by Ray Bradbury
“Good evening,” I said pleasantly. “Say, you have a lot of nice calendars there. Come in mighty handy.”
“Yes,” they said.
I went on to my room and stood in the dark before turning on the light and wondered why they should need three calendars, all with the year 2035. It was crazy, but they were not. Everything about them was crazy except themselves, they were clean, rational people with beautiful faces, but it began to move in my mind, the calendars, the clocks, the wristwatches they wore, worth a thousand dollars each if I ever saw a wristwatch, and they, themselves, constantly looking at the time. I thought of the handkerchief that wouldn’t burn and the seamless clothing, and the sentence “I’ve always hated Westercott.”
I’ve always hated Westercott.
Lionel Westercott. There wouldn’t be two people in the world with an unusual name like that. Lionel Westercott. I said it softly to myself in the summer night. It was a warm evening, with moths dancing softly, in velvet touches, on my screen. I slept fitfully, thinking of my comfortable job, this good little town, everything peaceful, everyone happy, and these two people in the next room, the only people in the town, in the world, it seemed, who were not happy. Their tired mouths haunted me. And sometimes the tired eyes, too tired for ones so young.
I must have slept a bit, for at two o’clock, as usual, I was wakened by her crying, but this time I heard her call out, “Where are we, where are we, how did we get here, where are we?” And his voice, “Hush, hush, now, please,” and he soothed her.
“Are we safe, are we safe, are we safe?”
“Yes, yes, dear, yes.”
And then the sobbing.
Perhaps I could have thought a lot of things. Most minds would turn to murder, fugitives from justice. My mind did not turn that way. Instead I lay in the dark, listening to her cry, and it broke my heart, it moved in my veins and my head and I was so unbearably touched by her sadness and loneliness that I got up and dressed and left the house. I walked down the street and before I knew it I was on the hill over the lake and there was the library, dark and immense, and I had my janitor’s key in my hand. Without thinking why, I entered the big silent place at two in the morning and walked through the empty rooms and down the aisles, turning on a few lights. And then I got a couple of big books out and began tracing some paragraphs and lines down and down, page after page, for about an hour in the early, early dark morning. I drew up a chair and sat down. I fetched some more books. I sent my eye searching. I grew tired. But then at last my hand paused on a name, “William Westercott, politician, New York City. Married to Aimee Ralph on January 1998. One child, Lionel, born February 2000.”
I shut the book and locked myself out of the library and walked home, cold, through the summer morning with the stars bright in the black sky.
I stood for a moment in front of the sleeping house with the empty porch and the curtains in every room fluttering with the warm August wind, and I held my cigar in my hand but did not light it. I listened, and there above me, like the cry of some night bird, was the sound of the lonely woman, crying. She had had another nightmare, and, I thought, nightmares are memory, they are based on things remembered, things remembered vividly and horridly and with too much detail, and she had had another of her nightmares and she was afraid.
I looked at the town all around me, the little houses, the houses with people in them, and the country beyond the houses, ten thousand miles of meadow and farm and river and lake, highways and hills and mountains and cities all sizes sleeping in the time before dawn, so quietly, and the streetlights going out now when there was no use for them at this nocturnal hour. And I thought of all the people in the whole land and the years to come, and all of us with good jobs and happy in this year.
Then I went upstairs past their door and went to bed and listened and there, behind the wall, the woman was saying over and over again, “I’m afraid, I’m afraid,” faintly, crying.
And lying there I was as cold as an ancient piece of ice placed between the blankets, and I was trembling, though I knew nothing, I knew everything, for now I knew where these travelers were from and what her nightmares were and what she was afraid of, and what they were running away from.
I figured it just before I went to sleep, with her crying faintly in my ears. Lionel Westercott, I thought, will be old enough to be president of the United States in the year 2035.
Somehow, I did not want the sun to rise in the morning.
HAIL TO THE CHIEF
2003–2004
HOW’S THAT AGAIN?”
Silence.
“Would you mind repeating that?”
Silence and an up-and-down murmur on the phone.
“This is a bad line. I can’t believe what I’m hearing! Go over that again.”
The government official was rising slowly from his chair, the telephone crammed to his ear. He was staring out the window, then at the ceiling, and then at the walls. Slowly he sat down again.
“Now repeat that.”
The phone made noises.
“Senator Hamfritt, you say? Just a moment. I’ll call you right back.”
The official hung up, turned in his chair, and stared out across the lawn at the White House.
Then he reached over and touched the intercom button.
When his secretary appeared at the door he said, “Sit down, you must hear this.”
He picked up the phone, punched a number and the speakerphone.
When a voice came on he said, “This is Elliot. Did you call in the last few minutes? You did. Now, go over those details again. Senator Hamfritt, you say? An Indian casino? In North Dakota? Yes. How many senators? Thirteen? They were there last night? You sure of the facts? He wasn’t drunk? He was drunk? Well, it’s late, but I’ll call the president.”
