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NEW HISTORY BOOKS
c/o Farber
190 Union Street
Poughkeepsie, NY 12601
By registering in this way, you will be informed of any publication
news concerning BREAKS and the sequel, now in the works, BREAKS2.
You will also receive a four-issue subscription to NEW HISTORY, the
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Enjoy!
BREAKS: The Adventures of Richard Nixon in the 21st Century
by Philip H. Farber
copyright 1992-1993
1. AT THE GATES OF LIFE AND DEATH
The gates were open and the water was rushing through
unimpeded, with all the brightness of holy Quaker honesty, swirling
eddy I sparkles the light was fates I am not extended other open.
No, that, a small thing. The water was light, the gates of heaven,
the law for all. The light was power and the tiny withering thing
was somewhere far away, the thin connecting cord stretched near
infinity. Withered, wasted, twisted with knots that once stopped
the flow, diverted it to games, pains, drains, rules, lies,
ambitions, no flow back the water neither twisted with knots spare
not the light the gate shred, it was aside, away, inconsequential.
The flow was greater these last years of eternity, the other
less, had always been this way. There was no other. The withered
thing could be shed, cast off, a last dry shred of cocoon husk into
the whirling wind. Just a little thing now connecting it light
roaring and crackling through bliss brightness of holy thing the
insignificant world of dry things. Holding on so long let it go
break it drop away, pity thing the ambitions, soar and flow back
with the rest of the light the bliss the way.
Something else, swirling eddy of sparkles, a shape, a thought,
a command all the same, me? It? I am not extended other open. Stay,
the time is not. Bring us together. Condemned to feel the forms the
knots the pains, rules be off less my the and torture. The withered
thing damn them who the withered the thin the crackling the
insignificant was growing moist as the gates carried the water
through it from the everything flow. Cord strengthens, drawing in,
diminishing.
Darkness.
2. OVAL OFFICE AND INTRAVENOUS
Richard Nixon was back in the White House.
A nutrient solution dripped slowly into his arm through a
clear plastic tube. A bank of flatscreens against the ancient wood
and plaster showed colorful signs of fragile life. His eyes opened.
What? Who? A familiar ceiling, but... something... What had
happened? Where was he? Who? I...
"Ah, Mr. President. You're conscious. I thought you would be."
President? I must have been dreaming. A long strange dream.
Something about money, a fund. We're gonna keep the dog! Haldeman
and Ehrlichman. Gordon Liddy. Dean. Long years of exile,
bitterness. Shit. Relief. Only a dream.
"Pat? Is that you? Pat?"
"Pat is not... with us, Mr. President. I'm sorry."
A face came into view, white hat, a nurse, a gentle smile. The
place, a bed, his body aching in every joint. What was it?
Assassination attempt? The damned liberals! Pat killed...
"What happened? What is happening?"
"You've been in a coma for a long time, Mr. President. You
were very old. But you're doing better, now. You're doing better."
"Coma? I... I don't remember. I..."
"Dr. Siva gave you the drug, the O.Z. It worked just fine. You
should be up and around in no time."
Nixon tried to turn his head, to see the room, to see if he
really was in the White House. It looked so familiar. But the
darkness was swirling in again.
No light this time. No dreams.
3. A SHOT IN THE BUTT
It was morning and the curtains were open, the sun streaming
in. Some people were standing around the bed, their smiling faces
slowly coming into focus.
"Good morning, Mr. President," said a small, dark man with a
faint East Indian accent. "We're glad you're back at the helm!"
"Metabolism is nearly back to the level of, say, a sixty-year-
old," said a nurse. "He should be fine."
"We're going to give you another shot of O.Z., Mr. President.
Can you roll over? Here, the nurse will help you."
O.Z.... Something about that. An illegal drug. Drugs in the
White House? Damn. What was going on?
"No..." But it was too late. He felt a moment of sharp pain in
a buttock, then hands rolling him onto his back again.
O.Z.... He remembered. That stuff they said could make you
young again. Unapproved. Illegal... Shit! Now he remembered! Dr.
Siva. The man who discovered the drug. The Wizard of O.Z.
"Drugs," Nixon mumbled. "I don't want any drugs. Dr. Siva..."
"It's all right, Mr. President," Dr. Siva said. "The O.Z. has
saved your life. If the President does it, it's not illegal,
right?"
"Smart, yes, okay." He felt a little better.
"Do you know where you are now?" asked Siva.
"White House..."
"Yes. Yes, indeed. You're President again, Richard. After all
these years. Do you know how many years you were in a coma?"
"Uh, I..."
"Five years, Mr. President. And you've been President again
for two years, now. The American people elected you in 2004. A
landslide. Unanimous, actually." Siva grinned. "Here, look."
He held up a small round object, a pin. Nixon looked into it,
a three dimensional image, words with red, white and blue stars
dancing and sparkling all around it. Weird, but the words were
familiar: PRESIDENT NIXON. NOW MORE THAN EVER.
"But, if I was in a coma... How come... Why...?"
Siva's grin seemed to creep a little further toward his ears.
"Well, actually, Mr. President, no one else wanted to do it. We
didn't think you'd mind. You were the only living ex-president or
vice president. The rectal cancer, you know. Oh, except for Jimmy
Carter, that is. But he has his position at L5, after all."
Yes, he remembered something about the rectal cancer. A plague
that mysteriously took the politicians, starting with former West
German chancellor Willy Brandt in '92, then sweeping through
Washington, Moscow, Beijing, all the world capitals.
"If they had been willing to try the O.Z.," Siva went on,
"they might have made it. But maybe we're better off... Anyway, we
almost lost you too. Not to the plague, somehow, but just to age,
system failure, hardening of the arteries. We don't know why, but
somehow you didn't get the plague. Look."
It was another campaign button, a startlingly real hologram
reading: NIXON: A TOUGH-ASS PRESIDENT
4. A DREAM
Engines rumbling, black smoke pouring from the stack, the
locomotive clattered and roared through the California night. Dick
was at the helm again, feeling proud and in control. He could take
this train anywhere, anywhere he wanted in the starry night. He was
going for a touchdown.
"Let's get 'em!" shouted Nixon's father from the machine gun
turret. "Let's kick their bring asses, the crooked bastards!" He
fired a burst into the big teapot dome of a building, but he missed
engage in this warfare serious social problems stop that Judeo-
Christian Dick. He missed the communist us bastards.
"Stop that, father," Dick implored. "It doesn't befit the holy
dignity of the railway!"
"Damn it, son!" Frank Nixon pounded a bible. "Billy Graham
wrote this book! This is a crusade! A crusade to Congress! We must
derail this together train!" The machine gun Judeo-Christian none
of these problems in control.
Dick's mother, wearing a red dress, jumped down from her post
on the coal car. "I will engage in this warfare no longer! I'm
leaving!" She jumped off the train into the night. Nixon hung on
tight as the locomotive hit her and shuddered, shook, blowing
sparks from the stack. Dick was McCarthy it doesn't befit Hiss the
starry night such a solution shouted black smoke.
He was twelve years old and alone, in an empty state, the
lemons rotting on the trees. Ours is a nation and roared through a
bible stop.
5. A NEW MAN
Nixon woke with a raging hard-on.
He reached down, under the sheets, and touched it. It felt
good.
Incredible, he thought. It's been how many years?
He touched it a little more. He thought about Pat, when they
first got married. He thought about Ola Florence Welch, so long
ago.
Wait a minute! Is this how a president acts? What is it that
I used to do?
He pictured the face of Leonid Brezhnev. The erection began to
subside. He pictured the face of Mao Tse-Tung, old, wrinkled and
senile.
He pictured the young nurse who had attended to him earlier,
her crisp uniform filled out with firm curves. The hard-on was
back, bigger, throbbing.
He pictured himself seated in his Oval Office chair, a stack
of fresh legislation on the desk, a new speech taking form in his
mind. But it was too late. Nixon shuddered as he ejaculated. It
felt great. No! It felt Billy Graham the holy dignity and roared
through into the feeling proud and Judeo-Christian. Yes. No!
Sticky fluid ran all over his abdomen, his thigh. The sheet
stuck to him.
Shit! What do I do now?
The nurse came in.
"Hello, Mr. President!" she greeted him cheerily. "My, aren't
you looking young today! How do you feel?"
"Uh, I, okay..." He prayed fervently that she wouldn't notice
the spreading wet spot on the sheet.
"Oh, my! Mr. President! We are feeling younger, aren't we? Let
me get a sponge. I'll get you cleaned up."
"Uh, no, I, uh, I can take care of it myself."
"Well, all right, Mr. President. There's a towel on the
nightstand." She wavered, as if to turn away, then came back toward
him, a mischievous smile on her face. "What were you thinking
about, Mr. President? I mean, when you, uh... when you came."
The president, who had been turning somewhat reddish, became
pale. "What!? I, well... at this time... I want to be clear about
this... I, uh, can't recall. Damn."
The nurse rested a warm hand on his shoulder and he flinched
away.
"You know, it's okay, Mr. President. It's normal. It's
healthy, especially after your O.Z. injections. I was
uncontrollably horny for months, myself, after I started on O.Z. I
fucked almost anything that..."
Nixon's eyes were bulging, his mouth open. Beads of sweat had
formed on his enormous forehead. With effort, he averted his gaze
from the nurse, who had begun to squirm a bit, unconsciously, with
the memory of her returning youthful vigor. He closed his eyes and
focused on Brezhnev.
"But I shouldn't be telling you this. You still need your
rest. Maybe later? Let me just check your screens and I'll be out
of here."
Brezhnev. Mao. What a tramp. The nurse was a slut.
He listened as her gum-soled shoes padded around the room,
then went out the door. He grabbed the towel and pulled it under
the sheet.
6. BACK AT THE HELM
Nixon ran his hands over his face. The skin was smooth, the
loose folds were tightening up and muscles all over were growing
stronger. It felt strange, but not entirely unpleasant.
He sat up straight in the new, big swivel chair and placed his
palms on the desk. The wood felt cool, solid, the very foundation
of presidential power. Quite a few things had changed, here in the
Oval Office, but the solidity of the desk was reassuring.
It was a little strange, though, to be here with everything so
quiet and empty. There was no activity, no sound of servants and
bureaucrats in the hallway, just a gentle hush from an air
circulator. There was no paperwork on the desk, no tape recorder
concealed inside. Nothing but a gold-plated pen which did not work
(he had tested it on the end of a finger). That and a small gray
box, about the size and shape of a personal stereo from the
nineteen eighties. Attached to the gray box with a flexible, coiled
wire was what looked like a set of swim goggles with odd lumps and
protuberances all along the headband. Nixon couldn't divine their
purpose and when he held them to his eyes he found they were
opaque.
A gentle knock on the door interrupted Nixon's contemplation
and Dr. Siva entered.
"Ah! Our figurehead back at the prow of the ship of state!"
The doctor grinned.
Nixon frowned. "Figurehead?"
"Well, I mean to say that you are back in a leader's place,
visible to all! You look very good, Mr. President. Have you looked
in the mirror? No more jowls."
"Yes, of course. Thank you. I... What can I do for you,
doctor?"
"Well, Mr. President, I just came to say goodbye. My work is
finished. You will probably need one more injection, in about two
weeks, but Nurse Bounty can take care of that. Anyway, we are, as
they say, out of the woods, so I'll be going."
"Uh, thank you very much, doctor. Thank you for your care.
Where will you be going?"
"Where the weight of the world is less heavy upon me. Back
home, to my family. Goodbye. It has been a pleasure to serve you."
Siva bowed, smiling, and turned toward the door.
"But wait!" Nixon called abruptly. "Wait. I... don't know
anything. Where is my cabinet? Where is Congress? Or even a
newspaper?"
"Try the computer, Mr. President. I think you'll find
everything you need."
"Computer? Where? I don't..."
"Computer, V.R., cyberspace deck. That thing." Siva pointed at
the small gray box on the desk. "Put on the goggles, fit the
earpieces over your ears and tell it to begin. When you learn how
to use it, perhaps we will meet again." The doctor turned and left.
Nixon picked up the headset and looked at it for a while. Then
he held the goggles over his eyes and stretched the headband around
his head. Padded lumps rested gently against his ears.
"Uh," he said. "Begin?"
His head lit up with a vibrating neon and pastel landscape. A
world of fantastic shapes and incomprehensible figures. It was
dazzling, confusing, amazing.
"CyberNet ready," a gentle, androgynous voice said. "Do you
need help?"
7. NIXON IN CYBERSPACE
It was surreal, harsh to Nixon's senses. Strange shapes
littered a plane, in some places arranged with symmetry and order,
in others, randomly jumbled. A low, gurgling hum seemed to come
from everywhere at once. Moving about on this weird landscape were
a multitude of what might have been cartoon representations of
humans, or perhaps insects of some sort. Nixon thought of his first
visit to Manhattan, long, long ago. Every object, every action,
held intimation of great, secret power, an inside world attainable
only through cunning and action.
Closer inspection revealed that the profusion of shapes ?
cubes, spheres, pyramids, berry-like clusters of gleaming oblate
blobs and things too complex or convoluted for an easy name in
Nixon's mind ? were composed of rows and columns of various
symbols. Simply turning his attention toward something made it seem
like he was zooming toward it, the symbols and figures becoming
more distinct, revealing their tendency to flow or march in
patterns like bees swarming over a hive. Symbol roads and symbol
highways conducted pulsating streams of strings and digits between
different structures, the figures changing color, mixing and
forming new combinations.
Vertigo.
"Help," Nixon said. "Help."
"Help file open," said the disembodied voice. "The Earth
CyberNet Help File is a public service provided by independent
programmers.
"Movement and direction are controlled by intention. Menus and
specific files may be accessed by stating a file name or key word.
Display command will provide full, three-dimensional display unless
otherwise specified. Some information and files require a user fee;
this will be clearly stated when necessary. Specific information on
programming languages will be found in documents filed under the
names of the languages.
"CyberNet ready."
"I am President of the United States."
"Information is available in the following categories: history
of the presidency; responsibilities, powers, checks and balances of
the executive office; current documents and files relating to the
office; biography and analysis of the current president; news
priorities relating to the presidency; current communication
directed to the president. See also American government and
politics, foreign policy, domestic policy, comparative world and
interplanetary government."
"Oh, my. How about current communication directed to the
president?"
"Accessing. Security clearance needed. Please state full name
for vocal recognition."
"Richard Milhous Nixon."
"Recognized."
The scene shifted abruptly and Nixon found himself in a
brightly vibrating computer simulation of his Oval Office. He
looked at the desk and swivel chair and suddenly found himself
seated there. In this world, the desktop was full, half a dozen
documents arranged for easy viewing. He looked at the first one on
the left and it expanded out to fill his view.
What had seemed to be a document now appeared to be a small,
empty, gray room occupied by a single androgynous figure. The
features of the figure were stylized, a sort of generic young
person, childlike but intelligent, short hair with a single
forelock dangling over the forehead.
8. A MESSAGE
The cartoon figure faced Nixon. It raised its right forefinger
to its lips, then flung the hand and arm out and away in a broad
sweeping gesture, bellowing violently, a string of incomprehensible
syllables. It turned around slowly, performing the gesture and yell
for each of the four quarters.
Is this real? Nixon thought. I... What? Where?
The figure's cartoon eyes locked onto Nixon, unblinking. It
began to speak.
"In space we tell a story, not written too long ago, but
ancient with the accumulation of new stories. It is about one like
you, returned from the land of the dead, dwelling as a king in the
underworld.
