‘It’s a shame this had to happen,’ Norm said at last, when they had gone almost a mile and there was no further sign of the Pinole flukers behind them.
‘Maybe not,’ Sam Regan said. ‘Maybe it’s for the good.’ He did not seem downcast. And after all, he had lost his wife; he had given up more than anyone else, and yet - he had survived.
‘Glad you feel that way,’ Norm said somberly.
They continued on, each with his own thoughts.
After a while, Timothy said to his father, ‘All these big fluke-pits to the south … there’s lots more things to do there, isn’t there? I mean, you don’t just sit around playing that game.’ He certainly hoped not.
His father said, ‘That’s true, I guess.’
Overhead, a care ship whistled at great velocity and then was gone again almost at once; Timothy watched it go but he was not really interested in it, because there was so much more to look forward to, on the ground and below the ground, ahead of them to the south.
His father murmured, ‘Those Oaklanders; their game, their particular doll, it taught them something. Connie had to grow and it forced them all to grow along with her. Our flukers never learned about that, not from Perky Pat. I wonder if they ever will. She’d have to grow up the way Connie did. Connie must have been like Perky Pat, once. A long time ago.’
Not interested in what his father was saying - who really cared about dolls and games with dolls? - Timothy scampered ahead, peering to see what lay before them, the opportunities and possibilities, for him and for his mother and dad, for Mr Regan also.
‘I can’t wait,’ he yelled back at his father, and Norm Schein managed a faint, fatigued smile in answer.
Stand-By
An hour before his morning program on channel six, ranking news clown Jim Briskin sat in his private office with his production staff, conferring on the report of an unknown possibly hostile flotilla detected at eight hundred astronomical units from the sun. It was big news, of course. But how should it be presented to his several billion viewers scattered over three planets and seven moons?
Peggy Jones, his secretary, lit a cigarette and said, ‘Don’t alarm them, Jim-Jam. Do it folksy-style.’ She leaned back, riffled the dispatches received by their commercial station from Unicephalon 40-D’s teletypers.
It had been the homeostatic problem-solving structure Unicephalon 40-D at the White House in Washington, DC which had detected this possible external enemy; in its capacity as President of the United States it had at once dispatched ships of the line to stand picket duty. The flotilla appeared to be entering from another solar system entirely, but that fact of course would have to be determined by the picket ships.
‘Folksy-style,’ Jim Briskin said glumly. ‘I grin and say, Hey look comrades - it’s happened at last, the thing we all feared, ha ha.’ He eyed her. ‘That’ll get baskets full of laughs all over Earth and Mars but just possibly not on the far-out moons.’ Because if there were some kind of attack it would be the farther colonists who would be hit first.
‘No, they won’t be amused,’ his continuity advisor Ed Fineberg agreed. He, too, looked worried; he had a family on Ganymede.
‘Is there any lighter piece of news?’ Peggy asked. ‘By which you could open your program? The sponsor would like that.’ She passed the armload of news dispatches to Briskin. ‘See what you can do. Mutant cow obtains voting franchise in court case in Alabama … you know.’
‘I know,’ Briskin agreed as he began to inspect the dispatches. One such as his quaint account - it had touched the hearts of millions - of the mutant blue jay which learned, by great trial and effort, to sew. It had sewn itself and its progeny a nest, one April morning, in Bismark, North Dakota, in front of the TV cameras of Briskin’s network.
One piece of news stood out; he knew intuitively, as soon as he saw it, that here he had what he wanted to lighten the dire tone of the day’s news. Seeing it, he relaxed. The worlds went on with business as usual, despite this great news-break from eight hundred AUs out.
‘Look,’ he said, grinning. ‘Old Gus Schatz is dead. Finally.’
‘Who’s Gus Schatz?’ Peggy asked, puzzled. ‘That name … it does sound familiar.’
‘The union man,’ Jim Briskin said. ‘You remember. The stand-by President, sent over to Washington by the union twenty-two years ago. He’s dead, and the union—’ He tossed her the dispatch: it was lucid and brief. ‘Now it’s sending a new stand-by President over to take Schatz’s place. I think I’ll interview him. Assuming he can talk.’
