“Please come with me, sir,” the young man urged, but the Secretary appeared to have lost the power of movement. The females had to haul him from his chair and carry him bodily from the room. The young man in the tuxedo followed them out, brooding as obsessively over his quarry as any collector bot Martin had seen.
The members of the room gave a sigh of relief.
“I don’t understand,” William said. “Why didn’t he want to join the brain trust?”
“The brain trust is a computer,” Zebulon told her. “A big computer bank composed of hardware, software—and wetware.”
“So?” she asked.
“So . . .” Zebulon paused and gave her a tight smile. “So your body doesn’t join the brain trust. Just your brain.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Martin missed out on the first flurry of activity around the new President. Rudy sent him off with an aide to take a shower and get a change of clothes. “And then you can come with us to bring back the Wonder Babies,” Rudy told him. “You’ll be able to rescue Cassie, just like you wanted to do. That’ll be a good thing, won’t it?”
Martin thought so, but he wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure about anything. He followed the aide blindly, with no idea where he was going, and hallways swung around him like scenes from a game module. His blanket insisted on turning into terry cloth and washing his hair for him, and his spirits were so low that he didn’t object.
After he had cleaned up, the aide led him out to the black marble packet bay, and he boarded an elegant packet car rigged up to be a traveling conference room. Around a big cherrywood table sat Rudy, William, and two dozen agents: two dozen Abels and Zebulons, in every stage of life and health.
Rudy waved him in, and the agents blinked at him. All those watery eyes made him feel strange. “Director Montgomery,” Rudy said, “this is the boy you’ve been hearing about,” and an old, bald Zebulon with a large belly reached across the table and shook his hand.
Agency Director Montgomery’s little trout mouth had disappeared into loose jowls, and he kept his hand on his paunch as if he had a permanent stomachache. “The man of the hour, eh?” he said genially to Martin. Martin just stared helplessly back at him. He couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Why don’t you follow me,” Rudy suggested as he led Martin through the packet car. “There’s a nice little bedroom back here, and this will be a long trip. The agents and William and I will be hashing through a lot of unfinished business. Why don’t you just get some sleep?”
Martin collapsed onto the bed without protest and felt his blanket tuck him in.
Their packet arrived at the ruined city in the middle of a massive evacuation effort, with medical technicians hurrying back and forth from the big building’s filthy basement. The little children were in pitiful shape. Many of them were too weak to walk. The stench in the dark rooms made Martin’s eyes burn.
While the rest of Cassie’s class went into a hospital car, Rudy arranged to bring Cassie back to Central in their packet. Martin walked by the stretcher that held his little sister and kept bumping into people and tripping over things. Cassie had her eyes closed, and she had a plastic tube stuck in her arm, and Martin hated the whole world.
Inside the packet, the medical technicians set her stretcher down in the little bedroom. “Run along,” they told Martin. “We need to get her comfortable for the trip.”
“I can help,” he said.
“You can help by getting out of the way.”
Martin wandered to the doorway of the conference room. Rudy stood there talking to a prototype he didn’t know. Eight or nine agents lounged about, looking bleary-eyed and drinking coffee. Montgomery was drinking from a small bottle of Scotch.
“But this time is different,” Rudy was saying, and his words were quick with excitement. “This President has seen it all, things the schemers at Central would never have let him see. Their plan to hold power blew up in their faces.”
Martin stepped into the room. “He’s not the President,” he said.
They all stared at him: Rudy; the prototype, whose cheek had a nasty, infected gash; and eight or nine variations on Zebulon’s snub-nosed face, all giving him the same blank look.
Montgomery popped an antacid into his mouth and sank down onto a chair. “What do you mean, he’s not the President?”
“He’s Chip. He’s my dog,” Martin said. “He’s just being President for now to get us out of trouble, like he’s been a security bot and things. But he always changes back when he’s done, and that’s what he’s gonna do this time. He’d hate being President, and he loves being my dog. Dr. Granville said so.”