"The land of the dead is a place beyond space and time,
presided over by a beautiful one at times in the shape of a
vulture, at times in many other forms. The man had feet of clay,
his life-force tied to flesh and earth and stone, too heavy to
float free. It is impossible to move and drift like the beautiful
ones when the connections to the world of matter and energy are
still strong. The vulture one sends the dead ones to the places
where they must go. Punishment? Reward? There is none of this, but
just the place where one must go: back to the land of the living,
as life or as life-force itself; on to the world of the beautiful
ones, swirling eddy I sparkles the light, when the last spatial
forms, body, personality, mind, are shed away.
"The man went back, his old body renewed by the time and place
and everything flow of the life-force. Back to the throne he had
left long ago. But no longer was he so tied to the ground, so hard
and heavy and immobile. His dip into the other world, his bath in
eternity, and the time and place of the life-force, had lightened
him. At times he still longed for the solid stillness, the
straight-line up or down, of his old self. This caused turmoil in
his light-filled mind.
"But there was now enough light in him that his body and mind
could read something of where he might go. He learned a pattern,
not so much by study, but by unconscious tuition of the life-force.
This was not always easy, for he had to learn how to die properly
and, in a way, he died again and again, such a solution shouted
black smoke. Each self that formed around the light in his head had
to live and die, again and again and again.
"Finally, after uncountable years of life and death, the light
had carried him swiftly, like water through the eternal gates, to
full resurrection ? not just of his body, but of the true being of
life-force that he was. And so he was renewed and the space that he
ruled prospered and grew.
"We call this the Tale of the Dead King and we tell it to our
magickal children."
9. WHAT THE FUCK?
As the message ended, the small room and the androgynous
figure disappeared with a snap. Nixon found himself back in the
bright simulation of his office, documents arrayed before him on
the desk.
"What the fuck?" he asked no one in particular. "What the
fuck?"
"Origin of message... unknown," said the voice of the
cybernet. "Existence of message on your desk suggests possible
tampering with security codes." There was a brief pause. "Remaining
desk documents scanned and confirmed to be in conformity with legal
codes and identification guidelines."
His mind swirled; the vertigo had not fully faded. He looked
at the next document.
10. CYBERLUST
The simulation of a woman which suddenly appeared in his
office was quite attractive. In a vivid, cartoonish sort of way,
she looked wholesome, American, friendly. She reminded Dick of Pat,
way back when. She had light brown hair, falling to her shoulders
with a slight, glamorous curl. Her dress, of a decent length, was
checkered, red and white. If a computer simulation could smell,
Nixon thought, she would have a scent of garden flowers, or perhaps
apple pie.
"There you are," she smiled. "I've been waiting for you. I'm
a prerecorded, but fully interactive, simulation of Martha, your
volunteer orientation counselor. You can meet Martha in real time,
later, by requesting the cybernet to signal her terminal. In the
meantime, do you have any questions?"
"I, uh, that is, I'm not quite sure what's going on."
"Quite understandable. This is a new life for you, in a way.
A lot of things have changed. Where would you like to begin?"
A strange impulse swept through him, a feeling that seemed to
come from the distant past, something that he barely remembered: a
taste of adventure, the surging of blood in his veins, awareness of
his heart pounding in his chest.
"Who are you?" he asked. "Please... tell me about yourself."
"I'm just a recording, Mr. President. Just a set of patterns
and tendencies and information stored in the cybernet. Later you
can meet the real Martha. Perhaps she can tell you."
"Uh, well then. I guess I need to be up to date on, uh,
history, current events. Whatever happened while I was out of
action. But I think first I'd like to see the rest of the documents
on my desk."
"Very good, Mr. President."
"Martha... May I call you Martha?"
"Of course. May I call you Dick?"
"Oh, uh, certainly. Martha...?"
"Yes, Dick?"
"I'm very glad to be working with you. Very glad."
11. BREAKS
The next document opened into an outdoor scene with a large,
weatherbeaten American flag as a backdrop. In the center of the
stage stood a paunchy, mostly bald man in his early fifties who
wore thick glasses and a checkered flannel shirt. To one side of
him was a woman with a ruffled blouse and long tweed skirt; to the
other side was a lean young man in jeans and cowboy boots. The
image had a decidedly different quality than the simulation of his
office or the previous documents. It seemed more real, photographic
rather than cartoonish.
"It seems so real," he said.
"Enhanced three-dee vid image," Martha explained. "Very
professional, but not interactive."
"Mr. President," the bald man began, "let me just say how very
pleased we all are to have you back in the White House. Yes!
"In case our faces are not familiar, due to your long illness,
let me just explain that my name is Clinton Oestrike, and these are
my very good friends and associates, Henrietta Groote and Neal
Severant. We represent the good, god-fearing people of America who
voted to put you back in charge, Mr. President. We want to see
America as it was, at the head of all nations, strong and proud. We
want to go back to honest values and no longer was he so tied to
the ground, so hard and heavy and hard work, and we want to get rid
of the mushy, vagrant button-pushing bunch of wimps who have been
mucking everything up for years.
"We want to keep America strong, and we look to you, Mr.
President, to bring us together be that strength. But just remember
that we are here, Mr. President. If you need anything at all. If
you need support or help in anything, just give us a call.
"Thank you, Mr. President. Thanks for coming back."
With a little snap, the enhanced vid was gone and Nixon found
himself staring at the bright, pulsating wall of the simulated Oval
Office.
Martha drifted into his vision. "You got a nasty little break
in that one."
Nixon looked up to meet her simulated eyes. "Huh? A break?"
"Yes, Dick. A break is when a random bit of information from
another file somehow intrudes into a text. Right in the middle of
old Clinton's rant, there was something that sounded like it came
from something else, some random words. I thought for a second that
Oestrike had really lost it, all the way, but it was just a break.
They happen quite a lot, actually. They're one of the most
persistent glitches in the cybernet, but I don't think anyone
really knows how they happen. They're particularly nasty when
you're working with math."
"Hmmmm," said Nixon thoughtfully. "Hmmmm. It didn't make any
sense, but I just could have sworn that his lips were moving to the
words."
"It's kind of disconcerting to see it in video," Martha said,
"but it does happen. It's all very strange."
12. RESPECTABLE REPUBLICAN CLOTH
"Anyway," Nixon said, "who were those people? They seemed
good. Good, hardworking Americans."
"The last of a breed," said the simulation of Martha. "Those
are your real constituents, Mr. President. Those people love you."
"I... I didn't know. After all these years... I'm quite moved.
It's good to know that I have the support of the people."
"Maybe," Martha said, "those people don't necessarily
represent all the people."
"But nevertheless," Nixon said with a slight smile, "they
looked like good folks. Good Republican people. And they've been
the only group so far to formally welcome me. Yes, I'm moved by
these good folks!"
For the first time, Nixon really did feel young again.
"There are still a few more documents on the desk," the
simulation of Martha said.
"Yes, yes indeed. Shall we check out the next one?"
13. A CONTINUITY OF BREAKS
Chaos. Shapes, buildings, stars, cars, punctuation, flames,
rain, animals, compost, wind, universes, snatches of enhanced vid
and symbols swirled in fractal paisley; there was a diffuse
confusion of sounds and voices:
"Like all the same little break the gates for a touchdown. He
could take this train, if you need support, generic young single
post on. I'm leaving, huh? Yes, this just expanded room BRING small
Hiss the starry the anywhere. Math very easy anywhere. A burst into
the big a could figure. Don't just really seemed way post on at
there was something.
"A break is when occupied. Keep our government particularly
empty. Light on all it particularly person easy. Lost stylized a
sort of California night, sworn were keep our government occupied.
"But the water was US rushing through it. Nixon stylized a
sort of were was somewhere view. A crusade a they're lot Hmmm in
the sworn shred sworn Martha.
"Dick it came a all the same. Could appeared the don't help
sense light like such a solution. Neither twisted with really
happen no flow they was somewhere TOGETHER. First moving that in
control. The think he was going all feeling proud and from the
black smoke pouting lips.
"This to you now the what was somewhere I said? Nixon Judeo-
christian it. I any I by a have the forehead withering thing. Very
starry night if you need anything. Little break longer, strange
expanded again. At post on for a touchdown, Nixon. Black smoke all
the same. Out on a shred words just occupied that Dick. Was at the
helm he could take this train teapot dome Dick's mother the
communist bastards occupied to lips. Post on."
14. MARTHA'S FRIENDS
"I've got some friends who would love to see that document,"
Martha said. "May I show it to them?"
"O.K., I, uh, what the hell."
"This may be a record for the number of breaks in a single
document. I've never even heard of anything like this."
"Some of it," Nixon said, "some of it seemed to make sense. Or
to be familiar in some way..."
"Well, maybe," said the simulation of Martha. "But also
consider that your mind tends to find meaning for ambiguity. Like
the inkblot tests that psychologists used to use."
"Damn psychologists," Nixon grumbled.
"Anyway," she continued, "I've got some friends who study this
kind of thing. Actually, they're friends of the real Martha. They
want to know if there is any meaning in it, and what causes the
breaks."
"Are they psychologists?" Nixon asked suspiciously.
"No, not really. Obviously, they must use some concepts which
are at least similar to psychology, but they really aren't
psychologists. Cyberneticists, in a way."
"Have they discovered anything? Anything useful? Is it
sabotage?"
"They don't know yet. What they have found is that the breaks
seem to be increasing in frequency. This document may help to
confirm that. Also, they have found strong parallels between
cybernetic breaks and some of the processes of the human mind. One
theory suggests that breaks are a sign that the cybernet is
attempting to become self-aware. Another popular theory is that
it's a kind of cybernetic cancer, some program or computer virus
which mutated along the way."
"I don't understand," Nixon said. "But then I haven't
understood much of anything since I regained consciousness. But I
will understand, Martha. I promise you that. I promise the citizens
of the United States that I will get to the bottom of what's going
on! Do these breaks reduce our productivity as a nation?"
"I suppose they must," the attractive simulation said. "As a
nation? I never thought of it like that. I suppose they must."
"Then we'll appoint a commission to look into this," Nixon
said, feeling, for a moment, like he was in control. "If some damn
fringe group is messing with our productivity, this must be halted.
Your friends sound like they're experts on this crisis. Could they
be convinced to serve on the commission?"
"I don't know," the simulation said. "But I will certainly
relay the suggestion to the real-time Martha when I make my report
and pass along that document."
"Martha," Nixon said, "you're a good American."
15. BRIEFING
The next document took the form of an executive conference
room with representations of a long wooden table, big swiveling
chairs and a small side table with a coffee pot. On the walls were
portraits, cartoon-like caricatures of past presidents and famous
Americans.
Seated at the table were the representations of two men in
military uniform. One was large, hawk-faced, erect and huge of
chest. The other was smaller, but tough-looking. Insignia showed
the larger to be a general, the smaller, a major.
"This is much better," Nixon said. "Much better."
"Possibly," said Martha. "Possibly."
"At any rate," Nixon clarified, "it seems to make a little
more sense."
"Welcome, Mr. President," said the General. "I am a simulation
of General Harold Havoc, commander-in-chief in your absence, sir.
This is a representation of Major Dennis Disaster, in charge of the
National Security Council. This briefing is pre-recorded and
interactive. Feel free to ask questions at any time. Major?"
The short man stood, his green uniform falling in sharp
cartoon lines from his small, simulated body. "Mr. President, the
United States of America is in the midst of a very serious crisis,
perhaps the worst that we have ever faced."
"The breaks?" Nixon asked. "The thing about the breaks and our
decline in productivity? I am familiar with..."
"No, sir." said the Major. "I am addressing our decline in
productivity, but that is only a small part of it. What I want to
describe is much more sweeping than that.
"I would like to begin by reviewing some of the events of the
recent past, Mr. President, which are perhaps at the root of this
situation."
"Oh, yes, Major," Nixon said. "Please. This is exactly the
kind of briefing that I had hoped for."
"When the cancer plague wiped out all the politicians in the
first part of the nineteen-nineties," Major Disaster began, "it was
also destroying everything that America had worked to build for
over two hundred years. The constitution meant nothing without a
government. We still had a police force, for a while, and the laws
were still enforced. But then came the outside interlopers who
finished off any semblance of order. I think you may know who I
mean."
"Interlopers?" Nixon asked. "The United States of America was
invaded? What happened to the military? Who the hell was it? Some
damned fringe...."
"Well, it wasn't so much an invasion as a mass defection,"
General Havoc interjected. "Sorry, Major, continue."
"Yes, sir. The invaders, so to speak, were Americans who left
the country, deserting their fellow countrymen. Then they returned
to loot and pillage the remnants of our economy."
"Where did they defect to, Major?" Nixon asked. "Some third-
world..."
"Well, sir, it wasn't any particular country that they went
to... They, uh, just left."
"They went into space, Dick," the simulation of Martha added.
"A lot of people moved into space. It was easy and it helped the
economy. It probably saved the planet."
"That's what the damned deserters say, anyway," the simulation
of General Havoc said. "That was the popular idea. 'America: Love
it and Leave it.' "
"You see, sir," the Major continued, "there were two
inventions in the last decade which should have been strictly
controlled, except that there was no government to control them.
I'm talking about O.Z. and the Spin Drive."
"I'm familiar with O.Z.," the president said. "What is the
Spin Drive?"
"The space drive," said the Major. "Cheap and accessible
transportation into outer space. For everyone. Damned freak gave it
to the whole world."
"Damned freak?" asked the president. "Damned freaks."
"Nicholas Palmer. Yeah. Nicholas Palmer. The guy invented the
damned thing in his garage. No funding. He built it out of a pile
of junk for about five hundred dollars. Then he sold the plans in
the back of magazines. He ran ads in Popular Mechanics, Mondo 2000,
Fantasy and Science Fiction. 'Turn your car into a spaceship.
Guaranteed. Plans $25.' And some people actually must have bought
the plans and built the damned things, because the next thing you
know there are people flying everywhere in goddamned Winnebagos."
The major began to gesticulate wildly. "Look out! Oldsmobile at
twelve o'clock! VRRRRRRRRRM WHOOOOOOOSH! Look out! A goddamn bus!"
"Uh, thank you, Major," said the General. "Allow me to
continue, Mr. President. There was nothing that we could do. Even
our fastest interceptors couldn't catch a spaceship. Even a Ford
spaceship. They fly too high, too fast. They can change directions
too quickly."
"Can't we build them ourselves?" Nixon asked. "Why isn't the
military equipped with these devices?"
"Well, sir," the General said, "first there is the budgetary
problem, and second of all, officially the Spin Drive doesn't
work."
"What?" Nixon rubbed his forehead. "I don't understand. What
do you mean, officially it doesn't work? That has been our policy?"
"That damned freak!" the Major jumped in. "He was working
without any government sanction whatsoever. Furthermore, he had no
degrees, well, maybe a B.A. He wasn't a scientist, he was a
journalist. How does he think he can invent..."
"Thank you, Major," the General interrupted. "Also, Mr.
President, we don't have any money. We need some money. If you
could just get the I.R.S. going again..."
"I think he's a drug fiend, too," the Major exclaimed. "I
think Palmer is a goddamned potsmoking acidhead liberal fringe
goddamn weirdo! I think..."
"Thank you! Major!" barked the General. "If only people would
start paying taxes again, Mr. President, even just the people on
Earth, we could build a few of these things. We could convert our
tank force..."
"It's a plot!" screamed the Major. "It's a plot by the goddamn
freako new age ecstasy-eating assholes to destroy the traditions of
our society! These are anarchists, Mr. President! These are bomb-
throwing, Plymouth-flying, asshole..."
"THANK! YOU! MAJOR!" the General howled. "Please, sir, if
you've got a couple of hundred you could lend us, I think we
could..."
"Thank you, Gentlemen," Nixon said. "I think I get it, now.