‘That’s right,’ Peggy said. ‘I keep forgetting. There still is a human stand-by in case Unicephalon fails. Has it ever failed?’
‘No,’ Ed Fineberg said. ‘And it never will. So we have one more case of union featherbedding. The plague of our society.’
‘But still,’ Jim Briskin said, ‘people would be amused. The home life of the top stand-by in the country … why the union picked him, what his hobbies are. What this man, whoever he is, plans to do during his term to keep from going mad with boredom. Old Gus learned to bind books; he collected rare old motor magazines and bound them in vellum with gold-stamped lettering.’
Both Ed and Peggy nodded in agreement. ‘Do that,’ Peggy urged him. ‘You can make it interesting, Jim-Jam; you can make anything interesting. I’ll place a call to the White House, or is the new man there yet?’
‘Probably still at union headquarters in Chicago,’ Ed said. ‘Try a line there. Government Civil Servants’ Union, East Division.’
Picking up the phone, Peggy quickly dialed.
At seven o’clock in the morning Maximilian Fischer sleepily heard noises; he lifted his head from the pillow, heard the confusion growing in the kitchen, the landlady’s shrill voice, then men’s voices which were unfamiliar to him. Groggily, he managed to sit up, shifting his bulk with care. He did not hurry; the doc had said not to overexert, because of the strain on his already-enlarged heart. So he took his time dressing.
Must be after a contribution to one of the funds, Max said to himself. It sounds like some of the fellas. Pretty early, though. He did not feel alarmed. I’m in good standing, he thought firmly. Nuthin’ to fear.
With care, he buttoned a fine pink and green-striped silk shirt, one of his favorites. Gives me class, he thought as with labored effort he managed to bend far enough over to slip on his authentic simulated deerskin pumps. Be ready to meet them on an equality level, he thought as he smoothed his thinning hair before the mirror. If they shake me down too much I’ll squawk directly to Pat Noble at the Noo York hiring hall; I mean, I don’t have to stand for any stuff. I been in the union too long.
From the other room a voice bawled, ‘Fischer - get your clothes on and come out. We got a job for you and it begins today.’
A job, Max thought with mixed feelings; he did not know whether to be glad or sorry. For over a year now he had been drawing from the union fund, as were most of his friends. Well what do you know. Cripes, he thought; suppose it’s a hard job, like maybe I got to bend over all the time or move around. He felt anger. What a dirty deal. I mean, who do they think they are? Opening the door, he faced them. ‘Listen,’ he began, but one of the union officials cut him off.
‘Pack your things, Fischer. Gus Schatz kicked the bucket and you got to go down to Washington, DC and take over the number one stand-by; we want you there before they abolish the position or something and we have to go out on strike or go to court. Mainly, we want to get someone right in clean and easy with no trouble; you understand? Make the transition so smooth that no one hardly takes notice.’
At once, Max said, ‘What’s it pay?’
Witheringly, the union official said, ‘You got no decision to make in this; you’re picked. You want your freeloader fund-money cut off? You want to have to get out at your age and look for work?’
‘Aw come on,’ Max protested. ‘I can pick up the phone and dial Pat Noble—’
The union officials were grabbing up objec
ts here and there in the apartment. ‘We’ll help you pack. Pat wants you in the White House by ten o’clock this morning.’
‘Pat!’ Max echoed. He had been sold out.
The union officials, dragging suitcases from the closet, grinned.
Shortly, they were on their way across the flatlands of the Midwest by monorail. Moodily, Maximilian Fischer watched the countryside flash past; he said nothing to the officials flanking him, preferring to mull the matter over and over in his mind. What could he recall about the number one stand-by job? It began at eight A.M. - he recalled reading that. And there always were a lot of tourists flocking through the White House to catch a glimpse of Unicephalon 40-D, especially the school kids … and he disliked kids because they always jeered at him due to his weight. Cripes, he’d have a million of them filing by, because he had to be on the premises. By law, he had to be within a hundred yards of Unicephalon 40-D at all times, day and night, or was it fifty yards? Anyhow it practically was right on top, so if the homeostatic problem-solving system failed - Maybe I better bone up on this, he decided. Take a TV educational course on government administration, just in case.
