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Authors: L. Neil Smith

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BOOK: The Probability Broach
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NONE OF THE ABOVE IS ACCEPTABLE
A.L. 192–196
 
“Lucy, what’s
this?
”
She paused, grinning broadly. “
That
, my boy, may just represent our finest hour—and the sole legacy of the Fifth Continental Congress. Wouldn’ta missed it for buckets of rubies!” She fondly patted the frame. “Back in ninety-one, it was. The Quadrennial couldn’t stomach any of the candidates, an’ the ballot always carries this other choice, so …”
“That’s what they elected?”
“Well, who’d really
die
without a president for four years? Been thinkin’ of suggesting it again, sometime.”
None-of-the-Above gave way to someone named Hospers, then, appropriately enough, to a portrait of Jenny—twenty-fifth President (if you count old George and None-of-the-Above) —of the North American Confederacy.
We jostled into the delegates’ chamber. I don’t know what I’d been expecting—the U.N. General Assembly or Flash Gordon’s Bathroom—it was a
barn
: weathered pine, rough beams, dominated by a huge Telecom screen up front. Somewhere a vendor was crying “
Peanuts! Pinons! Fried Grasshoppers!
” My belly rumbled and I tasted greasy hamburger. Two walls were stepped into tiers of upholstered benches. Thousands of desks cluttered the football field-sized floor. I started toward the spectator seats.
“Hey, watcha doin’, youngster?”
“Sorry, Lucy. Is this reserved or something?”
“Shucks no! Just thought you’d like to see the mayhem up close.”
“From the floor, you mean?”
“Sure, as a delegate’s guest. I got connections. Have a grasshopper?”
“God,
no!
” We threaded our way along: medium-size consoles for humans and chimps, great big daddy-size ones for gorillas.
Lucy pointed at the untiered wall. “Those cylinders over there are for cetaceans. Mostly don’t give a hoot in hot water, but occasionally they want something done bad enough to take being cooped up. Usually prefer staying in a hotel pool, managing by Telecom.”
“Their delegates can vote by Telecom?”
“Hives and heatrash, no! This place is supposed to be inconvenient!
You wanna encourage more government?
What a thought!” She shuddered dramatically, then winked and sat down abruptly at a console, keying the terminal. Her name appeared at the front of the room, among a few others already present, followed by a number: 6076. “My constituency, such as it is, six-thousand-odd people—odd enough t’let me stand for ’em at this quiltin’ bee, anyway.
Sure
y’won’t have a grasshopper?”
“
Ulp!
” I shook my head, taking the extra seat. “Lucy, you continue to amaze me. You represent some district in Laporte?”
“No
district
to it, son. We’re all”at large” here. Though there’s some as shouldn’t be. Anybody can represent anybody else—or nobody but themselves. Not
even
themselves, if they just wanna sit in the gallery and be entertained.”
“Well, who
do
you represent?”
She punched up a couple of drinks, which arrived a moment later through a slot. “European war vets mostly. Colleagues, friends from the old days in Antarctica, some of Pete’s chums. You want that lemon slice?”
“Trade you for the maraschino cherry. Is that the usual way to select representatives?”
“Ain’t no usual way, Winnie, Learn that, you’ll get along fine. Most folks just show up representing friends, neighbors, people in the same trade. Maybe half a dozen are professionals, with a million proxies each.”
“That many?”
“Don’t get sarcastical! Votes don’t amount to much, anyway. It’s what gets
said
here. Though nothing guarantees anyone’ll listen.” The screen changed again, more delegates arriving, vote-strengths shifting as viewers all over the continent punched in proxies and cancellations. Totals were revised moment by moment; many a politico with thousands of supporters might suddenly discover that, through the miracle of electronics, he was representing no one but himself.
“Interesting,” I said finally, “but not very democratic.”
Lucy laughed. “The object’s getting things done without violating anybody’s rights. Hardly a traditional democratic concern. But this is probably the
most
democracy ever to park its brains on a bench. Anybody’s welcome, anybody can vote, an’ you can change your mind any time. Whole thing’s telecast so you can see how your rep’s treatin’ you—maybe shift to somebody else if you want. Representative Participatory Democracy—Gallatin’s contribution to creative political instability. Don’t take it too seriously—ain’t good for you.” She flagged the seedy-looking peanut vendor. I buried my nose in my glass, refusing to watch.
“But it
should
be taken seriously,” I finally protested. “It’s only the seventh Continental Congress in—”
“Even so, I’ll bet more folks’re watching that Mike Morrison western on channel 962 tonight. Everybody’s got a right to ignore the state and be safe doin’ it. Makes up for fanatics, like me.”
“Hmm. What would President Jackson say about that? By the way, you haven’t told me about the
Sixth
Continental Congress, yet.”
“Nothin’ t’tell. Buncha waste motion, huzzahing the two-hundredth year since Independence. Slept through most of it.” She crunched another grasshopper.
“I see. Lucy, we had a Bicentennial, but it all seemed kind of flat.”
She looked at me closely. “What was left to celebrate?”
 