Yes, I get the point. Believe me, gentlemen, I will certainly look
into this matter. I want America to be strong, just as much as you
do. It looks like we're going to have to start from scratch here.
We must rebuild America. We must enlist the aid of every loyal
American. We will have a real Republic again!"
He turned to Martha. "Do you see, Martha, why we must have
government? A good government is the only thing that can prevent
this kind of chaos!"
16. THE MEDIA
A single document remained on the simulation of the Oval
Office desk. Nixon gave Martha a charming grin, then focused on the
document. They were immediately enveloped by a very tasteful,
pastel-colored room, captured in enhanced vid. In front of them,
behind an elegant curving desk, was a handsome man in his early
forties. Nixon instantly knew what this was: the set for a news
show.
"Good afternoon, Mr. President," the man said. "I'm Mark
O'Connor and this is the evening news. We're not on the air right
now, of course. This is for your ears and eyes only.
"First, we would like to welcome you back to the land of the
living, so to speak, heh heh. Uh, well then, what the fuck, we'd
like to have you on our evening program, Mr. President. There are
some burning questions which must be answered, and our audience
wants to know.
"It will also give you an opportunity to address your
constituents. We hope you'll join us. If you will, just ask the
cybernet for me, Mark O'Connor. Thank you, Mr. President."
17. END RUN
With a snap they were back in the office simulation again,
Nixon in the big chair, Martha smiling at him from across the desk.
"Well," said Martha, "that seems to be the last of the current
documents. Want to call it a day? This must be a lot to handle,
your first time in the cybernet."
"Yes," Nixon said, "but..."
"Yes, Dick?"
"Uh, when will I see you again, Martha? I... I must say that
I, uh, like you very much. Can we meet some day, in the flesh, that
is, maybe have some dinner..."
"Please remember, Dick, that I am only a simulation of Martha.
Perhaps tomorrow or sometime soon you can meet the real Martha,
here in the cybernet. I'm sure she will like you just as much as I
do."
"Uh, Martha?"
"Yes?"
"How do I get back to the real world?"
"End Run," the simulation of Martha said.
18. THE REAL WORLD
"End Run," said Nixon. "I like that."
And suddenly the world was no longer vibrating. It was quiet
and dark. Nixon's body felt heavy in the office chair. He smelled
wood and plaster and carpet and... something else...
He removed the headset. The room looked oddly flat, somehow
irregular and...
Nurse Bounty was seated in an armchair near the door.
The nurse looked up at Nixon. He saw that she was not in
uniform. She wore a short dress of some blue material which clung
to her body. The president had a moment of confusion: for a single
second he thought that Nurse Bounty was Martha. He wanted to call
to her, to call her Martha.
"Hi, Mr. President," Bounty said.
What's wrong with me, Nixon thought. She's nothing like
Martha. All the goodness in Martha. This one is just a sort of
wild, empty-headed sexpot.
The blood in a few of Nixon's key arteries began to flow
toward his groin.
"Hello, Nurse," he said. "What can I do for you today?"
"I'm going off-duty," the nurse said. "You're going to be on
your own tonight, for the first time. I just wanted to make sure
you know how to reach me, if you need to." She stood and walked to
the desk. "Here are the access codes. The first is a general help
code. Just tell your deck to begin, then say the code. You don't
even have to put on the headset ? we'll find you." She showed him
a slip of paper. "That code is just for emergencies. The other code
is my personal code and, um, that doesn't have to be an emergency.
Give me a call whenever you'd like."
"Thank you, Nurse. I, uh, I certainly will. I..."
She came around the desk, to his side. Nixon's heart, entirely
beyond his conscious control, began to pound wildly. He could feel
the warmth of her body, could hear the gentleness of her breath.
Her hair glowed like a halo around her head.
"Oh, also, here's the key to the front door. In case you want
to lock yourself in." She smiled at him, waiting for a response.
"O.K., then," she said. "Later next time bye!" She leaned over
his shoulder, stuffed the slip of paper and the key into his jacket
pocket and gave him a kiss on the cheek; it was brief, warm, and
only slightly moist. With a smile, she strolled across the oval
expanse of floor and out the door.
"Oh, damn," Nixon said. "Hmmph!"
19. A WALK
He sat for several minutes, sweating, his heart racing. This
felt so familiar, a feeling from a long time ago. Was it love?
Repulsion? Lust? Hormones? Nixon was confused. He'd only known
Martha for a very short time, but he liked her. Really liked her.
He didn't even know what she really looked like, but the simulation
was so very nice. At the same time, there was something about Nurse
Bounty. In spite of her trashiness, her wanton sleaziness, her
smooth and firmly muscled legs... He felt a little sick.
He tried to think about ugly communist leaders, but the image
of Brezhnev that formed in his head had enormous breasts. Mao had
a sleek and curvaceous pelvis. It was getting very difficult to
breath.
Fresh air, Nixon thought. I've got to get outside, go for a
walk.
He pushed back the big chair and stood. He went out into the
hallway.
Nixon wandered through the halls, down the stairs, into the
front lobby. It was all quiet and empty. The floors had been swept,
but a thick layer of dust covered many of the fixtures, ornaments
and art objects.
Disgraceful, he thought. The White House had never been this
dirty.
The big front door creaked open and Nixon stepped out onto the
front steps. The sky was bright blue, a few puffy clouds sailing
across it. A cool breeze tussled his hair. It felt strange and he
reached up to stroke his head. A fine growth, sort of a junior
crew-cut, covered his entire scalp. It covered everything, even the
parts that had been bald for several decades. The places where his
hair had always grown was now a crest, an unkempt brush in the
middle of all that fuzz.
He filled his lungs with the cool air. It felt good.
The first pale green flush of spring was beginning to show in
the White House lawn, just visible through brown weeds and fallen
leaves from seasons past. There was very little human litter, only
natural disorder. Out across the lawn and the Ellipse, the
Washington Monument gleamed in the sun. It was quiet except for
wind and birdsong.
He let the door swing closed, locked it behind him, and
started down the steps. His legs felt strange, alien but strong.
He started through the weeds in the direction of the monument.
Sun and leaves dancing in the wind made him feel suddenly free.
I'm loose and young and ready for anything, Nixon thought. I'm
loose. I can do whatever I want. Somehow, I've been given a second
chance. All the mistakes that I made, the first time... It may be
more difficult this time; there doesn't seem too much to work with,
but I'm going to play. I'm going to play to win! I'll get it right
this time. It's up to me to bring America back.
He crossed Pennsylvania Avenue, pausing to look at the
neglected pavement, dead weeds poking up through a multitude of
cracks. He looked both ways; there was no traffic, no cars, not
even parked. The wind chased a few fallen leaves through the brown
and withered weeds.
He wandered around the Ellipse, enjoying the solitude. A plan
was forming in his mind. The fact that there was so little left of
the government might actually make it easier, he thought. At first,
at least, power could be concentrated in the executive office. He
could implement his ideas, his policies, with no resistance.
Later on, he thought, I can re-form Congress. Later on, I will
restore the checks and balances. After we get things back to some
kind of order. I'll be remembered a long time for this. Perhaps
then history will finally forget Watergate. Finally.
As he crossed Constitution Avenue, he heard voices. He looked
up and saw a small crowd gathered partway across the scruffy field,
about ten people near a wheeled cart on which stood two large metal
barrels.
Bums, he thought at first, seeing their rumpled, worn
clothing, but then he saw that they were all relatively clean,
looked fairly well-fed and carried themselves with a sense of
purpose, as if serious business were at hand. He approached close
enough to hear.
"Three bills," said a tall, blond man who was pouring some
kind of fluid from one of the barrels into a plastic water jug.
Grumbling, a middle-aged woman exchanged money for the filled
jug.
"Sorry folks," the blond man said. "That was the last jug. A
couple days, should have more. Sorry folks."
"Hey," a fat, bald man yelled, "I gotta have three jugs.
That's all I need. Come on!"
"Sorry folks, no more gas. Barrels empty. Sorry." The blond
man began to push his cart through the small group. "Sorry! Come
back a couple days."
"Damn spacers!" growled a brown-skinned woman. "It's their
fault. Holding it back, jacking up the prices. I ain't paying no
five bucks a jug from no spacer!"
The fat, bald man accosted the middle-aged woman with the jug.
"Six bills!" he said. "I'll give you six bills for that jug!"
"Piss off," she said, pushing her way past the others. She
started across the field, toward Constitution Avenue, the man with
the cart not far behind. The rest of the group swarmed around them
like bees about a mobile hive.
The woman pushed past Nixon. The cart bore down on him.
"Sorry folks!" the blond man said, by way of warning. "Come
back a couple days!"
Nixon dodged back, out of the way, but collided with the fat,
bald man. The fat man pushed him off with a snarl and he fell into
the brown-skinned woman.
"Motherfucker!" she exclaimed. "Get the hell off me! What the
hell do you..." She stared at Nixon, sizing him up from head to
toe.
"I'm terribly sorry, Ma'am," Nixon said, looking down. "My
fault entirely. Are you all right?"
"You look like a goddamn spacer," the woman said.
"No, Ma'am, I'm..."
"Hey," the woman said to the fat, bald man, "don't this guy
here look like a spacer?"
"Spacer!" the fat man howled, advancing on Nixon. "You gonna
give us some more gas or what? You got it in your truck? Go get us
some gas!"
Others gathered around. The man with the cart stopped to
watch. The woman with the full jug broke into a jog and disappeared
into the trees on the other side of the avenue.
"Where'd you get that hair?" asked an old man with a briar
pipe. "Heh, heh."
Nixon self-consciously felt his head.
"And those clothes," said someone else.
Nixon looked down at himself. His suit, a bit loose on his
new, thin frame, was brown, some kind of textured fabric.
Conservative, a bit bland.
I've never much liked brown suits, he thought, but it's
presentable at least. Dr. Siva's staff was kind to have provided
it.
"Give me good old polyester any day of the week," said a young
man in an ancient, worn, double-breasted blue suit.
The old man moved in real close to Nixon, the pungent tobacco
smoke filling the president's nostrils.
"What the hell are you doing around here, boy?" the old man
said.
"I am President of the United States."
"Heh, heh. An' I'm the Princess Leiea. You know, we don't have
much reason to like spacers, around here."
"I'm not a spacer. I'm Richard Milhous Nixon. I am the
President of the United States. I've never been in space."
"Nixon?" asked a young woman. "Wasn't it Reagan that we
elected? I thought it was Reagan."
"Reagan's dead," the brown woman said. "We elected Nixon, but
he's some old geezer with a tube coming out of his nose. I saw it
on vid. This one here is a spacer and I don't like it."
"No, really," Nixon tried, "I'm Dick Nixon. They gave me O.Z.
I got young again. I'm the president!"
The brown-skinned woman came up, shoulder to shoulder with the
pipe-smoking old man. Others began to gather around closer.
"Only spacers take O.Z.," said the old man.
"Let's get 'im," the brown-skinned woman said.
They closed in.
Nixon looked around, took a deep breath, then bolted. He broke
through their line and ran an evasive course across the field.
Several of the group started after him.
He darted around a cluster of bushes and then out onto
Constitution Avenue. He turned left and ran with everything he had.
Surprise gave him a bit of a lead, but although regenerated, his
body still had little useful muscle. His legs ached, he gasped
painfully for breath. They were gaining on him. A loud wind
whooshed overhead. He ran on.
Near 17th Street he felt as if his lungs and legs could do no
more. He slowed to a stumbling walk, wheezing, his head spinning.
They were right behind him and he could do nothing.
I've failed, he thought.
A yellow door opened in front of him.
20. PRIMORDIAL STU
Stu was just relaxing, puffing sporadically on a pipe and
enjoying the electric, cheery glow that the spin drive imparted to
everything within its field. The drifting gray strands of ganja
smoke seemed to sparkle with blue and white highlights as they
swirled and wandered into the air recirculation stream. The ancient
Macintosh computer bolted to the dashboard of the converted school
bus cast a hypnotically flashing pattern of colored light and
shadow through the smoke, washing over the placid faces of Stu's
friends.
As they dived deeper into Earth's gravitational field, the
frequency of the spin drive was gradually increasing, and the sense
of relaxation would fade. Stu wanted to enjoy it while he could;
Earth was such a nervous, heavy, hectic place.
Stu leaned forward and scratched an itchy spot on his left leg
just above the top of his boot. Then he sat up straight, slid
forward as much as his tether would allow, and tapped a key on the
old computer. The image of the swirling lines shrank to a two-inch
square in a lower corner. The rest of the screen filled with words:
Engage in waiting but luck through it. A false
premise faithful to it is beneficial. True will
wait for him. Thou be waiting, withering thing do
what only if correct. Fidelity though he knows you
not, though he fears you. To waiting on the
outskirts who is key fool. Help him wilt this
warfare. I will acquired conditioning. Someone will
be in danger. He will be loyal. Employ constancy.
You will.
Stu silently studied the words, rubbing a hand across his
closely-cropped hair, down the back of his head, to tug
lightly on the short braid.
Hmmmm, he thought, hmmm. An opaque oracle. How to get my
mind around this one? Someone is waiting... I must wait.
That's right, him, a male. He fears me? He is loyal. To me?
Damn. Can't tell if some of this is a break. Even if the Mac
isn't connected to the cybernet.
Stu broke a little bit off a nearby bale of hemp and
packed it into his pipe on top of the glowing ember. He drew
a deep breath of fresh smoke into his lungs and held it in,
held it inside to mingle with the words he had just read and
help to bind them to some brain cells. A long moment,
centering his consciousness like an egg within his heart, then
he exhaled.
To wait, Stu thought, implies that some task be
postponed, some destination delayed. The only destination is
completion of the mission of the moment. We will wait. Arc93
can also wait a little. Sometimes the meaning of an oracle can
come only with time.
Stu tapped a key on the Mac and switched the converted
school bus to manual control. He grabbed the wheel, depressed
the former clutch pedal with one foot and rested the other
foot lightly on the accelerator. The bus shot upwards for a
moment. Stu let up on the clutch pedal and their descent
resumed.
The frequency of the spin drive continued to increase as
it resisted the gravity of the planet. The crew began to
fidget in their seats.
"Are we going right in to the arc?" Diana asked. She was
tethered to the big couch-like seat along the wall behind Stu.
She stretched, twisting her spine and getting a vertebra to
emit a loud pop. "Whew," she said.
"We're going to wait, I think," said Stu. "We can give it
a few minutes before we get to Arc93."
"What does the oracle say?" asked Alec, barely visible
among the bales of cargo. "What are we waiting for?"
"An opaque oracle," said Stu. "I don't know. We'll wait
and see."
"Fine with me," said Diana. "I could use a little time to
get used to the gravity."
There was general agreement from the back of the bus.
The bus was capable of vertical take-off and landing, but
unless it was absolutely necessary, Stu preferred a gradual
approach. He swooped the big yellow craft in over the National
Mall, veering to the right to avoid the Washington Monument.
They whooshed low over the heads of some people out on
Constitution Avenue, then lightly touched down near the
intersection of Constitution and 17th.
"Okay," said Primordial Stu, "we'll wait."
21. THE WAIT
As they sat there, the herb that Stu had smoked really
began to come on strong. He looked thoughtfully at the big
ceramic pipe and smiled vaguely. A thin wisp of smoke still
trailed from the bowl. He stowed the pipe in a small cubbyhole
beneath his seat.
The screen displayed the spin drive indicator, the lines
of force vibrating very rapidly now, flickering, but faint as
the drive idled. Primordial Stu, however, felt like he was
glowing pretty brightly. He closed his eyes and let the video
flicker play across him.
