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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." See next file: BREAKS2.ASC