One of the middle-aged agents laughed. “You think being the President’s like trying on a new suit?” But Rudy put his hand on the man’s shoulder, and he fell silent.
“Of course he loves being your dog,” Rudy said. “Our last President reasoned that the drive to be a dog is so powerful, it would override the drive to be a politician. He thought he would never see Chip arrive to take over his rightful place because a dog loves being a dog. And in any other home in any other suburb, his plan probably would have worked. But because of who you are, it failed completely.”
“Me?” Martin said. “I didn’t do anything.”
Rudy turned to the others. “This boy here,” he said, pointing at Martin, “has an insatiable desire to find out all the things his fellow citizens want to hide. And he receives this special bot, this dog-President bot, in the middle of a suburb full of secrets. From the very start, Martin doesn’t let his bot be a dog. Right away, he starts demanding that it be the President.”
“Really?” Montgomery said. The agents stared at Martin. Their collective stare had tremendous force.
“I didn’t,” Martin protested. “I just wanted him to be my dog.”
“Did you?” Rudy said. “Think back to what you asked him to do: open locked doors, identify and disable bugs, investigate injustice, use his security clearance to override alarms and commandeer transports, use his executive powers to interrogate and command bots. Martin, your personal quest for justice and your need to secure your family’s safety took you beyond the limits of a normal boy. In order to help you, your bot had to go well beyond the powers of a normal dog.”
“That’s amazing,” the prototype murmured.
“It’s brilliant!” Montgomery said.
Martin shook his head but couldn’t speak.
“This nation owes you a great debt of gratitude,” Rudy said gently.
Martin turned and stumbled out of the room.
A lamp glowed on the bedside table in the small bedroom, and the last technician exiting the room passed him on the way to the door. Cassie lay there wrapped up in a white sheet, with a strap around her middle to keep her safe once they started moving. Martin sat down on the bedside table and stroked her hand, the one that had the plastic tube in it. Her fingers were grubby and sticky. And so little.
“Hey, there,” he whispered.
Cassie opened her eyes. They were dull, but they found his face, and one grimy dimple deepened.
She stirred, and her tongue clicked as she opened her mouth. “Thought you were a dream,” she muttered in a rough voice. “A ha . . . ha . . . llu . . .” But the word was too long, and she was too tired. She gave up without finishing.
Most of Cassie’s curls were squashed into a dirty shell around her face, but he liberated one and gave it a tug. “Not a dream,” he said in a low voice. “A nightmare, maybe.” And she gave a little smirk.
“Bright,” she muttered, squinting at the solitary bulb. “Hurts my eyes.”
“Yeah, well, close them,” Martin said. “Get a little rest. I won’t go away.” And he held her sticky hand as the packet car started up and began to sway from side to side.
After a minute, he felt a tickle at his neck. His blanket had reached down a corner to touch Cassie’s arm. It crept off his shoulders and flowed over her small form. Then it gave a shiver and b
urst silently into deep, downy fleece, like a thousand dandelions turning into fluff.
Cassie snuggled her cheek into the fleece with a sigh, and Martin gave the blanket a grateful pat. “She likes pink,” he whispered to it. “Bright pink.” And the blanket flushed to the rosy hue of strawberry Kool-Aid.
Several hours later, Martin woke up to the sounds of people yawning and groaning. The packet car had stopped. He lifted his head from Cassie’s blanket and discovered that he’d slept folded up like a metal chair. His back wasn’t all that happy about it.
A big hand shook his shoulder—for the second time, he realized. He looked up to find Ursula standing over him.
“He needs to see you,” she said.
They climbed the steps to the golden door and went through the hall of murals to the rotunda. Taking a left under the bland stare of the Savior of Our Nation, they made their way down a corridor lined with fanciful pillars painted like trees beneath a blue sky ceiling. I wonder what the deal is, Martin thought, with all the paintings of the sky indoors. Can’t people just walk outside to look at a cloud?
