“Well,” Allie said, “there’s me. How about I go out there, make all sorts of nice apologies for everyone, turn on the charm, and generally win them over to the cause?”
“Well, you can certainly do it—I’ve seen you—”
“I’m pretty sure I can speak for Graham and make it sound convincing. And if they need a presidential decision on something, I’ll sweet-talk Graham to go along with whatever deal I need to cut or arrangement I need to make. He listens to me a lot these days.” Something about Allie’s smile bothered Heather, and she hoped she didn’t know what it was. “Better fill me in on what your two new friends do and why you think it’s vital; we want them to feel valued, and nothing creates the impression of neglect like being asked the same questions over and over.”
THE NEXT DAY. EAST OF GRAND JUNCTION. COLORADO. 1:45 P.M. MST. TUESDAY. DECEMBER 24.
Heather and Allie sat at a newly-bolted-in picnic table in the observation car that was attached ahead of Amtrak One, as the presidential car was being called, much to Graham’s annoyance. Spectacular scenery rolled by; they had time to review Allie’s notes about what was available at Pueblo.
“I can’t believe how many obsolete-tech people came out of the woodwork,” Heather said, after a while. “Steam railroad buffs. Hobby printers. Guys who build their own tubes for tube amps. Steam car collectors, and that guy with all those nineteenth-century machine guns, and of course guys like Quattro with his old airplanes. I suppose it’s not that shocking that there’s a whole nest of them with printing presses and warehouses full of pamphlets down in Pueblo.”
Allie shrugged. “People spent their working lives learning a technology, and that’s a pretty deep commitment. That nice lady in Pale Bluff was a Gregg shorthand expert, probably one of the youngest and last I would guess.”
“Steam trains, though? Too far in the past; no one nowadays grew up around them.”
“Oh, well, as far as I can tell, steam trains are a
religion
. We think that the United States might have as many as two hundred working steam locomotives, eighty-four of them narrow-gauge. Anyway, the bottom line is this: If James and Leslie are giving me an accurate picture, in their warehouses, they have all, or almost all, the information we need to get people at least back to a 1940s or 1950s level of comfort—much of it on reserve printing plates, which means with some materials and training, enough to paper the country with it. GPO is a huge repository of how to do everything, and we just need to get a train running down to them, find them the paper and ink and maybe some spare parts, and feed them regularly.”
Heather smiled, thinking how happy Leslie and James must have been after their meeting with Allie. “So I did good putting them in touch with you? This is about as excited as I’ve seen you get about anything since Daybreak.”
“You did brilliantly. And of course I’m jacked about this, Heather, if I’d been smart enough I’d’ve been praying for Pueblo or something like it to turn up—they have so much potential for knitting the country together. Back when distances were bigger and travel wasn’t common, that used to be one of the things that reminded people they were Americans, not just Nebraskans or whatever—that little pamphlet from the Federal government about how to keep milk from spoiling, or how to build a tower for your windmill. Hah, now there’s a view!”
The land fell away to the south and west as they descended the long curve, and below them a deep lake, surrounded by redrock, reflected the sky back. “I’ve driven through here but never seen what it looked like—my eyes were always on the road ahead, too much to worry about,” Heather said. “Speaking of which . . . you think we’ll find a way to bring Cam and Graham back together?”
“I think Graham still hopes so, but as for me—”
“We’re coming up on Glenwood Springs,” Sherry said, sticking her head up from the stairway below. “Nobody’s told me if that’s Colorado or Utah.”
“Colorado,” Heather said. “Two more stops before Utah. I should splash some water on my face; it’s my turn to be standing near Graham, looking attentive and visibly holding a gun.”
As Heather heard the speech for the fourth time and ostentatiously looked over the crowd, hoping to seem intimidating, Allie was standing pretty close to Graham Weisbrod and shining Nancy-Reagan-style adoration at him.
Crap. Innocent or not, this is gonna weird out Arnie, and I need him not crazy.
And
I don’t really think it’s innocent.
Furthermore . . .
Graham had been a media darling for a long time and knew how to work a crowd. But had he always enjoyed it quite this much?
Maybe we need a politician for this job, but I’m not sure I wanted the politician to be
Graham.