To the union official on his right, Max asked, ‘Listen, goodmember, do I have any powers in this job you guys got me? I mean, can I—’
‘It’s a union job like every other union job,’ the official answered wearily. ‘You sit. You stand by. Have you been out of work that long, you don’t remember?’ He laughed, nudging his companion. ‘Listen, Fischer here wants to know what authority the job entails.’ Now both men laughed. ‘I tell you what, Fischer,’ the official drawled. ‘When you’re all set up there in the White House, when you got your chair and bed and made all your arrangements for meals and laundry and TV viewing time, why don’t you amble over to Unicephalon 40-D and just sort of whine around there, you know, scratch and whine, until it notices you.’
‘Lay off,’ Max muttered.
‘And then,’ the official continued, ‘you sort of say, Hey Unicephalon, listen. I’m your buddy. How about a little “I scratch your back, you scratch mine.” You pass an ordinance for me—’
‘But what can he do in exchange?’ the other union official asked.
‘Amuse it. He can tell it the story of his life, how he rose out of poverty and obscurity and educated himself by watching TV seven days a week until finally, guess what, he rose all the way to the top; he got the job—’ The official snickered. ‘Of stand-by President.’
Maximilian, flushing, said nothing; he stared woodenly out of the monorail window.
*
When they reached Washington, DC and the White House, Maximilian Fischer was shown a little room. It had belonged to Gus, and although the faded old motor magazines had been cleared out, a few prints remained tacked on the walls: a 1963 Volvo S-122, a 1957 Peugeot 403 and other antique classics of a bygone age. And, on a bookcase, Max saw a hand-carved plastic model of a 1950 Studebaker Starlight coupe, with each detail perfect.
‘He was making that when he croaked,’ one of the union officials said as he set down Max’s suitcase. ‘He could tell you any fact there is about those old preturbine cars - any useless bit of car knowledge.’
Max nodded.
‘You got any idea what you’re going to do?’ the official asked him.
‘Aw hell,’ Max said. ‘How could I decide so soon? Give me time.’ Moodily, he picked up the Studebaker Starlight coupe and examined its underside. The desire to smash the model car came to him; he put the car down, then, turning away.
‘Make a rubber band ball,’ the official said.
‘What?’ Max said.
‘The stand-by before Gus. Louis somebody-or-other … he collected rubber bands, made a huge ball, big as a house, by the time he died. I forget his name, but the rubber band ball is at the Smithsonian now.’
There was a stir in the hallway. A White House receptionist, a middle-aged woman severely dressed, put her head in the room and said, ‘Mr President, there’s a TV news clown here to interview you. Please try to finish with him as quickly as possible because we have quite a few tours passing through the building today and some may want to look at you.’
‘Okay,’ Max said. He turned to face the TV news clown. It was Jim-Jam Briskin, he saw, the ranking clown just now. ‘You want to see me?’ he asked Briskin haltingly. ‘I mean, you’re sure it’s me you want to interview?’ He could not imagine what Briskin could find of interest about him. Holding out his hand he added, ‘This is my room, but these model cars and pics aren’t mine; they were Gus’s. I can’t tell you nuthin’ about them.’
On Briskin’s head the familiar flaming-red clown wig glowed, giving him in real life the same bizarre cast that the TV cameras picked up so well. He was older, however, than the TV image indicated, but he had the friendly, natural smile that everyone looked for: it was his badge of informality, a really nice guy, even-tempered but with a caustic wit when occasion demanded. Briskin was the sort of man who … well, Max thought, the sort of fella you’d like to see marry into your family.
They shook hands. Briskin said, ‘You’re on camera, Mr Max Fischer. Or rather, Mr President, I should say. This is Jim-Jam talking. For our literally billions of viewers located in every niche and corner of this far-flung solar system of ours, let me ask you this. How does it feel, sir, to know that if Unicephalon 40-D should fail, even momentarily, you would be catapulted into the most important post that has ever fallen onto the shoulders of a human being, that of actual, not merely stand-by, President of the United States? Does it worry you at night?’ He smiled. Behind him the camera technicians swung their mobile lenses back and forth; lights burned Max’s eyes and he felt the heat beginning to make him sweat under his arms and on his neck and upper lip. ‘What emotions grip you at this instant?’ Briskin asked. ‘As you stand on the threshold of this new task for perhaps the balance of your life? What thoughts run through your mind, now that you’re actually here in the White House?’