The official put the phone down and slowly turned to his secretary.
“Do you know that idiot Hamfritt?”
She nodded.
“Do you know what that damn fool has done?”
“I can hardly wait.”
“He went off a few hours ago to an Indian reservation in North Dakota with twelve senators. Said he was investigating affairs in the territory.”
The secretary waited.
“He then engaged in a series of roulettes with the chief of the largest tribe, Chief Iron Cloud. They put up New York City and lost that.”
The secretary leaned forward.
“Then they started gambling with states—and lost! By two in the morning, drinking with the Indian chief, they managed to lose the entire United States of America.”
“Holy shit,” said the secretary.
“I might kill myself, but first, who’s gonna call the White House and tell the president about this?”
“Not me,” said the secretary.
THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES ran across the airport tarmac.
“Mr. President!” an attaché cried. “You’re not dressed!”
The president glanced down at the pajamas under his overcoat.
“I’ll change on the plane. Where the hell are we going?”
The attaché turned to the pilot. “Where the hell are we going?”
The pilot glanced at a transcript and said, “The Pocahontas Big Red Casino, Ojibway, North Dakota.”
“Where in hell is that?”
“On the Canadian border,” said the attaché. “It’s safe. Only the caribou vote there. Last year, a landslide.”
“Is the airport large enough for Air Force One?” said the president.
“Barely.”
“What time is it?”
“Three a.m.”
“My God, the things we do to run a country,” said the president.
On board, the president sat while drinks were poured and said, “Give me the details.”
“Well, here’s how it is, Mr. President. There was a meeting of Democratic senators in North Dakota. Thirteen of them went to the Pocahontas Big Red Casino for a night of whoopee.”
“You can say that again,” said the president of the United States.
“Well, one thing led to another and they wound up giving away the whole damned country.”
“In one roll of the dice?”
“No, as I heard it, one state at a time.”
“My God.”
“To be accurate, sir, they lost New York City first, but the first state to go was Florida.”
“That figures.”
“After that it was most of the southern states. Something to do with the Civil War.”
“How’s that?”
“I don’t know. It’s still all a little fuzzy. But the Civil War’s never been completely forgotten, and it would be just like southern Democrats to deal it back to the reds.”
“Then what?”
“Well, state by state, ending with Arizona, and the next thing you know, with a final toss, America the Beautiful, sea to shining sea, belonged to Iron Cloud.”
“The Indian chief?”
“Yes. He runs the casino.”
The president mused and then said, “If they can drink, so can I. Refill my glass.”
THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES plunged into the Pocahontas Big Red Casino and glared around.
“Where’s the smoke-filled room?”
The attaché pointed.
“And where are those stupid rotten damn fool senators?”
“In that room, naturally.”
The president slammed the door wide to startle the thirteen senators, who stood staring at the floor.
“Sit down!” cried the president. “No, stand while I hit you! Now hear this. Are you all sober?”
They nodded.
“Then we all need a drink!”
Smith, the attaché, hurried out of the room. In moments, vodka was brought in.
“Okay, drink up and let’s solve this mess.”
He scowled at them and said, “My God, you make the Rolling Stones look like the Last Supper.”
There was a long silence.
“Who’s responsible? Senator Hamfat?”
“Hamfritt,” murmured one of the senators.
“Hamfritt. Hold on. Smith, do the news media know about this?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“My God, if the networks ever found out we’d be road-kill.”
“There was a call from CNN an hour ago, wondering what’s going on....”
“Send someone to shoot them.”
“We can’t do that, Mr. President.”
“Try.”
The president turned back to the thirteen senators. “All right, tell me just how you managed to give away our purple mountain majesties and fruited plains.”
“Not outright, the whole kit and caboodle,” said one senator. “It happened piecemeal.”
“Piecemeal!” shouted the president.
“We started slow and gained speed. We played poker at first, but got excited and moved on to blackjack, but then roulette seemed best.”
“Roulette, sure. That way you lose everything fast.”
“Fast,” the senators agreed, nodding.
“Anyway, you know how it is when you’re losing, you double your bets. So we doubled up and offered the Indians North and South Carolina, and by God, we lost them too. Then we drank some more and got excited and offered them North and South Dakota, and lost!”
“Go on,” said the president.
“Then we bet California.”
“That was a double bet?”
“Yes, sir, California is really four states: north and south, Hollywood and L.A.”
“Oh,” said the president.
“Anyway, in a few hours we lost about everything and someone had the idea that maybe we should call Washington, DC.”
“I’m glad you thought of that,” said the president. “Smith, is any of this crud legally binding?”
“Only if you consider the reactions of France, Germany, Russia, Japan, and China, Mr. President.”
“Okay. Are there any lawyers in this damn casino?”
“Sure,” said the attaché. “Two hundred of ’em at poker upstairs. Shall I get one?”