This is the guy who used to tell me that I knew better; I wonder, nowadays, if
he
does?
THE NEXT DAY. ATHENS. TNG DISTRICT. (ATHENS. GEORGIA.) 10:30 A.M. EST. WEDNESDAY. DECEMBER 25.
It wasn’t the worst prison in the world; they fed him the same as they did the guards, and he was allowed notebooks and paper, and the time to sit and write.
When the summons came, the guard said, “While you’re meeting with the NCCC, we’re supposed to pack all your things. He said to ask you if the notebooks go in a special order, and if you’d rather have them any particular place in this.”
The man held up a canvas/steel rucksack that was probably an antique, since there was no whiff of rotting plastic or nylon about it.
“If this one goes in this outside pocket,” Chris said, “with a few pens, so I can whip it out and write fast, that would be great. The older ones over there on the bench should all go in on top of my spare boots and clothes, so they won’t get damp from just setting the pack down, but not too close to the top in case rain leaks in.”
“Kind of bury them in the middle? Got it. He also wanted us to see if you wanted one or two more spare blank notebooks to take with you, but he thought you’d be able to forage for them on your way, too.”
“Maybe one spare would be nice, so I don’t have to forage too soon. Where am I going?”
“Beats me, Mr. Manckiewicz, I’m supposed to take you to the Natcon, and get your pack ready while you’re in with him. Maybe he’ll tell you.”
Cameron Nguyen-Peters was thinner than ever, and whatever traces of a smile had ever been around his mouth had vanished. He still had his pliers-like handshake and disconcerting way of looking directly at you. “Chris,” he said, “you are a problem, and there are only three things that can be done with a problem—ignore it, solve it, or make it someone else’s problem. Have a seat, and we’ll discuss the situation and the options.”
“Um,” Chris said. “I kind of thought I was being held for sedition or some such.”
“Well, that’s the problem. I have a war to run, and the war may go on for decades. From a winning-the-war perspective, which is the only perspective I can really allow myself, a free press has a lousy track record. Yes, I know”—Cameron waved a quick dismissal—“there have been many journalists who did great things for the war effort in past wars, and many ethical journalists who at least did no harm, and so on. But even the best journalists in the wars where they did the best jobs sometimes leaked vital information. As of this moment, we’re beaten, Chris, badly beaten, and I think we’re more likely than not to lose—
don’t quote that
, anywhere, ever. But I think there’s still a chance to win—if we get it all together and fight seriously. The next year or so will tell the tale, and if we win, then in 2026 we’ll hold those elections, and in 2027 I will set the entire Constitutional apparatus back up. I suppose after that I’ll retire to a farm or something, or maybe hire you to ghostwrite my memoirs. If we lose it won’t matter. But for right now, the Constitution is suspended—to preserve the possibility that someday I will set it back up.”
“I don’t imagine you’re asking for my opinion.”
“Not at all. But here’s the rest of the situation. There can be no point in getting into a civil war, and frankly, almost all of the country’s remaining military strength is down here in the South—actually pretty much in a belt across the bottom of the country from the Carolinas to Arizona. The upper-left-hand corner of the country that went over to Weisbrod, which we might call the Goofy Quadrant, are no danger to us. None. They have historically low rates of military enlistment, they’re not very disciplined in any other way, they’re just not going to put together an army for a civil war, and if they try it will take them years. And they can’t possibly be an invasion route for the other side—whoever that is—because we control most of the warships still moving. So the Goofy Quadrant can’t help us much in the war, and they can’t hurt us much, and common sense says to let them go.
“Which brings me to my solution to the problem of you. I’m giving you the gear you need, and a space-a pass that you should be able to ride out to somewhere on the Plains or maybe down to the Canal Zone, telling you to have fun and go do what you do, and sending you over to Graham Weisbrod. As a public official, I can’t ignore you; as an American, I can’t stand to do anything that would solve you; but luckily, I can make you someone else’s problem. Good luck, Chris, and Merry Christmas! I’ll watch for your byline.”
Chris thought,
Well, Cameron Nguyen-Peters has given up smiling for the duration, I guess, but I’ve seldom seen him so cheerful.
FOUR DAYS LATER . SOUTHEAST OF PALE BLUFF. ILLINOIS. 11:00 A.M. CST. SUNDAY. DECEMBER 29.