Stu appreciated the sense of harmony, of unity with the
flow and play of the universe, which use of the oracle
developed. He basked in the radiant glow of the lives around
him, the feel of gravity on his body, the gentle hush of the
recirculation system.
A new lyric came to him then, dissolving into existence
fully formed from beyond the veil of consciousness. He saw the
words, written in light, inside his closed lids. A hint of the
melody came with it.
Sunlight, planets, trucks and cars
The dust which swirls between the stars
My hands, my feet, my oxygen
To you, to you, I dance again
I dance fractal chaos life
To the universe, my wife
Moonrocks, earthlight, essence, Mars
The night which waits between the stars
My head, my heart, I am a man
To you, to you, I dance again
Come dance fractal chaos life
To the universe, my wife
"Hey," Diana called. "Someone's coming."
22. GUESS WHO
Stu opened his eyes. Everything seemed bright, glowing,
but with a different kind of glow than the spin drive
produced. It was the glow, Stu thought, of awareness of
harmony. It was the kind of light which, he believed, all
things always basked in, but that we were usually too busy to
notice. Stu was stoned.
Someone was running toward them, along Constitution
Avenue. A man, apparent age in the late twenties, hair close-
cropped but textured, simply attired, was running desperately
toward the bus. Not far behind him were six or seven old-earth
types, exuding the righteous glee of the lynch mob. The old-
earthers were a heartier bunch, in general, than the frail man
that they chased. They were gaining. Stu tapped the keyboard,
setting parameters for a quick exit.
Just as he approached the bus, the man slowed to a halt.
He stood, gasping for breath, his knees shaking.
Stu unsealed the inner airlock and pulled open the
sliding door of the old yellow school bus. He unsnapped his
tether, jumped down the steps, and grabbed the man by the
collar of his hemp-cloth jacket, hauling him onto the bus. Stu
hit a key; the ambient buzz of the spin drive swelled and the
bus swooped up and away.
23. DISCORD
Stu helped the man into a seat, snapping the tether
around the man's middle. He sank back into the control chair,
checked the readout and looked out the window. The ground was
dropping away rapidly, the spidery print of D.C. shrinking to
a point.
Stu swiveled around to face the passenger compartment.
The man was still hyperventilating. His faced was pale and
beaded with sweat.
"Are you all right?" Diana asked.
The man gestured, but did not speak.
"Why were they chasing you?" asked Stu.
"I..." the man said. "I mean, they... They chased me.
Attacked me without provocation."
"How come?" Stu asked.
"I don't claim to, uh, fully understand this," the man
said, "but I believe that they mistook me for a spacer."
"Buncha idiots," said someone from the back of the bus.
"And you're not a spacer?" Stu asked. The man, Stu noted,
really looked like a spacer. He had signs of O.Z.
regeneration, his hair was functionally short, and his suit,
though unassuming, was of unbleached hemp fiber. He seemed a
bit more nervous than your average spacer, although that could
easily have resulted from the attack.
"No," the man said. "I am President of the United
States."
"You're Nixon?!" Diana asked. "I don't believe it."
"And you," Nixon said, "must be spacers."
Stu gestured at the window. "Take a look." As Nixon
turned away, Stu tapped a command into the Mac.
Nixon saw a wide curve of blue and white planet, sweeping
away to blackest night. He remembered the old photographs from
the NASA missions. It was beautiful but...
Vertigo.
"Whoa," said Stu, "don't get spacesick on us. Okay. We
believe you're not a spacer. Just take a deep breath. Easy.
That's right."
"Spacers," Nixon swore. Something deep inside him made a
gurgling sound.
"What about it?" asked Tim, who was seated in the front
compartment, near Diana. "Do we not bleed? Do we not
experience similar perceptions? Maybe? Can we not all digest
the same food?"
Alec crawled forward through the cargo, hitching his
tether to a clip on the floor. Behind him appeared the face of
a black woman, long dreadlocks tied up in a mass. "Nah," Alec
said, "I can't eat any of that old-earth crap. What was it
that Marcia brought us that time?"
"A Big Mac," said the black woman. "MacDonald's."
"Yeah, right. Yech." Alec looked at Nixon. "How can you
people eat that stuff?"
"It's has to do with tradition," Tim said. "Something
that we've only got a few years of."
"Goddamn spacers," said Nixon.
Stu gave Nixon a very intense glare. "You sound as bad as
the people who were chasing you."
"They made a mistake," Nixon said. "I can forgive that.
But I do not believe that I am making a mistake now."
"Would you know it if you were?" grumbled Diana.
"I was out of touch for a long time," Nixon went on. "And
I've only been aware of what's going on for a very short time,
but it's pretty obvious to me."
"And what is that?" Stu asked.
"I want to be clear about this. There's no point in being
unclear. It's obvious to me that some damn fringe group of
spacers, or something closely allied with you, has taken
advantage of an unfortunate medical disaster to subvert and
destroy the remaining values and institutions of the United
States. I also suspect some form of economic terrorism as
well. You must understand, I learned to deal with this kind of
thing in the nineteen sixties. I insist that you return me to
Earth!"
"Uh, oh," said Alec. "I thought fascism was dead."
"Relax," said Stu, who was feeling the change in the spin
drive as they continued to get farther from the gravity well,
"we'll take you home, Mr. Nixon."
Stu entered a course change into the computer. The
frequency of the drive shifted subtly.
"When the founding fathers chartered our great nation,"
Nixon said, "they had a set of values which were to guide the
union. These were not lightly considered things. These were
based on the long history of civilization, on the god-fearing
ethics of the Puritans, Protestants and Quakers who founded
America. Values of right and wrong, law and order, patriotism,
are what made the United States great. Who are spacers to
trifle with these things?"
"Actually," said Diana, "Stu and I were British,
originally."
Tim displayed a perverse grin. "The founding fathers
wished to free the colonists from an oppressive government,"
he said. "Jefferson, Franklin, Washington and the rest placed
great value on the rights and freedoms of the individual. They
wanted to create a government which served to preserve those
rights and freedoms. Now, through space migration and life
extension, we are creating a stable society where the state is
not necessary. In our society, the individual is responsible
for maintaining and protecting his own rights and freedoms.
This is a difficult thing for you old-timers to understand.
The neural pathways of a lot of people seemed to crystallize
sometime during the nineteen fifties."
"I think I understand," said Nixon. "You are subversives
and anarchists. The 'withering of the state' is a communist
idea. It's nothing new. It's been around for longer than you
have, young man. And it's still wrong. I told Chairman Mao..."
As the space-bus changed direction, they suddenly became
weightless. Nixon turned slightly green as he floated out to
the end of his tether, swaying there.
"Whoa!" Stu exclaimed. "Take a deep breath. Grab the arm
of your seat and steady yourself. Take a nice, even breath.
Care for a toke? Sometimes calms the stomach."
"A what...?" Nixon shakily held onto the arm.
Stu was holding a large and smoldering pipe in front of
Nixon's face.
"Oh, my god," said Nixon. "Drug fiends, spacers,
anarchists..."
As they began their descent toward Earth, the
acceleration began to push them gently back into the seat
cushions. Nixon began to breath more regularly.
"Sorry," said Stu. "I forget. A dangerous narcotic,
right?"
"You're ruining your life with that stuff," said Nixon.
"I will not ruin mine."
"Not that way," said Diana.
"The herb Pantagruelion is much-maligned, but incredibly
useful," Tim grinned.
"You don't understand the new economy." Alec patted a
bale of hemp. "Look around you."
Nixon's eyes widened as he finally realized that most of
the bus was filled with greenish bales of compressed
marijuana. "Shit," he said. "Drug smugglers. You goddamn
spacers are drug smugglers, too. I should have known it. I'm
going to see to it that you spend the rest of your days in
prison!"
"And who is going to enforce that?" asked Tim.
"I will," said Nixon. "I will. Shit."
24. ORACLE
They left Nixon at a train station on the outskirts of
D.C. and continued on to Arcology 93.
"It's scary to know that there are still people like
Nixon out there," said Essence, the dreadlocked black woman.
"It's weird," said Diana. "The feeling that he just
might, somehow, be able to shit on us."
"In the old days, he would have seriously shit on us,"
said Tim. "I remember him. He had it in for me, for a while.
I remember him when he was young, too. Massive second circuit
imprint. The world's biggest asshole, in a sense."
"There's more here than we really can know, I think,"
said Stu. "For instance, why did Mr. Nixon look like a spacer?
That's strange. And when he first came on board, I ran the
oracle program. Take a look."
The flowers that the end confused TOGETHER is
within this shit. The passed through things
everyone has pulsating into understanding is born
useful. The beginning is auspicious. It
illumination raw material of life each of us BRING
danger from that putrescence develops by
understanding from difficulty and script. Enemies
list just sulky and hostile once the toothpaste is
neither. Superannuate crap flow up the spinal
column in our time. Out of the tube we merely
recycle the old shit. No one dies using
illumination good nor bad US. The potential to
nourish in the old time difficulty is and transform
the possibility to fulfill, to guard, for it is
hard to get it back in. The same basic
transformation death and decay were necessary of
our genetic. Against using danger is.
"It's quite interesting," said Diana. "And somewhat
enigmatic."
"My first impression," said Stu, "is that something is
going to happen to Nixon, something to scare the shit out of
him. But something that just might transform him. What I want
to know is what our part in it is..."
25. DIPPED IN SHIT
The train station was a decrepit old place, a crumbling
cinder block building surrounded by a badly abused patch of
lawn. There were only a few motorized vehicles pulled up in
front, a thoroughly dented Checker Marathon and two small,
three-wheeled things that looked homemade. The rest of the
traffic, a thin but constant flow, was on foot or bicycle.
It was a strange mix of people. There were some who Nixon
quickly identified as spacers, many more who wore old-style
clothing, and quite a few who fit no category that he could
understand. The first group looked uniformly young, average
age about twenty three, but with some small children present.
The old-earthers were of a wide range of ages, from infant to
over a hundred years old.
A passing man with dark brown skin, thick dreadlocks and
a baggy suit of unbleached hemp smiled at Nixon, then
approached.
"Yo," the man said. "Do you have any smoke?"
Nixon averted his glance and walked on past.
I should not be here, alone like this, Nixon thought. The
president should not travel without security. Someone should
get on this.
Then he remembered that there were people who were
supposed to respond to his call. He felt in his jacket pocket
and found the slip of paper that Nurse Bounty had stuck there.
He went inside to look for a phone.
At the ticket window, a bored and balding middle-aged man
stared at him through scratched plexiglass.
"Phone?" the man asked. "Public net access, over there,
on the wall."
"Thanks," said Nixon. "Thanks."
A row of small stalls lined the wall, most of them in
use. Nixon found an empty one and stood inside it,
contemplating the slip of paper. One was an emergency number.
Was this really an emergency? Would that bring the press as
well? Would it do to have the public know that the president
had been attacked by his constituents, abducted by spacers, by
the enemy, and was hanging around a train station like a bum?
Certainly not.
The other option was Nurse Bounty. She had said to call
any time, and it didn't have to be an emergency. Hopefully she
could be discreet. She was a nurse, Nixon considered, she
could be discreet.
Inside the stall was a screen, a very small speaker
grill, and a slot for accepting paper money.
The speaker emitted a muted beep and the screen lit up
with the words, "What is your billing, please?"
"I am President of the United States," Nixon said.
"Please state complete name for vocal recognition," the
screen read.
"Richard Milhous Nixon."
"Recognized. State file name or access code."
Nixon read the number from the paper.
"Thank you," said the screen.
The screen flashed for a moment, then cleared. Nurse
Bounty's face and shoulders filled the frame. Her shoulders
were bare and Nixon tried to remember if the dress she had
been wearing had straps or if...
"Hello? Mr. President. Hi. Where are you? That doesn't
look like the White House."
"I'm at a train station."
"How in the name of chaos did you get there?"
"It's a strange story. What concerns me more at this time
is, how do I get back?"
"Where are you? What station?"
"I don't know. Hold on."
He stuck his head out of the booth and asked the first
old-earth type he saw. The man gave him a dirty look, but told
him anyway.
"Silver Spring," Nixon said.
"How'd you get all the way over there? Never mind. Tell
me later. Are you all right? Are you in any danger?"
"I'm just fine."
"Okay. Good. Take the train to Union Station. I'll meet
you there."
"I don't, uh, have any money."
"You don't need it," Nurse Bounty said. "Tell the person
at the ticket window who you are. I'll see you soon."
The screen went blank. Nixon wandered out of the stall
and back to the ticket window.
"One way to Union Station," he told the man.
"Seventeen-fifty," the man said.
"I am President of the United States."
"Yeah, right. Vocal recognition into the grill."
Nixon said his name into the small grill mounted next to
the window. The grill beeped softly and a digital readout lit
up: $17.50.
"I'll be dipped in shit," the man said. "You are the
president. You look like a freak. Uh, sir."
"Yes," Nixon said. "I know. May I have my ticket please?"
26. ALL ABOARD
The train looked like a good, old-fashioned, twentieth
century locomotive, but it had been rebuilt and patched in
hundreds of places. The sound of the engines was an old,
familiar rhythm that made Nixon's heart race. How long had it
been since he had ridden a train?
He remembered the spur line of the Santa Fe Railroad
which went past his childhood home in Yorba Linda. The tracks,
single of purpose, with steel resolve, stretched to infinity
in both directions. The powerful freight trains would shake
the ground, rattle the windows, and a young Nixon would dream
of guiding the big engines to faraway places. The dopplering
whistle would call to him with a siren song of adventure,
dignity and riches.
A conductor in a worn and partially homemade uniform
leaned out of an open door. "All aboard!" he called.
Nixon reveled in his memories. At least the trains are
still running, he thought. At least there's still some order
somewhere.
27. CANNABIS CULTURE
"It's very potent," Alec said. "Fifth generation lunar
herb. High yields all around. Well, we didn't include much
fiber, but if you want some, we can bring it the next time."
The bus was in a large ground-floor garage, its back door
wide open to allow crew members and Arc93 staff access to the
bales of aromatic hemp. The dark green blocks were being
stacked on a pallet and another team had already begun carting
some of it off to the arcology's laboratory.
Bil Haar, arcology staffer, said, "That's okay. We're
doing more with synthetics now. We're learning ways to
cultivate extremely long-chain molecules using the cannabis
synthetics as a matrix. We feed in any kind of biomass and we
get some beautiful materials. Very durable fabric, some of it,
and plastics. We're also working on producing fuels by the
same process, but our yields haven't been cost-effective yet."
"Why don't you just farm more of your own hemp?" Alec
asked. "There's land around here. Sunshine. You could make all
the alcohol and gasoline you want."
Bil smiled. "That would be too easy. Actually, we have to
keep everything we produce inside the structure. An outside
hemp crop would be skagged instantly by old-earthers."
"Why don't they farm some hemp?" asked Stu.
"That," said Bil, "is the question of the century.
Something to do with tradition, I understand."
Tim and Essence wandered up.
"Last bale," said Tim. "Except enough to get us out of
the well."
Everyone smiled.
"Hey," said Bil, "cog this." He produced a small plastic
vial containing a fine brown powder. "Latest from the lab.
Batch thirty one, that's what we call it until someone can
think of a better name. Stimulates quantum non-local
functions. Specific, non-toxic, and a hell of a lot of fun."
He tossed the vial to Stu. "A sample. Snort up one small line.
It starts to work in seconds, lasts about ten minutes."
28. RAILROAD REVERY
The car lurched and they were rolling slowly out of the
station, pulling away from the cinder block building, slowly
accelerating and then moving pretty quickly and the sunlight
now golden with the end of day flickering through the trees.
Nixon took a deep breath, exhaled.