TIME GROUND SLOWLY onward. New names blinked onto the screen, the room gradually filled. Important-looking people stopped by to greet Lucy like a long-lost friend. Apparently I’d underestimated this batty little old lady. We ordered a meal. More nothing happened. Finally: “When does this show get on the road anyway?”
She glanced up at the screen, shading her eyes. “Can’t tell, exactly. You bored or something?”
“Or something,” I admitted.
“Ain’t no certified regulation starting time. How could there be?”
“God damn it, Lucy! Clarissa and Ed are prisoners! Maybe
dead
already.” I cringed inwardly at the words. “And we’re sitting here on our—”
“I know. But whatever happens—even to them—is gonna happen right here, and not until at least nine-tenths of North America’s represented. Ooops!—forgot t’tell you. Take a gander at the tote screen. See that number?”
I looked: 0.83901256. “Eighty-three percent?”
“Closer t’eighty-four, and no Congress till it hits ninety.” As she spoke, the figure jumped to eighty-six. “Y’see, this place is never really empty. Always somebody wheelin’ an’ dealin’. But that number’s only gone over oh-nine-hundred six times in history, and nothin’ else counts.”
“Even if enough wheelers and dealers showed up just by coincidence?”
“Ever try organizin’ ninety percent of
anything?
Highest it’s been the last thirty years is seven-hundredths of a percent—I
know!”
“So it takes something really big to get them all together. But Lucy, this could take
weeks!”
“Give Jenny and me a little credit—an’ one of those seegars, too. I might’s well
look
the part.” She lit up from a hot spot on the console.
“Lucy, I just can’t get my bearings. You all keep changing the rules on me, then I turn around and there
aren’t
any rules! How can you live like that?”
She puffed professionally. “Only stability this side of the grave, I always say, is in the funeral parlor. Hey—looky there!” The screen was filled with names, the percentage 0.90000002 and still climbing.
The Seventh Continental Congress had convened.
Jenny entered without fanfare, punching in at her terminal. Her image appeared overhead as she said softly, “The Seventh Continental Congress of the North American Confederacy is now in session. Mr. Parliamentarian, may I have the protocols?” Conversation, briefly abated during this opening “ceremony,” mounted again as a chimp to Jenny’s left began typing furiously:
SEVENTH CONTINENTAL CONGRESS:
PROTOCOLS
FRANKLINITES: CONTIGUOUS SESSIONS
DISSOLUTIONISTS: ABOLITION
TELLECOMMUNICANTS: YIELD TO FRANKLINITES
PROSIMIANS: YIELD TO SAPIENT MACHINES
SAPIENT MACHINES: PETITION, ORANGUTANS
NEOIMPERALISTS: YIELD TO ANNEXIANS
ANNEXIANS: PETITION, GREENLAND
GALLATINISTS: DECLARATION OF EMERGENCY
DISSOLUTIONISTS: REBUTTAL TO NEOIMPERIALISTS
HAMILTONIANS: GALLATINIST CRIMINAL PRACTICES ADJOURNMENT
 
“What the hell is
this?”
“Shh!” Lucy whispered. “Let’s see how it’s gonna go.”
Jenny again: “Mr. Williams, we have a proposed emergency before us. Will you yield?” The screen cut to an unkempt, toothy individual with apparent adenoid problems: BUCKLEY F. WILLIAMS, FRANKLINITE FACTION.
“Erh, Madame President,” Williams answered in a bored tone, “insofar as the responsibility were mine alone, I would be deliriously gratified to accede to your charming request. However—” The audience booed enthusiastically, and someone shouted,
“Cut the crap!”
“I take it you won’t yield, Mr. Williams?” Jenny said patiently. “Very well, you have ten minutes.”
“Erh, thank you very much, Madame President. Fellow delegates, as you all are consummately aware, we who deem ourselves Friends of Benjamin Franklin have long advocated an unequivocal terminus to the irresponsible and apathetic governance of this polity. There are grave and consequential matters being heinously defaulted to irrational, whimsical, and venally individualistic instrumentalities.” He tapped his prominent teeth with a stylus and sniffed. “Such nugacity is insupportable. Accordingly, and with full assent of my associates, I urge adoption of the following resolution, to wit: that the Seventh Continental Congress hereby decree an
Eighth
Congress, one year hence, and in each successive year thereafter, henceforward and forever.” Nose toward the rooftree, he rolled his eyes like a dying horse, sniffed again, and sat down.
Jenny waited for the boos and hisses to fade. “Thank you, Mr. Williams, do I hear a second?” Someone near Williams bobbed up and seconded before the camera could catch him. “It’s been moved and seconded that—Mr. Williams, will you kindly transmit your motion to the secretary?—that a permanent legislature be reestablished. Discussion?”
A thousand lights were blinking on the board, wrangling for recognition. Lucy cut her volume and chuckled. “Now maybe I can answer your question.”
“What did I—oh, yeah—
What the hell’s going on here?
What about the Federalists? Who’s this Williams, and what’s he up to?”
“Calm down, son. We’re here: ‘Gallatinists: Declaration of Emergency.”’
“Okay, but what’s all this other shit?”
“At least you understand its nature. But we gotta wade through it, anyway.”
“I thought we called this Congress to warn—”
“That’s where you’re wrong. This is just us good ol’ folks, whose number ‘happens’ to be ninety percent, remember?”
“But you said it was all carefully arranged!”
“And so it was. But everyone’s entitled to speak, and in practice, they reserve space on Jenny’s agenda, in case we ever have a Congress. Some been waiting for decades, carried over from her predecessors’ lists. Offering ’em this rare shot helped us put it together. Lucky there ain’t ten times as many. Managed to convince a few we got a real emergency. Williams and the rest are holdouts, then we’ll get down to
real
business.”
“This isn’t any different from my own state legislature! Who are these Franklinites, anyway?”
“They just want a permanent government—been around since Lysander was a pup. Looks t’me, though—she squinted at the screen—”like they’re still dwindlin’. Never stood much chance. What they want, under the rhetoric, is a nice coercive system of franchise monopolies, government contracts—”
“Rotarian Socialism,” I mumbled, quoting Mary Ross-Byrd. “That’s what Propertarians call it: ‘Free Enterprise—
and
keep those
subsidies coming!”’
BOOK: The Probability Broach
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