Chris had struck I-64 the day before, and thanks to his old TV days and his time at KP-1, he hadn’t had to sleep outside or go hungry so far; people here remembered him, and when he said he was going to Olympia to start a new paper there, mostly people seemed to be happy to help.
He’d risen with a couple nice old-farmer types before dawn. They’d given him a large breakfast, filled both his canteens, and sent him on his way. Good weather was holding, so far.
There’re a lot of worse walks in the world
.
He topped the rise and decided that he was either having the best luck or the worst hallucination of his career. Right there in front of him was what could only be the DC-3 that had brought Weisbrod to Pale Bluff, Illinois. That meant two things: a chance to look at a piece of history, and that Pale Bluff was nearby, which meant a hundred good interviews in all probability.
He was about a hundred feet from the plane when he realized that there was a man inside, talking to himself and swearing. He crept closer and discovered a man in a pair of coveralls, seated on the floor of the plane, and busily wrapping pieces of copper wire with flannel and Elmer’s Glue. It looked like the maddest craft project he’d ever seen.
The man said, “I don’t have any money or food and I’m not leaving soon.”
“I wasn’t going to rob you or jack you. Are you, by any chance, Quattro Larsen, freeholder of Castle Larsen?”
“I am. I am also Quattro Larsen, man bored out of his skull as he wraps miles of wire and hand-rebuilds fuses. The barometer is falling, the hygrometer is rising, and the clouds tell me I’ve got a storm coming; I’ve a day at best to get this idiot thing fixed so I can fly south, dodge the storm, and get home. And I’m a fumble-fingered idiot. Plus I won’t be able to work after dark; I don’t have any artificial light, and I’ll have to walk back to the village in the dark. So I am getting very scared and very sorry for myself.”
“Mind if I climb up and join you?”
“Help yourself.”
“Suppose you show me how to wrap wire. My name is Chris Manckiewicz, I’m a reporter, and I’d be very happy to be your assistant. And it so happens I have a small oil lamp.”
“I used to hear you on the radio.”
“So you know you can trust me.”
“Wrap some wire and let’s see.”
THREE HOURS LATER . PALE BLUFF. ILLINOIS. 2:00 P.M. CST. SUNDAY. DECEMBER 29.
Chris explained who he was quickly; Carol May Kloster said, “Well, I’d sort of like to hang on to the original document. Can you read shorthand?”
“Not a blessed bit. They didn’t even teach it anymore in J-school.”
“Well, of course, I’m flattered and honored that you want a copy of this, but I’ve only had time in the last couple of weeks to make four copies in decent handwriting; my niece Pauline has made about twenty in shorthand, practicing her Gregg, so I was going to give you one of those instead. But that’s all right; I kind of like the idea that my work is going to be published in the country’s biggest newspaper.”
“Actually if you wanted to send me news reports or even just letters from this part of the country, I need a Lower Ohio Valley Correspondent.”
“You have no idea how long-winded I am.”
“You have no idea how short on copy, and reporters, I’m going to be, especially if I’m trying to cover the country. My guess is that if you wait a couple of weeks and then address it to
Chris Manckiewicz, the Newspaper, Olympia
, and give it to anyone going that way to be passed on to the next person going that way, it’ll find me. Sort of like Internet by hand.” He looked down at the copy of Weisbrod’s speech, and his eyes were pulled into the paper; before he knew it he’d read the whole thing. “Hey, this is a great speech, and yes, you get all the credit for transcribing it. Here’s your first assigned gig: write me an account of your impressions of the speech, how he said it, how people reacted, everything.”
“Really? You want me to write something like that for you?”
“No, just make something up and I’ll throw it in the wastebasket.”
She swatted him playfully, they grinned at each other, and Chris figured
I’ve got no paper and it’s breaking my heart, but I’ve got a stringer, and that’s a start.
Carol May said, “Pauline should be back any time; she was going to round up a few teenagers who don’t have enough to do to go out and help you all with getting the plane ready. You’re just lucky the harvest is in, and we all like Mr. Larsen, so we can spare him some time and effort to keep him flying. Especially since he was so good as to put us on the map and has been such a pleasant man to have around these past few days.”