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copyright 1992-93 Philip H. Farber
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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?"
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 Ä cubes, spheres, pyramids, berry-like clusters of gleaming oblate blobs and things too complex or convoluted for an easy name in Nixon's mind Ä 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.
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 Ä 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."
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.
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."
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."
"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?"
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."
"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."
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!"
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."
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.
"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 Ä 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!"
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.
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."
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."
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.
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."
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..."
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?"
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.
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