After a pause, Max said, ‘It’s - a big responsibility.’ And then he realized, he saw, that Briskin was laughing at him, laughing silently as he stood there. Because it was all a gag Briskin was pulling. Out in the planets and moons his audience knew it, too; they knew Jim-Jam’s humor.
‘You’re a large man, Mr Fischer,’ Briskin said. ‘If I may say so, a stout man. Do you get much exercise? I ask this because with your new job you pretty well will be confined to this room, and I wondered what change in your life this would bring about.’
‘Well,’ Max said, ‘I feel of course that a Government employee should always be at his post. Yes, what you say is true; I have to be right here day and night, but that doesn’t bother me. I’m prepared for it.’
‘Tell me,’ Jim Briskin said, ‘do you—’ And then he ceased. Turning to the video technicians behind him he said in an odd voice, ‘We’re off the air.’
A man wearing headphones squeezed forward past the cameras. ‘On the monitor, listen.’ He hurriedly handed the headphones to Briskin. ‘We’ve been pre-empted by Unicephalon; it’s broadcasting a news bulletin.’
Briskin held the phones to his ear. His face writhed and he said, ‘Those ships at eight hundred AUs. They are hostile, it says.’ He glanced up sharply at his technicians, the red clown’s wig sliding askew. ‘They’ve begun to attack.’
Within the following twenty-four hours the aliens had managed not only to penetrate the Sol System but also to knock out Unicephalon 40-D.
News of this reached Maximilian Fischer in an indirect manner as he sat in the White House Cafeteria having his supper.
‘Mr Maximilian Fischer?’
‘Yeah,’ Max said, glancing up at the group of Secret Servicemen who had surrounded his table.
‘You’re President of the United States.’
‘Naw,’ Max said. ‘I’m the stand-by President; that’s different.’
The Secret Serviceman said, ‘Unicephalon 40-D is out of commission for perhaps as long as a month. So according to
the amended Constitution, you’re President and also Commander-in-Chief of the armed forces. We’re here to guard you.’ The Secret Serviceman grinned ludicrously. Max grinned back. ‘Do you understand?’ the Secret Serviceman asked. ‘I mean, does it penetrate?’
‘Sure,’ Max said. Now he understood the buzz of conversation he had overheard while waiting in the cafeteria line with his tray. It explained why White House personnel had looked at him strangely. He set down his coffee cup, wiped his mouth with his napkin, slowly and deliberately, pretended to be absorbed in solemn thought. But actually his mind was empty.
‘We’ve been told,’ the Secret Serviceman said, ‘that you’re needed at once at the National Security Council bunker. They want your participation in finalization of strategy deliberations.’
They walked from the cafeteria to the elevator.
‘Strategy policy,’ Max said, as they descended. ‘I got a few opinions about that. I guess it’s time to deal harshly with these alien ships, don’t you agree?’
The Secret Servicemen nodded.
‘Yes, we got to show we’re not afraid,’ Max said. ‘Sure, we’ll get finalization; we’ll blast the buggers.’
The Secret Servicemen laughed good-naturedly.
Pleased, Max nudged the leader of the group. ‘I think we’re pretty goddam strong; I mean, the USA has got teeth.’
‘You tell ‘em, Max,’ one of the Secret Servicemen said, and they all laughed aloud. Max included.
As they stepped from the elevator they were stopped by a tall, well-dressed man who said urgently, ‘Mr President, I’m Jonathan Kirk, White House press secretary; I think before you go in there to confer with the NSC people you should address the nation in this hour of gravest peril. The public wants to see what their new leader is like.’ He held out a paper. ‘Here’s a statement drawn up by the Political Advisory Board; it codifies your—’
‘Nuts,’ Max said, handing it back without looking at it. ‘I’m the President, not you. Kirk? Burke? Shirk? Never heard of you. Show me the microphone and I’ll make my own speech. Or get me Pat Noble; maybe he’s got some ideas.’ And then he remembered that Pat had sold him out in the first place; Pat had gotten him into this. ‘Not him either,’ Max said. ‘Just give me the microphone.’