicals. I worked mainly with the children of
malcontents. Primary adjustments, corporation workshop. Tame stuff
compared to political deviation, which has always been my first love. Are
you all right, Doctor?"