It was daytime, or perhaps revolution time, and crowds of people were standing around. They pointed and muttered behind their hands as Martin went by. Everyone at Central seemed to point and mutter.
Ursula preceded him through a paneled door. “Here he is, sir,” she announced.
The new President—that is, Chip—sat staring down at the table in front of him. He was a lean, handsome man with black hair and a rangy appearance. A ferret-faced man paced to and fro beside his table, but the President didn’t look up to acknowledge him. The rest of the Ursulas clustered nearby.
“You’re his handler, right?” the ferret-faced man said as he rushed up to Martin. “Well, all I can say is, it’s about time! We missed last night’s broadcast, we’re supposed to go on in thirty minutes, and just look at the state things are in! I ask you, how are we supposed to work with this material?”
“Are you talking to me?” Martin asked. “What’s the problem?”
“Fashion, for one thing,” the man said bitterly. “Look at that rumpled sport coat! It doesn’t even fit. Now, I’ve got some great designs here to show you. We were thinking maybe a dark taupe with narrow lapels and a blue polka-dot tie: a bold departure from the past, a new administration.”
“What’s wrong with black and tan?” Martin said. “He’s always looked great in black and tan. And he’s got the sense to know that ties are stupid.”
At this encouragement, the new President looked up at Martin. Martin discovered that his eyes were still Chip’s eyes, beautiful and dark.
“He’s got sense?” said the ferret-faced man. “I don’t mean to upset you, but his speechwriters aren’t picking up on a whole lot of it. He won’t repeat his speeches back. In fact, he won’t say a word!”
Hope flared for an instant in Martin’s heart. “He doesn’t talk?” he said.
“No! All he does is vibrate away to his bot bodyguards and give us these long, soulful looks. It’s like he thinks we’re going to read his mind.”
“I always know what he’s thinking,” Martin muttered.
“Six thirty!” the man said sharply. “We have a country to run here, people. Sit right down there and order him to say his speech like a good boy for the cameras. This nation will not be run by a mime!”
Martin pulled out a chair and sat down across from the silent man, trying to think what to say. Tell me what to do, Chip’s dark eyes pleaded.
“I got Cassie out of that nasty place and brought her here,” Martin said. “It was a long way back, and she was asleep. I didn’t have anybody to talk to—you know, I always talk to you—but I tried to come up with a plan on my own. What I thought was that since we did what we were gonna do, since I rescued Cassie and you let them know to get Mom and Dad off the hook, we could drop all this and grab some supplies and go off on our own. Maybe to the grassy area we passed in the hopper car, or maybe that cool pink desert, if we could find some water and I could get a new backpack.” He paused. “Anyway, that’s what I wanted us to do.”
The man who was Chip gazed at him, and his whole soul was in his eyes. How could anyone not know what he was thinking?
“But then I worked on it some more,” Martin said. “And the more I thought about it, the more I knew. That plan’s never gonna work. This place is too messed up. We can’t go off together. Not now. And not later.” He paused. “Not . . . not ever.”
The light in Chip’s eyes dimmed, and his shoulders slumped under the heavy black sport coat.
“See, you gotta think about Cassie,” Martin told him. “She’s getting harder to save, you know? This last time, it was down to the wire. And then there’s Mom and Dad, and William, and Theo, and Rudy. And what about Bug? I forgot to ask about him, but maybe he’s still okay; because, you know, it’s only been a few weeks. I mean, the group of people we care about keeps getting bigger and bigger, so the list of people to save gets longer and longer.”
The man nodded mournfully. I know you’re right, his eyes said, but they were miserable, and Martin felt horrible for him.
“Chip, you know you were . . .” He gulped, collected himself, and went on. “You know you’ll always be my best friend. But is that fair, for me to get to have you all to myself? I mean, that’s what the Secretary did, he kept the President as his own best friend, and look what a mess he got us into. And they’ve already started it with me.” He pointed at the ferret-faced man. “‘Order him around. Tell him what to wear.’ They want another best friend for the President.”