“Are you nuts!?” said the president. “Within hours we’d be up to our chins.”
The President sat for a long moment, his eyes closed, gripping his knees, white-knuckled, as if he were running blind into a mountain.
He wet his lips half a dozen times, but only when he clenched his knees tighter did the steam come out of his mouth in a hiss and sputter. “Of all the stupid, dim-bulb, halfwit, half-ass, crazy—”
“Yes, sir,” one of the senators said.
“I’m not done!” the president cried.
“Yes, sir.”
“Of all the damned silly, blind—”
The president stopped.
“Dim-bulb bastards,” someone suggested.
“Rum-headed, bastard idiots!”
Everyone nodded.
“Maniac, lunatic, mindless, stupid jerks! Jesus God, God almighty!”
The president opened his eyes. “Do you realize that, in comparison, this will make the United Nations look like a gathering of angels? A congress of Einsteins! A full house of Fathers, Sons, and Holy Ghosts!”
Silence.
“Mr. President, sir, your face is very red.”
“I thought,” said the president, “it would be purple. Is there anything in the Constitution that would let the president beat up, kill, massacre, hang, electrocute, or draw and quarter these dumb-cluck senators?”
“Nothing in the Constitution, Mr. President,” Smith said.
“At the next session of Congress, put it in.”
At last he ceased and let his fists fall open. He stared at each empty paw to see if some answer lay there. Tears fell from his eyelashes.
“What’re we gonna do?” he bleated. “What’re we gonna do?”
“Mr. President.”
“What’re we gonna do?” he cried again, quietly.
“Sir.”
The president looked up.
A Native American gentleman in a tall hat stood there. He was very short and resembled a squaw.
The short Native American gentleman said, “May I make a suggestion, sir? The Chief of the Iroquois Waukesha Chippewa Council and owner of this casino and now proprietor of the United States of America wonders if you would want an audience with him.”
The president of the United States tried to rise.
“Don’t get up.” The short man in the tall black hat turned and opened the door and a great iron-eyed solemn shadow glided through.
This man drifted in on soft wild bobcat feet, a tall shadow within a shadow. He was not quite seven feet tall, and the look on his serene face was the look of Eternity; the stare of dead presidents and lost Indian braves now come alive in the precipice face of this new visitor.
Someone, perhaps the small squawlike pathfinder, seemed to be humming a celebratory tune under his breath, something about a chief, something about hailing.
A great voice of muted storms spoke on high from this owner of many casinos.
The small squawlike servant below translated.
“He asks, what seems to be the trouble here?”
At this there was a collective impulse in the senators to hurl themselves at the exit, but something froze them in place: the small sounds of veins popping in the brow of the president of the United States.
He massaged his head to calm his raging veins and gasped: “You have stolen our country.”
The voice spoke above and was translated below.
“Just one state at a time.”
From that great height, a murmur fell upon the small Indian, who nodded several times.
“He now proposes,” said the small Indian, “one last game. The chief is willing to gamble like a good sport and maybe lose the country.”
A trembling, as of a great earthquake, shook the senators. Smiles trembled on their lips. The president felt the need to faint but did not.
“One last game?” he moaned. “And if we lose again? What do we even have to offer?”
The small Indian chatted up along the length of great redwood flesh and an utterance responded.
“You give us France and Germany.”
“We couldn’t do that!” cried the president.
“Oh no?” said the great storm voice.
The president shrank two sizes within his suit.
“Also,” the shadow moved like winter above.
“Also?” piped the suddenly former president of the United States.
“The rules,” recited the small interpreter below. “If you lose, we keep the United States and you build casinos in all fifty states plus grade schools, high schools, and colleges throughout the Indian territories. Yes?”
The president of the United States nodded.
“And if you win,” the little man went on, “you get the states back, but the same things must happen: You build schools and casinos in all territories, even though you have won.”
“Incredible!” the president cried. “You can’t apply the same rules win or lose!”
Shadows whispered.
“That’s the way the cookie crumbles.”
The president swallowed and at last said, “Let’s begin.”
The great steam-shovel-size fingers of the owner of all fifty states’ Big Red Casinos moved out on the air. There was a deck of cards vised in the thick fingers.
“Deal,” a voice echoed in up-country.
The president found all of his limbs inert.
“Blackjack,” whispered the small assistant Indian. “Two cards each.”
At last, slowly, the president of the United States laid out the cards, facedown.
A voice rumbled above.
The little man said, “You first.”
The president picked up the cards, and a great smile widened on his face. He tried in vain to control his smile but was unable to do so.
He looked up at the huge Indian chief and said, “Now yours.”
Thunder sounded above.
The interpreter said, “First, let’s see your hand.”
The president of the United States turned his cards over. They totaled nineteen.
“Now you,” whispered the president.
Thunder rolled again and the small Indian said, “You win.”