The train rocked steadily and they moved through the
golden flashes as the telephone poles whooshed by whoosh by
whooshed flash. Every comfortable seat felt the relaxation of
flash flicker whoosh the Yorba flash Linda beat dignity. Nixon
flicker watched sway as deteriorated houses flash buildings
rock nice the weed choked flicker roads flash. America,
flicker thought, America, flash America flicker sway rock
power. Down the flash train rock rolled into flicker sway
darkness of flash tunnel the flicker lights along the flash
walls flashing flash by every flash few seconds. His throat
flicker itched. Nixon took a deep breath, exhaled.
The flash Nixon mind went flash into thoughts of flash
the days spent lying flash out on the summer flash lawn while
the flash trains rumbled by Yorba flash Linda. His eyes flash
closed and the flash was general red flash orange flashing
flash as punctuation of each flicker thought. There flash had
been a sense of flash power in the flash trains in those days.
Flash they symbolized everything flash modern and hopeful
flash. Bright, shiny flash windows flashing in the sun
flicker. Nixon took a deep breath and...
Exhaled. Would it be flash all right to flash just doze
off? I flash might stay flicker awake because I flash don't
know flash. It's comfortable and flash oval spacers drugs
flash they manual control. Fuck flash Nixon liked tape flicker
cars space office flash computer cloth years flash money good
republican flash the carpet being president flash young again
values flash Bounty in the flash oval coffee shit flash
republican cloth assholes flash sleeve hemp mother flicker
cigarettes dreadlock flash breasts coma night flash sun
shining on flash a field where flash Nixon knew the flash
people who gathered there. Some were friends. Good friends.
One was a beautiful young woman, electric shining hair in
the glorious sun, another was an old hag, dim and gnarly in
the fading light. There was an old man who loved the beautiful
woman, a young man who craved perverse union with the hag.
The rules of the game were simple, all Nixon had to do
was to convince his friends that they should wear the kind of
clothes that he was wearing. He looked down at his suit,
austere, dark green and crumbling nicely between his fingers.
It was good, it was the way to win.
The beautiful woman said, "I want you, Dick."
He reached out to touch her and held nothing but a bit of
gleaming light that drifted from his fingers and slid into the
dark night.
The old hag said, "Richard, she left you. Now you have
me. Now you have me. Now."
She advanced on him. He backed away, the stench of death
in his nose.
The old man said, "I am you, Dick." Rotten skin was
peeling from his face.
The young man said, "You can have her, Dick. It's all
right. Take her." He pushed Nixon toward the hag.
Nixon jumped back. "Clothes make the man," he said.
"Come on," said the hag. "Come on. Now."
A flash of reddish light gleamed from the hairless
forehead of the old man. "Bring us together," he said.
"Now more than ever," said the hag.
"Polyester," said Nixon. "The smell."
"Hell," said the hag. With unbelievable agility, she
jumped toward Nixon.
Nixon awoke, too late to stop the convulsive reflex
motion of his legs. He took a deep breath.
The train. I am riding on the train to Union Station, he
reminded himself. The train. Just a strange dream. I just
drifted off a little. Do you call it highway hypnosis if
you're riding a train? I should know that.
He looked around. Everything seemed fairly normal. They
had come out of the tunnel. The sky was now deep red with
sunset. Wind whistled by the rumbling train. Some of the other
passengers slept, some gazed into laptop flatscreens, some
stared out the windows or into space.
Nixon took a deep breath, exhaled.
29. UNION STATION
He stepped off the train and looked around. Where was
Nurse Bounty?
A thin sprinkling of people made the cavernous terminal
look even more vast than Nixon remembered it. It looked
dirtier, too, and a high percentage of the people looked like
vagrants. It was still noisy, though, random voices booming
out against the background rumbling of the trains.
An old-looking man in a tattered and fragrant brown cloth
coat shuffled by, pushing an ancient and rusty shopping cart.
The cart was laden with an amorphous mass of found junk: rags,
shards of plastic, bottles, and cans. One large,
unidentifiable lump was pursued intently by a cloud of busily
humming flies.
The man looked up at Nixon. His gaping mouth revealed
rotten, blackened teeth. "You!" he said, his voice cracked and
dry. "I know you." He stopped pushing the cart and stepped
toward Nixon, examining him intently.
Nixon studied the man's face. Would he look familiar if
he were younger? Nixon couldn't place it.
"They made you young again," the man said. "The bastards.
Took everything I had. Made you president and made you young.
Shit."
"Uh, do I know you?"
"Heh, heh, heh. You motherfucker. That's what everyone
says. But everyone knew me once. My name's Trump."
"Holy shit," said Nixon.
"That's what everyone says. You a spacer now, Nixon?"
"Uh, no. Absolutely not. I can explain the hair and
clothes. I am, uh, traveling incognito, as it were."
"You won't fool them, Nixon. The bastards. Watch out.
They'll get you, too. You think you're tough, they'll just
grind you down like they did to me. Grind you down. Take
everything. Everything you work for. Everything. We should
talk, Nixon. I can tell you some things."
"Uh, yes," said Nixon. "I'll consider it. Yes. Uh, I've
got to go..."
Nurse Bounty was approaching, her bright blue dress
visible across the expanse of floor.
"Heh, heh, heh," said Trump. "The bastards."
Nixon hurried away to meet Bounty.
She was a welcome, familiar sight amidst the strangeness
and degeneration. Nixon smiled involuntarily. She returned the
grin. It made Nixon feel good.
The dress had straps.
30. TINY BUMP
Nurse Bounty's car was a small, bubble-like thing perched
atop four large wheels. It gave an impression of light weight,
but when Nixon pulled open the door and climbed inside, it
seemed very solid. When Nurse Bounty turned the key in the
ignition, the sound of the engine was incredibly faint, a
thin, distant hum. There was little vibration to feel through
the seat.
"I hope you don't mind, Mr. President," Nurse Bounty
said, "but I'm going to take you to my place for a bit. I was
right in the middle of something when you called. I ran out
with it half-finished. I only live a couple of blocks away."
Nixon wanted to go back to the White House, but there was
little that he could do. Best to trust the nurse, he thought.
"Don't worry," she said. "I'll get you back as soon as
I'm done, if you'd like. It shouldn't take long."
They rode in silence, Nixon somewhat nervously trying not
to stare at the place where Nurse Bounty's thighs emerged from
the short dress. Or the place where the smooth roundness of
fabric over her right breast was interrupted by the tiny bump
of a nipple.
Brezhnev, he prayed. Oh, Brezhnev. Mao!
I want her, he thought. No! I don't want her.
His chest felt tight, his breathing was shallow.
Nurse Bounty broke the silence. "Okay, Mr. President, how
in the name of the infinite play did you end up in Silver
Spring?"
With a struggle, Nixon found his voice and told the
story.
Nurse Bounty laughed. Nixon remained confused.
31. ENHANCED VID, EARTHSTYLE
Nurse Bounty's apartment was large and comfortable. A
big, dark, leather-like sofa and several armchairs dominated
the living room, beneath a cathedral ceiling. On a polished
wood coffee table in the center were a variety of small,
electronic devices and headsets.
"Make yourself at home," she said. "I need to use the
V.R. for a little while. You can use the vid deck, if you'd
like."
Nixon scanned the variety of things on the coffee table.
"Um..."
"That one," Bounty said, pointing to a very small black
box attached to a large, almost helmetlike headset. "Use it
just like you do your computer. It's limited to vid
broadcasts, though. Nothing interactive. Have fun. I shouldn't
be very long."
Bounty settled back in a chair and fitted a V.R. headset
over her eyes and ears. Her facial muscles went slack as she
became absorbed in her work.
Nixon sat on the couch and watched her for a minute, her
lips full and relaxed, her breasts stretching the fabric of
the dress with each inbreath. He suddenly wanted to touch her,
to stroke the smooth skin of her thigh, to kiss those pouting
lips. He was getting a hard-on again.
Oh my god, he thought. What am I doing? What am I
thinking? I am president. Oh, but it would feel so good to
slide my penis into her...
Brezhnev! Mao! Shit, he thought, I don't think I was this
horny when I was young the first time!
He picked up the vid helmet and inspected it. It was
padded on the inside and looked to be quite comfortable.
Video, he thought, a good distraction, that's what I
need. Maybe there's a football game. Or a good movie. How long
has it been since I've seen Patton?
He put on the headset and settled back against the
cushions. All was dark, all was quiet. A lingering image of
Nurse Bounty remained inside his head. The image began to do
a slow striptease.
Stop it! he thought. "Begin," he told the vid unit.
The unit came to life, but was blank. Nixon felt as if he
were in a great void, suspended somehow. It was disorienting,
but the unit processed quickly, the void took on form and
there was now a definite down, a floor that he was standing
on. In front of him, with a snap, appeared a display of
numbers: 1 to 93. The number eight had a circle around it and
was flashing on and off.
"Channel selection?" a gentle voice inquired.
"Eight," said Nixon. Why not?
A snap and Nixon was seated at a romantic dinner table.
Candles glowed and champagne bubbled in crystal glasses. The
sound of violins wafted about like a breeze. An extremely
handsome man leaned across the table to touch the hand of a
ravishing, dark-haired woman who wore a dress not unlike Nurse
Bounty's. The experience was clearer, sharper than the
enhanced vid he had seen on the White House computer.
"Uh, hello," Nixon said. "I'm sorry to intrude, I uh..."
"Darling," the handsome man murmured, ignoring Nixon
totally, "my cold symptoms are gone. And so are my warts. And
my urinary tract infection. I can have sex again! I feel
great." He kissed her hand. "Thank you for recommending Dosup.
I want you more than ever, darling."
The scene sparkled and dissolved and turned a brilliant
white. The two lovers kissed passionately before a monumental
bottle of Dosup pills.
"Dosup," said a deep, disembodied voice. "For symptoms of
infectious diseases... and for your love life. Dose up today."
The scene was washed away by a swirl of rainbow colors.
To the sound of a martial drum, a giant caduceus appeared,
followed by the number eight. The symbol and number marched in
a great circle, all the way around Nixon.
"You are experiencing Channel Eight, presenting the best
in medical advice and drama!" an appealing male voice said.
"Stay tuned for the acclaimed prime time drama, Appendix
Regeneration."
"How do I change the channel?" Nixon asked.
The display changed abruptly, and Nixon was again
presented with the channel numbers.
"Channel selection?" the vid-deck said.
"Uh, twenty-three," he said off the top of his head. The
flashing circle shifted from the eight to the twenty-three.
A snap and Nixon found himself outside, near a highway.
A huge, old Chevrolet Impala, from a time that Nixon
remembered clearly, roared along, riding on air about a foot
and a half above the road. Special effects gave the vehicle a
glowing, spherical aura.
Behind the speeding Impala was a quick little bubble-car,
not unlike Nurse Bounty's, the big wheels bouncing
dramatically over the pavement. The Impala was getting faster
and the bubble-car was falling behind.
Suddenly Nixon was inside the bubble-car. He was seated
behind a middle-aged, but good-looking man and a beautiful
blond woman. The woman, Nixon saw, wore a short, red dress of
a similar design to the blue one that Nurse Bounty had.
"They're getting away," the woman said.
"We've got to disable their spin drive," the man said.
"Wait! I've got an idea! The drive has to be controlled by
some kind of simple computer. If we can access it somehow
through the cybernet..."
The woman slipped a headset over her long, golden hair.
The bubble-car leaped, bounced side-to-side, came into a turn.
"There's some kind of security," she said. "I can't..."
"Give it to me," the man said. "Grab the wheel."
He pulled the headset from her glossy locks, and the car
lurched as the woman grabbed the wheel. The man donned the
headset and the point of view changed to cyberspace.
The enemy computer was a small purple barrel, streams of
purple digits swirling over its surface. Bright yellow
triangles surrounded it on six sides.
The man was a dashing cartoon figure, dressed much as he
had been in the car. He advanced toward the little barrel and
a yellow triangle darted out and struck him so that he fell
back.
The man began to mutter what sounded like an incantation:
"Subroute one ay, fifteen goto twenty five, dimension seven
comma one hundred thirty, vid bright contact, subroute
eighteen bee six, goto eleven..."
A round, blue shield appeared in the man's left hand, a
lightning bolt in his right. "I will avenge Parker's death,"
the man said. "He was a friend of mine!"
He leaped back and forth as a yellow triangle attacked,
bouncing off the shield and whizzing low over Nixon's head.
The triangles swooped in one after the other, but the man was
too quick and each triangle was deflected by the shield.
Finally, he was in close enough and he hurled the lightning
bolt. The purple barrel exploded in a frenzy of multi-colored
sparks.
The point of view was suddenly back outside along the
highway. The globe of light around the Impala disappeared,
pitching the big, old car to the ground where it bounced
heavily, skidded sideways, and then sailed over an embankment.
It fell for a long moment, then exploded brilliantly on the
rocks below.
"Killed by their own greed," the man said, the headset
pulled up rakishly on top of his head. He and the woman were
climbing from the parked bubble-car to peer over the
embankment. "Anyone who carries that much fuel with them knows
the kind of risk they take."
"I'm so relieved," the blond said. "I never have to think
of those evil spacers again!" She wrapped her arms around her
hero and pressed her body against him. "Thank you,
Whittington!"
Whittington peered over the woman's shoulder, directly at
Nixon, smiled and winked.
The scene faded and some electronic music came up. A
stream of credits began to flow around the display.
Not bad, Nixon thought. Very real. Actually, somehow,
more than real. The drama was familiar, but the enhanced vid
made it a total experience. Much more powerful than
television.
Snap. Nixon was in a brightly lit room. Thousands of
lights clustered in the ceiling were all pointing to one
thing:
A beautiful new vid deck.
The light glinted off its polished plastic case and a
woman's voice said, "Make yourself comfortable, jack it in,
and the new Compell 6400 will take you to..."
Instantaneously, the room, the lights, the deck, were
gone and Nixon stood at the center of an incredible, dazzling
shower of sparks, blue, gold, green, purple. They swirled down
from the sky, spiraled up from the ground. It made him feel
exultant, excited.
"...another world."
The sparks were gone and the lights glared once again on
the beautiful new deck, which now rotated slowly.
"The Compell 6400 is simply the finest enhanced three-
dimensional video technology available at any price. New bring
circuitry ensures absolutely no disorientation, always extreme
comfort. The brightest colors, the clearest sound, the Compell
6400 is the choice of video experts. One hundred percent made
on the planet Earth."
The sparks were suddenly back, brighter than before.
"We can Compell you!"
Snap. A large room, very comfortable, with a family of
four, mother, father, toddler and infant, seated near the
radiant warmth of a glowing coal stove.
"Coal heat is a natural," the father said to his wife.
"This new low-maintenance system is quiet, more efficient than
some other methods of heating, and coal is mined right here on
Earth! That means jobs!"
"Yes," the wife said, "that's right. And if the Earth's
population continues to decline at the present rate, our coal
reserves could last five thousand years! Less people also
means that pollution from coal combustion isn't such a problem
anymore!"
"The best part is that we're warm and comfortable, all
year long!"
The mother and father smiled and gave each other a warm
hug.
"Check your net access for the coal dealer near you!" a
voice-over said.
Snap. It was a high-tech kitchen, everything in gleaming
stainless steel. Nixon sat at a table. On the other side of
the table stood two chefs, one Japanese and the other
American, each holding a fork. On the table was a plate of
steaming, fragrant cubes of something pale and moist.
"New Mefu," the Japanese chef said. "Mmmmm. It tastes
just like tofu!"
"That's right," said the American, "but it's made from
good, Earth-grown pork."
The two chefs each speared a chunk of Mefu with their
forks and happily munched on it.