Chip stared at him, dark eyes earnest. How could I not have noticed? Martin thought sadly. I saw that same look from my television every day. Martin was crying now, and the ferret-faced man was glowering at him like he was an idiot, but he didn’t care.
“When I was a kid, I thought the President talked to me,” Martin said. “I thought he cared about me. Because that’s the way it’s supposed to be, you know? The President has to be there for everyone. Somebody in this stupid, messed-up place needs to care about us. Somebody’s got to keep an eye on these clowns and make sure they do the right thing. I mean, everywhere you look, and I don’t care which direction you go, there’s somebody who needs a best friend.”
The President was frowning at his fingers. He looked sidelong at Martin and gave him a sad, sweet smile, and in that instant, he looked so like Chip that Martin felt his heart crack into pieces.
“So, you think I should do this,” the President said. And when Martin heard him speak, he knew that his dog was gone.
Be a great leader, Martin wanted to tell him. Do this thing right. If you’re anywhere near as good a President as you were a dog, you’re gonna be amazing. But he was crying too hard. He couldn’t say a word. All he could do was nod.
“Great, you can talk,” he heard the ferret-faced man say as he stumbled to the door. “It’s six thirty-five now. We’ll get you your speech and get to makeup; we’ve spent hours working on hairstyle ideas. You’ll be talking today about recycling plastic bread ties. The people are going to support it.”
“First of all, you’re fired,” the President said. “Ursula, get him out of here. And send for Rudy and the prototypes. We need to put together a plan.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Martin stepped out into the hallway and realized that he was alone. He hadn’t been alone in weeks, not since Chip had arrived on his birthday. But Chip wasn’t there, and he was just a kid again. He didn’t know where his parents were; he didn’t know where his friends were. He had no idea what he was supposed to do. He was so tired that he could barely see, and wherever he looked, people were muttering behind their hands.
Martin didn’t remember most of the rest of that morning, which he spent wandering the hallways of Central. Scenes from the wall murals floated before his bleary eyes like dreams, and then they became dreams. He was in the middle of a bitter argument with the marble Savior of Our Nation when he opened his eyes, an
d Theo was there instead.
“Hey,” he said. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“Yep. I’m taking care of a friend of mine while his parents finish up something. He’s been through a rough time lately.”
Martin discovered that he was in a bed with fresh, clean sheets and a quilted bedspread. The Savior of Our Nation turned out to be a big white pillow.
“You’re going to stay right here for a while,” Theo told him. “The medical tests say you’re at your limit. Any more stress or water deprivation or sunstroke or missed meals, and you’re going to fall over onto your back and curl up like a bug.”
“What about Cassie? Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. The President is having us move the school here so he can consult with the prototypes whenever he needs to.”
“Is everybody else okay?”
“As far as I know.”
“Well, wake me up if anything goes wrong,” Martin said, and he fell asleep again.
He spent the next couple of days in bed. He watched television and played game cartridges, but mostly, he just napped. Only part of it was because he was tired. Since Chip wasn’t there when he woke up, waking up didn’t seem to have much point. But things weren’t all bad. Theo let him throw cheese puffs at the television when his skateball team missed goals and torment the custodial bot by eating Little Gems donuts and sprinkling powdered sugar on the bed.
Plans coalesced around him while he recovered. The prototypes decided to use Mom and Dad’s game show to introduce television viewers to the outside world, and Mom and Dad agreed to stay on as actors. Two days after Cassie’s rescue, Theo woke Martin up and turned on the television. Martin watched his parents break through the outer wall of the game show building and lead their little band out into the light. Hertz came striding forward to meet them and issued them tubes of sunscreen. Then he led them to a packet car. Its windows sparkled, and its sides were shiny red.
“Hertz is taking them to the abandoned town your parents liked so much,” Theo said. “Engineers and construction bots will meet them there to start the work of rebuilding. They’re putting the whole process on television to show people how an outside suburb gets restored. That was your mom’s idea. She’s determined to fix up the house you found.”