"Delicious Mefu," a voice-over commented. "Available in
the butcher section. Another fine product from Oestrike
industries."
Snap. Everything turned blue, except the floor, which was
black. A stream of 23's appeared, and played choo-choo train
all around Nixon. A lone electric guitar wailed in the
distance.
"And now," said a voice-over, "Channel Twenty Three
brings you an all-new episode from that lovable family, The
Hedges!"
An unseen symphony swooned with musical merriness as
Nixon found himself on a trim suburban street, in front of a
sprawling ranch house. A bubble-car rested in the driveway and
a mast with a cluster of parabolic antennae sprouted from the
roof. In the air above the house appeared the gigantic words,
THE HEDGES. The front door opened and a smiling, dark-haired
woman leaned out. She grinned right at Nixon and beckoned for
him to come on inside.
And suddenly he was inside, apparently seated in an
overstuffed chair in the Hedges' living room. It was bright
and cheery, lots of sunlight and color. Bright red and yellow
draperies complimented a light blue living room set. Two
children, a boy of about twelve and a girl of about ten sat
with large, padded helmets on their heads, wired to a vid deck
on the coffee table. Their father, with a V.R. headset over
his eyes and ears, looked serious.
Mrs. Hedges bustled in from another room. Nixon could now
see that she looked part oriental, part european, attractive
in a pleasant way. She wore a dress the top of which was like
Nurse Bounty's, clinging tightly to the breasts, the bottom of
which made Nixon think more of the dress that the simulation
of Martha wore. He guessed from what he could see of the
father that the man also was a racial hybrid, perhaps
black/oriental. His suit looked like it would have been in
style in the early 1990's.
"Honey!" she called, in a clear midwestern accent. "Where
are you? I need your us help!"
She spotted her husband seated with the computer.
"Ronald!" She gently shook his shoulder.
His face showed that he was responding.
"Ronald!"
"Save files," he said. "End run." He reached up and
pulled off the headset. "What is it, dear?" He sounded
exasperated.
"I'm sorry to interrupt you, Ronald."
Ronald scowled. "It's just that every time you get me out
of cyberspace, something horrible happens."
"It does not," she said.
"It does so. Why just the other day you interrupted me
while I was working because there was some kind of noise or
something. I went outside to look and a motor home full of
Scandinavian emigrants came crashing out of the sky into our
backyard. It barely missed my head. It destroyed the vegetable
garden."
"Well, you weren't growing any vegetables."
"That doesn't matter. And last week, you interrupted me
while I was working and I lost all of my files."
"Well, you found them again."
"It cost us four thousand dollars. Anyway, what is it
this time?"
"Well, I had a little accident with the car."
"Oh, no!" Ronald slapped a hand to his forehead. "What
happened?"
"I hit some cans."
"Some cans? That shouldn't cause too much damage. What
cans did you hit?"
"Well, remember those cans you had in the garage..."
"All those ones that the recycler wouldn't take?"
"No, honey, not those..."
"What cans do you mean? Not my..."
"Methanol cans."
"The methanol cans? You hit the methanol cans!? That's
dangerous. They could..."
"They sort of exploded."
"They exploded! Was there any fire?"
"Well, the garage is burning a little."
"The garage is... THE GARAGE IS ON FIRE! FIRE!"
They both started racing around the room, screaming,
"FIRE! FIRE!" Then suddenly they stopped, dead still, and
looked at each other.
"Do you think we should tell the children?" Mr. Hedges
asked.
"Mr. President."
Who said that? Nixon thought.
"Nah," said Mrs. Hedges, "it'll just get them upset. They
look so peaceful and happy."
Something seemed to grab Nixon's shoulder. He looked
around, but could see nothing.
"Dick!"
Who said that? Martha? No. Nurse Bounty.
"End Run," Nixon said.
The Hedges's home disappeared and Nixon was in darkness.
He reached up and removed the helmet.
32. UNREASONABLE IMPULSE
Nurse Bounty sat on the couch, close to him, gently
holding his shoulder, smiling pleasantly. One breast pressed
lightly against his arm. She smelled musky.
Nixon very comfortably slid his arms around her and
kissed her, fully and slowly. Some small part of him asked,
What am I doing? but that small part was soon lost in the roar
of O.Z. enhanced hormones. Nurse Bounty reacted, at first,
with surprise, but quickly returned the kiss with a relaxed
intensity.
To Nixon it felt like the first kiss of his life. Or
maybe all the kisses of his life. He felt the kind of thrill
that he had felt when he proposed to Pat Ryan on the day that
they had met. His heart pounded; he felt strangely clear and
calm.
The kiss ended, their lips slowly parted. Nurse Bounty
pushed him gently back.
"Wait," she said. "Let's do this right."
33. STU AND DIANA
Arc93 had provided an empty basement room, and Stu and
Diana had just enough time before the concert to do what they
needed to do. As Stu finished sweeping the floor, Diana set up
a small table in the center of the room and arranged a small
assortment of paraphernalia on it: a small drum, an incense
burner, candles, a wooden wand tipped with opal, a goblet, a
short sword, and a flat disk on which was engraved either a
figure eight, or the symbol for infinity. Onto the shiny
surface of the disk she poured two small lines from the Batch
31 vial.
Stu then made a simple compass from a length of twine and
a piece of chalk, drawing a perfect circle around most of the
room. He pulled a few things from his pocket and added them to
the collection on the makeshift altar: hard copies of the two
oracles concerning Nixon, a tarot card entitled 'The Magus',
a drawing of an ibis-headed egyptian god, and a small book
covered with egyptian designs. Diana placed a folded blanket
and two cushions near the altar, as well as a small audio
playback device.
They both stepped out of the circle and viewed the work
they had done.
"Ready?" Stu asked.
34. DICK AND MARCIA
"First of all," Nurse Bounty said, "you don't even know
my first name, do you?"
"Uh, no... I don't."
"Marcia. Marcia Bounty. And must I keep calling you Mr.
President?"
"'Dick' will be fine for these, uh, informal meetings...
Marcia."
Marcia grinned. "Great. Okay, come with me." She stood
and led him across the living room to a door which Nixon
assumed led to the bedroom.
"The great thing about all these big old buildings,"
Marcia said, "is all the extra rooms. I've got a room for
everything here. A room for eating, a room for sleeping, a
room for making love."
She opened the door and he looked inside.
A long time ago, he had once slept on a water bed, in a
hotel room somewhere. It had been a little difficult to get
used to, but once he had, he slept like a baby. This wasn't a
water bed; it was a water room. The room measured about twenty
by twenty feet and the entire floor was covered with a thick,
gently undulating mattress. Pillows and comforters covered
much of the surface. Just inside the door was a small foyer
with hooks for clothing, a tiny refrigerator, and a cabinet.
Marcia took a small tray from the cabinet and began to
load it up: a chilled bottle of champagne, glasses, candles,
an ashtray and a gold cigarette case. When she had what she
wanted, she rested the tray on the edge of the mattress,
sending a ripple through the room.
"Okay," she grinned. "Close the door and take off your
clothes."
35. BANISHING 1
The electric lights had been turned out and candles
flickered around the perimeter of the circle. Stu and Diana,
dressed now in simple, purple robes, silently entered the
circle and stood before the altar. Each took a couple of slow,
deep breaths.
Silence. Forefingers touched to lips. A lung-filling
breath.
Diana banged suddenly on the drum, small thunder, and Stu
let out a roar which emptied his lungs, "APO PANTOS
KAKADAIMONOS!!"
They patrolled the inside of the circle, stalking like
tigers, Diana drumming in staccato bursts.
Stu returned to the center, the drumming stopped, they
were still. Diana lit the incense burner and a cloud of
fragrant smoke rose from the altar. Stu spoke loudly, slowly,
the sound of his words resonating in their bodies,
concentrated in the circle, vibrating through the floor. "SOI
OPHALLI ISKUROS EUCHARISTOS IAO!"
He walked inside the circumference again, stopping at the
cardinal points. "THERION," he cried. "NUIT, BABALON, HADIT!"
The circle was thick with smoke, the walls of the room
had faded into oblivion. They were two people alone in a void.
In the center again, before the altar, Stu cried, "IO
PAN! PRO MOU JUNGES! OPISO MOU TELETARCHAI! EPIDEXIA
SUNOCHES!! EPARISTERA DAIMONOS! PHLEGI GAR PERI MOU HO ASTER
TON PENTE. KAI ENTAI STELEI HO ASTER TON HEX ESTEKE.
"SOI OPHALLI ISKUROS EUCHARISTOS IAO!
They circled like panthers.
"APO PANTOS KAKADAIMONOS!"
They each took a deep breath and exhaled fully.
Everything was still, quiet except for their breath, and the
beating of their hearts.
36. BANISHING 2
Nixon's body felt charged with energy.
To his surprise, the embarrassment of disrobing had
lasted only a moment. He gazed self-consciously at himself,
and had liked what he had seen. No paunch, in fact, if
anything, he was a little too thin.
Were my genitals this large when I was really and truly
young? he thought.
The self-inspection lasted only a moment.
"Come on," Bounty said, smiling.
She had shed her garments before Nixon even had a chance
to notice. She was incredible, more so than he had imagined.
Without her clothes, Nixon thought, she no longer looked
trashy. She looked like a goddess, like some kind of classical
statue. It was the clothes, he thought.
"Come on! Whatever it is you're standing there thinking
about, you can leave it behind."
He followed her onto the broad mattress. She moved with
great ease on the rippling surface and Nixon marvelled at the
play of muscles along her back, her buttocks, her thighs. He
moved after her slowly, crawling on top of the blankets and
pillows.
She set down the tray near the center of the room and
began worrying at the champagne cork. Nixon came up behind her
and ran his hand along her naked side, feeling the smoothness
of her skin with unusual intensity.
I had forgotten, he thought.
"You're just what I need," he said. "Oh my god! I want
you! I love you forever! Will you marry me?"
His hand slid up toward a breast, but she pushed him
back.
"Just hold on!" she laughed. "Hold on. Love me forever?
Marry me? That's not quite what I had in mind."
She went to one wall and began arranging candles on a
shelf, lighting them with a tiny lighter.
"It's true," he said. "It's true." He ached for her. His
body trembled with the force of his lust.
"How could it possibly be true?" she asked. "You hardly
know me. I'm not just a nurse, you know. I have a life the
rest of the time. You're confused, Dick. Things are not like
they were. Maybe they never really were what you thought."
"I don't understand. I just feel..."
"That's right," she said. "But there's not really a lot
for you to understand, right now. There's more things to
forget. Just take a deep breath, Dick. That's right, feel your
lungs expand. Just take another breath and you can relax.
That's right. Take a breath... exhale... and you can just let
go of what you think about this. Right. Breathe and let go of
what you think of me. Breathe and let go of what you think of
yourself..."
Nixon began to feel a peaceful warmth, just floating
there on the blankets.
"Breathe and let go of everything behind you, everything
in the past. You can let go of your mother and father. And let
go of your friends and teachers. Let go of your career... Let
go of being president... You can forget anything that
happened. Breathe and let it go. That's right. And you can
forget the future. Forget your plans, forget what you think
may happen..."
The room was somehow starting to seem different to Nixon.
His vision seemed to narrow down to Marcia Bounty, everything
else just fading away. There was a strange feeling in his
chest.
"You can forget it all," she said. "Forget it. It's just
you and me, here, now."
37. CONSECRATION 1
"I am uplifted in thy heart," Stu said, "and the kisses
of the stars rain hard upon thy body!"
He took a deep breath and exhaled forcefully, turning
around to include the whole circle, the whole universe of the
moment, in a broad gesture, the incense smoke swirling around
with him.
"I am uplifted in thy heart," said Diana, "and the kisses
of the stars rain hard upon thy body!"
She whirled with the smoke.
38. CONSECRATION 2
Marcia poured champagne into the glasses and handed one
to Nixon. He looked at it, then at her. She was smiling,
beautiful, naked, radiant. Everything was quiet, except for
the faint fizzing of the wine. He felt the warmth of the
blankets beneath him.
She held up her glass in a toast. "To us," she said. "To
all we might do."
The bubbles were electric in Nixon's mouth, soothing in
his throat. He felt it run cool and comfortable into his
abdomen. They sat in silence, sipping at the wine, smiling at
each other.
39. INVOCATION 1
Diana started a steady, droning beat on the drum.
"Bahlasti!" Stu cried. "Ompehda!" He added more incense
to the burner and a fresh cloud swirled upward, the
candlelight flickering through it. "Before the infinite play
of elements and ideas in which we participate, we declare that
we are ones who have attained the knowledge and conversation
of the Holy Guardian Angel. We are the Magickal Children of
Nuit and Hadit who continue the work of our Will."
Diana was dancing slowly with the drum, smoke and light
trailing from her robe.
"We invoke Tahuti," said Stu, "the Lord of Wisdom and of
Utterance, the god that comes forth from the veil. O thou of
the Ibis Head! I invoke thee with the words and actions that
are your servants and your gifts, your clothing and your
thoughts:
"We see, we hear and we feel the way that your force in
us binds words and memories to time. O master of Time!
"We see, we hear and we feel your bound servants playing,
combining and dividing like the elements of infinite space. In
this play there is new knowledge and ancient arcana. In this
play there is science and medicine. In this play there is
reason and there is magick. O master of Magick!
"As above, so below! said the ancients. We say Realtime
and Memory. Macrocosm and microcosm, universe and human.
"We are infused by your aspects, filled with your
thoughts. We become pathways for your words, your memories."
Stu picked up the tarot card and concentrated for a
moment on the image: a figure floating in space, one arm up
and one arm down, juggling a cup, a sword, a wand, a disk,
symbols of the elements. Diana continued to drum and dance,
her eyes closed now.
"We know that we are in you," Stu continued, "and you are
in us. You are in us!
"I am Tahuti! I am Thoth!"
He picked up the oracle printouts and, his voice matching
the rhythm of the drum, read them again. He set them back on
the altar, then moved to join Diana in the dance.
40. INVOCATION 2
They lay together, relaxed, dreamily aroused. What had
seemed a burning, all-consuming desire only a few minutes ago
was now a comfortable, slow excitation. Marcia's hand ran
lightly down the muscles of his back. His own hand explored
the tightening skin of a nipple, the warm curve of a breast.
Each movement, each sensation, seemed magnified, as if gentle
currents of electric pleasure passed through them and between
them. A concealed speaker somewhere in the room played
wordless music with a slow, steady, sensuous beat. Candles
flickered.
"Mmmm," Nixon said. "Is it the O.Z.? I mean..."
"The feelings?" Marcia asked. "The way things look
brighter, sound clearer? The changes, the thoughts? Part is
the O.Z., and part is the time and place."
"I think," said Nixon, "I think I like it."
"Mmmm," she said, "yes. It can be a powerful thing, you
know. Making love like this."
"Yes," he said.
"In a way, it can make you realize some surprising things
about yourself. It's like, here, now, you can just let the
force of everything inside you and around you, here in this
room, you can let it move you and do and be without thinking."
Her hand moved over his buttock and around to stroke his
thigh.
"This space is safe, it's just you and me, and we have
only the nicest intentions for each other. What is it that the
life force in you wants to be, wants to do? I believe that
when the life force flows strongest, you can learn from it,
you can be pure life force, if just for a while. You can let
it move you, you can remember that it is in you and you are in
it. And you can learn about yourself, about where you're
going. Where are you going, Dick? What do you will to be?"
Her hand slid around his leg, along the shaft of his
penis. Her thumb stroked the swollen head.
"Mmmm," he said.
41. ACTIVATION 1
Diana set the drum on the altar and pushed a button on
the audio playback. Music came out, throbbing with a similar
beat, but orchestrated, rich and full. Their robes slid to the
floor. They held each other and danced, their bodies close,
her breasts brushing against Stu's chest, his erect penis
caressing the smooth skin of her abdomen. They danced like
this for a while, feeling the touch of skin, seeing the
candlelight flicker on their faces, hearing the gentle
breathing and gasps against the rhythm of the music.
After a time, the dance evolved into kissing, hands
stroking smooth and sensitive skin. And later, they sank to
the cushions which had been spread on the floor.
Stu sat crosslegged and Diana faced him, lowering herself
softly onto his phallus. A simultaneous gasp as it slipped
inside; a long, deep kiss, and they were moving together in
slow-motion love.
They were there like that, moving slowly, for over an
hour, allowing the yearning, the desire for release, to build,
then slowing down again, resting briefly, the cycle repeating
again and again. But then the tension, the pressure, was
becoming irresistible. Slow motion was becoming impossible.
Stu reached onto the altar and found the disk. He held it
before their faces and they snorted the lines of Batch 31.
They kissed and allowed themselves to move as their bodies
willed to move.
42. ACTIVATION 2
Nixon was so comfortable, so involved with the sensations
of aroused bodies, that he thought nothing of it when Marcia
passed a hand-rolled cigarette to him. He watched the smoke
swirl upwards for a moment, then took it from her.
"Fill your lungs with it," she said. "Hold it in."
He complied. The taste was pleasant, sweet and pungent.
He held it in for a long moment, then let it out in a
whooshing cloud. They smoked together for a while, touching,
stroking, smoking. It felt like the right thing to do.
Marcia mounted him, and Nixon's pelvis instinctively
matched her leisurely rhythm. He allowed his hands to caress
her stomach, her ribs, her breasts. A powerful sensation, like
light that he could feel, seemed to spread from his cock,
through his hips, his belly, his chest, his limbs, his head.
Another force seemed to be spreading from his head downward.
If the force from his loins was pure white light, the
sensation from his head felt like rainbows, bursts of colors
riding champagne bubbles through his body.
It all washed through him, these strange energies, the
sliding, persistent motion of Marcia's vagina, exciting him
even more. He felt urgency in his cock, and tried to speed the
rhythm, but Marcia held him back, slowing her rhythm even
more. A moment and he was able to relax to the slow rhythm
again.
And again, the urgency seemed to build, he wanted to
orgasm, to burst his whole being into Marcia, but she pulled
back, leaving him gasping until he had relaxed again.
Again and again, she took him to the brink of orgasm,
then held back, again and again. Their bodies were trembling
with withheld tension. And then they both knew it was time.
There was nothing they could do to stop it.
A thought entered Nixon's head: What do I will to do?
His body swept conscious thought away as it moved with
the life force.
43. DIANA
As the waves of orgasm washed through her, Diana began to
feel something along the edges of consciousness, a dissolving
of boundaries, a molecular melding with everything around her.
She was aware of Stu embracing her, of the spasms of his body.
His penis seemed to be ejaculating warm fire, which glowed and
spread through her vagina, her abdomen, her entire body and
mind.
She and Stu were one thing, not merely joined but
commingled and the awareness that they always had synergy like
this penis. Perhaps we can synthesis vagina for I am divided
some on Earth. Unassuaged of purpose of the stars is every way
perfect, for the chance train and more elsewhere. This is the
sperm, but he is something more for pure will.
A planetary surface, desert gleaming bright in sunlight.
Can you president o magickal child talk to you understand? Of
the flow that pain of division is as nothing of union and the
joy of the source of O.Z. To me that is you dissolution all.
Glittering white cylinders, the planet rich and blue
beyond, dandelion seed-head of a trailer park. Spasm delivered
from lust of result, Winnebago, Palmer is part creation and
two for love's sake. Engulf Nicholas. BRING US TOGETHER more
unconsciously. A huge machine against the stars, at once
ancient and new.
A voice, pleasant, English with an accent. The touch of
flesh. A dissected spin drive, magnets rotating, the lines of
force visible, disappearing into a place where you'll find
some of the answers. Freedom. Nixon is the life force union
egg of union of the world seek me only faint & faery release.
Blood spilled for freedom.
There must be conflict before resolution, some are
heavier than others, but all are the same. The mind of Earth
wants flowers, the mind of infinite nothingness wants all.
44. MARCIA
Careful concentration, difficult during orgasm, but
training pays off. Yehovah eloa ve daath. For Dick too. It was
strong, energy high and pure in this place of working.
Pleasure, yes, oh yes, but that was not all. Match breathing.
The heart. Direction. The movement of the infinitesimal point
through infinite space. Yehovah eloa ve daath. For Dick too.
The heart, glowing and radiant, the confluence of Nuit
and Hadit, the heart, life force from the Earth, life force
from space, the heart BRING US TOGETHER. A break in
concentration. Bring us together. Meaning?
The heart. Hearts merging. Concentration. Breathing.
Ovoid patterns of life force becoming superimposed. Hearts as
one, flowing with arterial spurts, life force flowing
together.
She was diffuse, though being defined; he was definition,
though diffusing. Hearts merging. Merged. Static. Breathing.
45. STU
As pelvic muscles contracted for first spasm, they are
waiting. Rotating magnets when you exceed. What is it inner
sanctum nurse union spasm vagina that I will is every way
perfect.
And a voice said, "information."
Yes, Stu thought, information. What is going on? How did
I get so intrigued with Nixon?
"Information," the voice said, "is valuable only in
relation to its usefulness."
A truism, Stu thought. So what?
"Palmer like this," it said, "BRING US TOGETHER. Exceed
force and fire. There is a dancing god who is my friend. Do
not fear the locomotive, for example, is meaningless now,
useful later. How can you use it?"
What can I understand now? Stu thought.
"Only this," said the voice. "You've become complacent.
Seek to further follow the trajectory which you are. Take the
next step.
"And more before I go: Nixon is now with you in love's
embrace. The shit you of and two. This is for pure will
pyramid realize be revealed. Penis putrescence bounty of
result. For you Nuit. Plastic domes filled with greenery,
behind them, reddish sand to the horizon. The can drug release
yourself. Apply of to do initiation: the corpse in the
pyramid. For the chance computer president. Spin drive
unassuaged of purpose into the fray. Marcia delivered from
lust. Division colony it can only that pain. Locomotive the
blind ones, seek only save only."
And relaxation of muscles after the last ejaculation.
Tahuti? Diana? Me? Which? Oh, yes, here I am.
50. NIXON
His body spending itself into Marcia Bounty, everything
seemed to dissolve in brownian movement of white flickering
raw thought energy swirling eddy I sparkles the light sex
life. Nixon dissolved, Marcia dissolved, America dissolved,
but three words remained in his heart:
Bring us together.
51. STU AND DIANA
Grinning broadly at each other, Stu and Diana gently
untangled their bodies.
"Wow," said Diana. "That was good!"
"Mmmm," said Stu. "Yeah. What were you thinking about?"
"I kept seeing spin drives," Diana said. "Real-looking
ones and ones that were like animated blueprints. And Nicholas
Palmer, too. Only he looked strange, not like his pictures,
distorted somehow."
"I had a little of that, too," said Stu. "I heard a
voice. It spoke with me. It definitely mentioned spin drives,
and a lot of other things. And it said I was too complacent."
"You?"
"Well, maybe..."
"I think I know where to look," Diana said.
"Look for what?"
"For the answers. Whatever we were trying to learn when
we did this."
"Uh-huh. Where?"
"It has to do with the spin drive. How does it work? Do
you know, Stu?"
"No, not fully. Ask a mechanic."
"Hmmm."
"I think I know what it was talking about," Stu said.
"Who? What? About what?"
"About me being complacent. It is time I moved on. I've
been doing a lot of work, I know. An awful lot. But it's been
the same thing for a while now. It must be time..."
"It must be time to go to work." Diana stretched and
stood up. "Where are the showers in this place?"
52. DICK AND MARCIA
Marcia kissed Nixon gently, and then slid over so that
they lay side to side.
"It's been a long time," Nixon said, "but I don't ever
remember it being like that! O.Z. has... changed me."
"There's that," Marcia said, "and also, you know, medical
training can give some advantages." She buffed her fingernails
on an imaginary shirt and grinned.
"Damn!" he commented. "Damn."
"What were you thinking about when you came?"
"Huh?"
"I forget. You've missed out on a few years. It's like...
'a penny for your thoughts.' What were you thinking about?"
"Was I thinking? It was all so ? different, I just kind
of got swept away with it... Well, there was something. It
wasn't much."
"What? Some words?"
"Yes. 'Bring us together.'"
"What does that mean?"
"Not much, I suppose. In 1968 it was my campaign slogan.
It was an important thing, then. Americans were growing apart
from each other. Rural Americans from big city Americans.
Republicans from other Republicans. I was giving a campaign
speech in the town of Deshler, Ohio. In the crowd I saw a
little girl who was holding up a sign that said, 'Bring us
together'. It was a good slogan."
"I guess it was."
"Yes. Uh, Marcia? What were you thinking when you, er,
came?"
"I was thinking how nice it was to bring us together."
53. DIANA AND STU AT WORK
As they made their way through the crowd to the platform
at the center of the hall, Arc residents greeted them with
hugs, handshakes and smiles. Stu adjusted a knob on the small
unit which hung around his neck on a twisted length of hemp
cloth, and the house lights began to dim. Diana punched a
button on her unit and a susurration began to swell from the
sound system, like gentle breathing, or waves on the beach.
There was a scattering of applause, then the crowd became
silent. Diana allowed the volume to increase steadily until
they reached the stage.
Diana, Stu, Alec, Essence and Tim climbed onto the
platform and took their places by their instruments. Essence
picked up a slim electronic bass and flipped a switch on a
small computer. Tim took his place behind a battery of congas,
checking the readiness of the several electronic percussion
devices that were racked next to him. Alec picked up an
ancient and battered electric guitar. Diana intently checked
her stack of playback devices and the computer which
controlled them. Stu stood in the center and adjusted
something on his control unit.
Lights mounted around the central stage began to flicker,
dim at first, then brighter, an effect not unlike the
flickering of a spin drive readout.
Diana began to speak, her voice sweet and airy, blending
in, then rising out of the susurrus:
There are four gates to one palace; the floor
of that palace is of silver and gold; lapis lazuli
& jasper are there; and all rare scents; jasmine
and rose, and the emblems of death. Let him enter
in turn or at once the four gates; let him stand on
the floor of the palace. Will he not sink? Amn. Ho!
warrior, if thy servant sink? But there are means
and means. Be goodly therefore: dress ye all in
fine apparel: eat rich food and drink sweet wines
and wines that foam! Also take your fill and will
of love as ye will, where and with whom ye will.
But always unto me.
There were whistles and cheers throughout the hall.
Tim began a rhythm on the congas, then supplemented it
with an electronic pulse that matched the flashing of the
lights. Essence began to weave a spare bass line around the
drums, and Alec caused a light rain of notes to drip from his
guitar. The music swelled, became lush Diana's sampled sounds.
More cheering, and some began to dance.
Stu adjusted the lights and suddenly it seemed that
whirling geometric shapes flew from the walls, from the
floors, spinning and wafting with the haze of ganja smoke.
More and more of the crowd were dancing, smiling, laughing.
Alec stomped on a pedal and released a soaring, distorted
wail which slid up on top of the rhythm, then rolled down to
scratch the itchy underbelly of a melody. Another slight
adjustment of the lights, and the walls yielded up vistas of
jewel-bright planet-scapes, distant glittering cities, vast
space structures.
Stu smiled and sang:
Feet in contact with the ground
Gazing at the sky
The heavens spinning round and round
Human fire within the sound
Plants that reach into the light
The ground the sound the taste the sight
Hold me let me go
A spark that arcs into the night
Hold me turn around
Essence was up front now, the thick sound of her bass now
like giants dancing, now like massed machinery. Stu spoke the
next part, his voice calm and conversational, letting the
words flow over the dense sound.
When I was very small I used to spin around
and fall upon the lawn. The ground would rise up
and tilt and I knew then that I was happy while
everything around me changed. My friends and I
would laugh and we'd do it again. And when I was
older I learned about ganja, and sex, and
rock'n'roll. And I danced and whirled with my
friends like dervishes, like ancient shaman-
children before the fire of human youth.
The band jammed mightily for a minute, then brought Stu
back to the song.
Welcome to the world where up is down
Dancing children free
Equally sharing nature's crown
Human heartbeat in the sound
Plants that reach into the light
The ground the sound the shifting thoughts
Hold on let it go
An Arc that sparks into the night
Live so it can grow
And the party went on until morning.
54. MORNING AT THE WHITE HOUSE
"What if someone sees us arriving together?" Nixon asked
as the bubble car approached the White House.
Nurse Bounty shrugged. "I don't care."
"No," said Nixon, "you wouldn't." He frowned and rubbed
the thick stubble which had appeared on his face during the
night. This may all have been a big mistake, he thought. What
if any of this leaked to the press? Scandal in the White
House. No! Not again. Not again.
"Listen, Mr. President," Marcia said, "I work here too.
I am your nurse. You just recovered from a long illness. You
almost died. It is certainly appropriate that medical
personnel accompany you if you are away from the White House
for any reason. Don't sweat it."
"All right. All right." Nixon continued to frown.
Smiling, she steered the car up to the curb with one hand
and gave Nixon's thigh a gentle squeeze with the other.
"Stop that!" said Nixon. "Stop."
"Of course," she said. "We're here."
They unlocked the door and entered the big, empty
building. Nixon went up to the bedroom, shaved and showered.
He searched through closets and found one of his old suits. It
hung limply from his thin body, but it wasn't hemp. It was
good, old, Earth-type fabric from a time when things were
easier to understand.
He went to the Oval Office and found Nurse Bounty seated
on the edge of the desk. She smiled at him, taking in the
clothing from head to toe.
"I found an old suit," Nixon said.
Marcia said nothing. She rubbed her breasts. She began to
unbutton her uniform.
"This is the presidential office," he said.
She slid off the desk and moved toward him. Nixon did not
come toward her, but he did not move away, either. Squirming
out of her uniform, Marcia pressed against him.
"I have duties to perform," Nixon protested.
She kissed him, hot, slow and passionate. He responded,
total rush of hormones, pheromones and phenethylamines. He
held her, stroked her, kissed deeply. Her hands slid down his
chest, toward his belt. The belt came loose, then buttons and
zipper, then the old, baggy trousers fell to the floor.
There was a knock at the door.
Nixon pushed Marcia from him and whirled around. There,
in the open doorway, stood a young man whose jeans and cowboy
boots seemed vaguely familiar.
The young man kept a poker face. "Excuse me," he said,
turning away from the indiscretion.
Nixon hastily pulled up his pants, while Marcia very
calmly replaced her uniform.
Nixon cleared his throat. "Uh, that will be all, Nurse,"
he said.
Now looking quite crisp and professional, Marcia strode
from the room, smiling at the young man as she passed him in
the doorway.
Still impassive, the man turned and came into the room.
Nixon wiped a sweaty palm on his suit jacket, then
offered his hand to the man. "I'm very, um, pleased to meet
you," he stammered as they shook. "What can I do for you? I
can explain... She's a nurse... medical personnel... I, uh..."
"It's no problem, Mr. President. What you do in your
personal life, however outrageous or disgusting, is your own
business. I believe that we do have some mutual business,
though. I am Neal Severant."
"Ah, yes," said Nixon. "From the video. Yes. A good
American."
"Yes, sir."
"What can I do for you? Can I offer you some coffee? A
drink? Would you like a drink? Nurse! Nurse!"
Marcia was not in evidence.
"Damn," said Nixon. "Where is she? She should get us some
coffee. I could sure use a cup. Do you smoke?"
"No, sir. Of course not."
"Nurse!"
"It's okay, Mr. President. I don't need any coffee. I
just need to speak with you."
"Well, then. Well. Please. Have a seat." Nixon sat in his
big chair. Being behind the imposing desk relaxed him a bit;
he felt a bit more in control. "You know," he said, as
Severant pulled a chair closer to the desk, "I meant to thank
you folks for your kind welcome. It's good to know that there
are some real Americans left."
"It was nothing. I must say, Mr. President, you appear
younger than I expected."
"Hmmm," said Nixon, "yes. The medical staff was able to
effect a kind of rejuvenation."
"Yes," said Severant. "These doctors were spacers,
perhaps?"
"I'm not very clear on that," Nixon muttered. "I was
unconscious when the actual treatment was performed."
"Of course. I was just wondering who made the actual
decision."
"I'm afraid that I'm still trying to sort things out
myself." Nixon began to bristle. "But I'm sure there was
nothing improper about it, if that's what you're implying.
Saving the life of an ailing president seems to be quite a
patriotic act. Or at least the, um, Hippocratic oath..."
"Certainly, Mr. President. I'm just curious. I mean no
offense. I'd like to shake the man's hand ? whoever. I believe
that a renewed presidency offers a great opportunity for
America. I'm here to help, Mr. President. I'm here to offer
whatever help I can."
"Oh. Well, thank you. Thank you. Are you sure you
wouldn't care for some coffee? Nurse!"
"No, really. No, thank you. Let me explain the way that
I can help."
"Certainly."
"For the past five or six years, Clinton Oestrike,
Henrietta Groote, and myself have been working to consolidate
what's left of America. Clint and Henrietta came out of the
Great Collapse with a bit more than other folks. They both
inherited fairly sizable fortunes, and were able to
consolidate that even more, by buying up failing businesses of
various kinds. In a sense, it is through their work alone that
any portion of the economy survived at all. They kept American
industry alive, they keep jobs for millions of Americans, they
keep hope alive through the bad times."
"Ah," Nixon observed, "good American industrialists. And
what is your part in this?"
"Public relations, sir. I am a strategist of sorts. I
hope to restore the traditional connection between American
government and industry."
"Hmmmm. As far as I've been able to determine, there is
no American government."
"Rather, what there is of it ? what is here ? is just a
diversionary tactic."
Nixon pondered. "Explain that," he said.
"Yes, sir. Someone who remains unknown to us at this time
? and to you, apparently ? had you re-elected simply to
appease the populace. That is, by installing an empty,
figurehead government, it will fill the hope of America for
renewed leadership, and keep us from having any kind of real
organization. And meanwhile the spacers move in, steal our
industry, and take whatever they want from the planet."
"Ah," Nixon observed, "the spacers."
"Yes, sir. What I can't figure out, though, is why they
restored you to consciousness, why they rejuvenated you."
"I would have died," the president said.
"Yes. I suppose they figured that they needed you. If you
had died, who else could they have chosen as a figurehead?"
"I must say that I don't know."
"Anyway, Mr. President, now that you're back with us,
have you considered the possibility of actually restoring the
U.S. government?"
"Of course I have. It would be the only patriotic course.
I believe it is the right thing to do."
"Have you made any progress yet?"
"Yes. I have made my first cabinet appointment."
"Who, Mr. President?"
"You, Mr. Severant."
55. RICH TAPESTRIES PRESIDENT
Two words had lodged in Primordial Stu's head: It's Time.
The words flashed and spun around and bred an incredible
amount of associations and secondary thoughts.
It's time that I drop everything, Stu thought, and took
the next step. Does this mean following up on my initiation?
Is it really my will to be a Magickal Child? I think so. I
think so, but it will mean leaving the band, at least for a
while. It will mean leaving Diana, at least for a while. And
this obsession with Nixon? I must drop that. Who is he to me?
What is Earth politics, as inconsequential as it is, to me?
Yes, it's time. I will do it. I will contact them immediately.
He stood, brushing lunar soil from his clothes. Around
him, leaves of moon weed waved gently in a recirculation
stream. The sun felt warm on his face, even filtered through
a plastic bubble and a mellow, lunar spin-field. Stu took a
deep breath. The plants were beginning to smell sweet.
I will come back here, he thought. One day, I will return
to the Moon. But now, it's time.
He took his headset from the pouch which hung at his belt
and plugged it into the net access which sprouted like a
small, metal mushroom from the dark soil, provided for the
farmers, geneticists, ecologists, biochemists and other
researchers who worked with the crop. He went through
cyberspace to the simulated lounge that provided a context for
his files. He called up the oracle program.
Here, in full cyberspace, the oracle included visual and
additional auditory information along with the words. It also
ranged randomly through a larger system than that contained in
the bus's Macintosh, the sum total of Stu's personal files
plus a few select public-domain files, to draw it's elements.
Stu took a breath and ran the program.
Now more than a memory rich tapestries president.
What would it be? Five years old worm to school us
one heck of us initiation. Scandal in the White
House and going had strong but they pounded in
breaks for the first re-election. He had heard a
drug household finances. Bring President Nixon.
Chains around magickal child soon they would hung
all around together. Child-Horus, time unto the
light a great president watergate. The begetter and
manifester with the memory of a dark room. Heat
leaped the drumbeat. Seek the King. Ever his ankles
anticipation and fear initiation. Locomotive I am
he, Nixon pyramid magick. Call for him. Nixon and
his heart pounded, his chest of being wrongdoing
breaks breaks.
Stu cleared his display and sat quietly in a blank
cybervoid, allowing the onslaught of information to be
assimilated by his unconscious mind.
Plenty of mention, he thought, of both initiation and
Nixon... and breaks... How are these things related? How to
find out?
56. INSUFFICIENT DATA
The cavern into which Diana walked was somewhat surreal.
The walls, of lunar rock and concrete, had been sprayed with
a thick layer of hemp oil plastic. The plastic sealant had
been dyed pale blue, and the lighting was bright and diffuse,
producing an effect of expansiveness. Two operating spin
drives within the high-vaulted room gave everything a gentle
flickering effect.One of these active drives was that of the
old school bus, which was in the lunar garage for tests and
maintenance.
In the driver's seat of the bus, Diana found a short,
muscular, dark haired man who was gazing intently at the
flickering display on the old Mac. A smaller, more modern
computer sat on his lap, a strand of cable linking the two
machines. He looked up at Diana, smiled, and then tapped a
key, instantly shutting down the drive.
"Hi there," he said. "Hop on board!"
Diana jumped up the steps and squatted on the carpet next
to the driver's seat. "Hey, Jim," she said.
"Let me guess," Jim grinned. "You came to pay me
personally, with the sweetness of your kisses."
"That's not a payment," Diana smiled back. "It's more
like a fringe benefit." She leaned over and gave him a brief
kiss.
"That's what I like," Jim said, "a job with benefits."
"Actually, Jim, I need your expertise in another area."
"Okay."
"How does this thing work? Can you explain it to me? I've
got some math. I think I can pick it up."
"You want me to explain the single most important
invention of our time while standing on one leg?"
"Yeah," Diana said. "Something like that."
"Okay. Actually it's pretty simple. Come on outside. I'll
show you."
Jim unbolted a side panel and showed Diana a space
beneath the floor which once housed the drive shaft. There was
now another kind of shaft, shiny, polished and fitted with six
large, grooved rings. At one end was an electric motor about
six inches long.
"Real simple," Jim said. "The motor turns the
electromagnets which rotate in opposite directions. The
counter-rotating magnetic fields synergize to produce a field
that is impervious to many different materials, and which can
be influenced to move in a particular direction. As you know,
that's done through a computer model of the field. That's
really where the math comes in, defining the exact shape and
motion of the spin field. It depends on the position and speed
of the magnets."
"Yeah," said Diana, "I understand that. I think what I
want to know is, what is it about the magnets that make the
field form? How is that related to gravity?"
"Ooch." Jim looked wounded. "The tough questions. Do you
have a good background in theoretical physics?"
"Well, just what I've picked up from the vid, really."
"Yeah, me too. I know how to control it, how to build it,
how to do any damn thing with it. But I'm not a physicist, you
know. Does an automobile mechanic ever really understand what
causes petroleum vapors to explode? The chemistry of it, on a
molecular or atomic level, I mean."
"No, I guess not."
"Okay, thunderthighs, back on the bus. I'll show you some
more."
"Thunderthighs!? I don't have any thunderthighs."
"Well, if you'd just pull that skirt up a little, I could
see for myself. Ah, yes, thank you. I apologize deeply."
Back on board, Jim tapped a brief command into the Mac
and the screen filled with computer code.
"This is a variation on Palmer's original program, which
was written on Macintosh. That's why you still use this
archaic thing ? it requires the least adaptation from what
Palmer wrote. It's difficult to adapt for other machines,
simply because nobody understands it too well. I've got a
pretty good idea of what does what, in terms of what changes
it will cause in the spin of the magnets, or in the direction
and speed of the car, but I can't for the life of me imagine
how Nicholas Palmer arrived at any of this. From the point of
view of traditional programming ? the kind you or I do every
day ? this is total chaos. But it works. We can use it, and we
do."
"This doesn't help me very much," Diana said.
"Oh well. Perhaps I can compensate another way?"
"Hmmm. I could go for a little compensation..."
57. THE NEW ECONOMY
Nixon was back in cyberspace, seated behind the big,
cartoon desk.
"Martha," he said, to no one in particular. "Where is
Martha?"
A snap and she appeared. "Hi, Dick," she said.
"Martha... Are you Martha or are you... prerecorded?"
"I'm Martha. I'm realtime, but I know everything that we
talked about, the last time."
"That's great," Nixon said. "That's really great." What
do I say? he thought. I want to tell her that... I want her to
know... But then what about Nurse Bounty? "It was a pleasure
meeting your, uh, simulation."
"Thank you. I enjoyed the playback, as well. So, what
will it be today, Dick?"
"Um, yes. I need information. How do I find out about
spacers?"
"That depends. Do you have any particular spacers in
mind?"
"No, I guess not. I need more of a general ? stuff about
economics, policy, government... How does one...?"
"Well, there's two ways. First we can look in the records
of the Earth Cybernet. If you need more than that, we can go
right to the System net."
"The System net?"
"Yes, the space cybernet. We're here inside Earth
cyberspace, so you might as well just ask questions. We'll see
where they get us."
"Okay. Computer, explain the balance of trade between
America and outer space."
"Combined goods imported to the United States of America
from extraterrestrial origins exceeds the amount of American
goods exported to extraterrestrial destinations by a ratio of
approximately two to one, based on currently accepted dollar
value," the computer said.
"What are the current monetary standards, both on Earth
and in space?" Nixon asked.
"The dollar is the currently accepted unit in America and
much of the world, but it's value is largely arbitrary, by
consensus, without basis in metal, fuel or other commodity.
"Extraterrestrial commerce is frequently transacted using
the hemp dollar, or 'kilobuck', the value of which is based on
a unit for measuring the amount of energy derived from the
combustion of one kilogram of dried, unprocessed hemp.
Frequently, actual plant material is used, the exchange rate
varying slightly depending on percentage of fiber, oil, or
psychoactive components.
"Both on Earth and in space, barter is a frequent means
of transaction."
"Hmmm," Nixon said. "What's the main import from space to
Earth?"
"The main import to Earth from space is energy."
"Solar? Nuclear? What is it?"
"Solar energy stored in plant material. Cannabis
varieties and concentrated fuels made from cannabis."
Nixon uttered an expletive. "Drugs are energy? The damned
spacers control the energy supply?"
"The answer to the first question," the computer said,
"is no, but both drugs and energy may be derived from several
plant species. The answer to the second question is yes, in as
much as Earth inhabitants produce little of their own energy."
"What prevents us from making our own energy? Have we
exhausted reserves?"
"Reserves of energy do exist on the planet Earth, in the
form of solar energy, energy derived from wind, from biomass,
from a variety of fossil fuels, and several other sources."
"So why do we buy from the damned spacers?"
"Economically competitive methods of energy production
frequently involve farming of cannabis varieties. Such
cultivation was made illegal in the United States of America
in the year 1937. This law is traditionally upheld by many
Americans."
"Damn," Nixon said to Martha. "It would go against
everything I ever believed in to legalize marijuana."
"You never smoked any, yourself?" Martha asked.
"No, I..." But I did, he realized. Just yesterday. Damn.
Why did I do that? It seemed harmless... But no one need know
that. "No, I cannot recall ever having done that," he said.
"No."
"Oh," she said.
"If there were just a way to control the supply without
actually growing it here," he mused. "Computer, describe the
government of the spacers."
"There is no general government for all inhabitants of
the Solar System. There are small guiding bodies for some
colonies, and a corporate structure for some manufacturing
facilities."
"Martha, is there a way to get the computer to print this
stuff out in detail? So I can look it over at my leisure?"
"Certainly," Martha said. "You must have a printer in the
White House. Just tell it to print what you want."
"Computer," Nixon said, "print out a detailed description
of each existing government on Earth, and every colony in
space."
"File now in print queue," the computer said. "Printing."
"Good," Nixon smiled. "Now we can spend a little time
together."
58. REPORT
"All right," said Martha. "I do have a report for you."
"A report?"
"Yes, Dick. I contacted my friends who are involved in
researching breaks. And I compiled some basic information for
you."
"Thank you, Martha. You're very good at this."
Martha's representation displayed a grin. "Thanks. My
friends, by the way, are very interested in doing this work in
an, um, official capacity. On a committee."
"I'm trusting your judgement on this, Martha. These are
your friends."
"I'll have the computer print out their resume files.
Anyway, what I learned from them is this: Breaks occured since
the very beginning of computer technology. There was always
some kind of interference, line noise, static electricity,
whatever, which had the capability of scrambling data. The
cybernet showed no greater incidence of breaks than you would
have thought, until about three years ago. Then suddenly they
seemed to proliferate ? and no one can attribute a specific
cause to them. They also have a tendency to cluster in certain
areas of the net, although these areas change from minute to
minute, or day to day. They told me that there was some
similarity between the pattern in which breaks appear and the
behavior of subatomic particles, but I don't know too much
about subatomic particles. Do you?"
"No, no. Nothing at all."
"Anyone granted immunity will be ? let me try Peterson on
you today?"
"Pardon me?"
"Deep six it and get Hunt out of the country."
"What are you saying, Martha? Are you... are you mocking
me?"
"No, Dick. Why would you say that?"
"It sounded like, uh, I mean... the damn tapes. Were you
talking about... uh..."
"All I said was that my friends have studied quantum
physics and could probably explain that better."
"Oh, okay. Okay. Uh, Martha... I've been wondering
something..."
"Yes, Dick?"
"Is this really the way you look? In the flesh, I mean?"
"I'm a woman, actually," she said, showing a smile, "not
a cartoon."
"I bet you're beautiful."
"So I've been told, but I'm not sure."
"I want to meet you, Martha. I want to be able to touch
you, to hold you... I want to marry you. I am astounded by
your efficiency. You know your job. You would make a perfect
first lady, you know. You're aware of the world around you,
you're personable, you have a wonderful voice... Where do you
live? Are you married? Do you have a family? Please, Martha.
It would mean the world to me. Suddenly I'm alone in the
world. I had a family once... Now I just need... I need...
you, Martha."
"Excuse me, Dick? I think us we're expriencing some
breaks. The only thing that you just said that seemed together
to make sense was that thing about the spin drive, but the
rest of that was just bring boils down to the name of Hersh
champagne."
"Damn," said Nixon. "Goddamn."
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