“Dollars are no problem,” Fancy snapped. “Time is. Keep on schedule.”
“I should add,” the Secretary of Defense said with obvious reluctance, “that we’re running into a lot of resistance from some of our people. They’re not taking the new stuff seriously, so they’re not cooperating.”
“Take ‘em out and shoot ’em.”
“Oh. Er, yes, ma’am.” The secretary looked at the Secret Service men standing motionlessly behind each chair and chose discretion over valor.
For a moment, Malcolm thought of Jimmy Flicker and how well he would have fit in here. He should have been Vice President, Malcolm thought, not me.
“Secretary of Interior Design! Fall fashions better be on schedule.”
“Oh, yes, indeed, Madam President! No delays in my department. No, sirree. I’ve got my people assembled in the Oval Office for a preview private showing for you, ma’am, as soon as this meeting’s over.”
Fancy smiled her pleasure at the nervous secretary. “What else?”
“And the new color scheme for the private quarters is also waiting for your approval, ma’am.”
“Very good! Keep up the good work, and I’ll give you a state of your own.
“Secretary of Separation. I understand you’re having a bit of trouble.”
“Oh, hell, no, ma’am. Hell, no! Not any more.” Jimmy Earl chuckled happily. He was in his element now. This was so much easier than that damned television show. More real power, too. He had done his part to get Fancy in there, and this was his reward, and he was perfectly happy with it. Now that Jefferson’s damned wall was finally gone, the main target of his television sermons was gone, anyway, so he would have had a hard time coming up with something to talk about before the cameras.
“You’re referring to that little hooraw out there in Colorado, I guess.” Coloraduh, he pronounced it. He didn’t even have to think about the accent any more. “Yeah, there was a brief uprising by some seculars in Boulder, but it was put down nice and quick and real effectively —” he licked his lips at the memory of the video images he had seen “— by the Fourth Georgia Volunteers. Those fellas moved up from their base in Colorado Springs right smart. Very efficient group. I’d like to give them some kind of reward and expand their area of responsibility. They’re really good boys.”
Fancy waved her hand. “Sure. Of course. Whatever you think.” She seemed distracted suddenly.
Despite how much she owed to the next Cabinet member, she was reluctant to call on him. He gave everyone the creeps. She could see how the other Cabinet secretaries and assorted underlings had surreptitiously slid their chairs away, putting as much space between him and them as they could. There was no help for it, though. He had named his price, and she would have to put up with him. “Secretary of Security? Any problems?”
Mr. Umbral smirked. He had had to search far and wide, but he had finally found someone capable of doing the refurbishing work. Workmanship had finally returned to the old level, and the newer artisans were as good as those of long ago. At last his sneer was gone and he had full control over his mouth once again. “Of course not, ma’am. All domestic matters are fully under control. I’ll say no more in public.”
With almost visible relief, Fancy said, “Vice President! Have you squelched this Radio Free Europe crap yet?”
Malcolm sighed. This would make him the only cabinet member so far with bad news, and he could feel the eager monster behind his chair breathing on the back of his neck. “I’m afraid the Europeans are adamant, ma’am. They say they won’t stop their broadcasts unless you drop martial law, reinstitute elections, plus a few other demands. Oh, and they said to tell you that the trade sanctions will also remain in place, and they won’t lend us any more money, either.”
Fancy grew red faced and pounded on the table. “This means war!”
The Secretary of Defense held up a timid hand. “Uh, ma’am? Ma’am? I don’t think so, ma’am. See, we buy all our weapons from the Europeans now, as it is. I mean, the Northern Union.”
“Then we’ll use the ones we’ve already got!” Fancy yelled. “Throw everything at ’em!”
“Well, actually, they’re kind of too big for that. Have been, ever since Canada and Russia joined their Union. Also, we don’t really have anything left to throw. We sold the last of it to some South American country last year to make our interest payments.”
“Interest payments!” the president shrieked. “Secretary of Book Cooking! I thought I told you, no more payments to foreigners!”
“That’s right, ma’am. I believe the Secretary of Defense was referring to debts incurred by your predecessor.”
Fancy calmed down immediately. “Oh. The previous administration. That’s okay, then. So when will we be finished with these interest payments?”
With great reluctance, the Secretary of Book Cooking said, “Never, I suspect, ma’am. In fact, they’ll probably increase.”
“What?” Fancy shrieked. “That doesn’t make any sense! If we’re making our payments, then eventually we’ll pay off the original loan.”
“Unfortunately, the original loan and the payments were defined in Euros. Or as they’re now called, Newros. At that time, the Euro was somewhere around a dollar and a quarter. Now the exchange rate is just under twenty-five dollars to the Newro and it’s getting worse steadily. Takes more dollars than we have just to make our payments. We have to keep getting new loans from them to pay off the old ones. And the new loans are also in Newros, of course. At very unfavorable interest rates. Then there’s oil."
He was warming to his task. The Secretary enjoyed immersing himself in the ebb and flow of these figures. He had been an honest accountant in his youth, and now, if he concentrated on the more minute details, he could forget how he had sold out.
“Now that the NU controls all the energy output of Russia and Canada and the Middle East, and they sell that to us in Newros, too, the payments situation just keeps getting worse every month. Every day!” he added, shaking his head in wonder, almost in delight. He finally became aware of Fancy’s narrowed eyes and the pale faces of the rest of the Cabinet and the way they were drawing back from him. “Oh. Er. And as you know, they won’t allow us to lean on Venezuela or Mexico or Nigeria or any of those guys. As the Secretary of Defense will explain to you if you ask him.” He held his breath, then released it when Fancy’s glare switched from him to the Secretary of Defense.
But Fancy deflated. Despite the bluster — hers, and also America’s long national tradition of collective swagger — she knew that there was nothing she could really do against the outside world. Better to concentrate on domestic matters.
She didn’t want to drop this discussion without demonstrating her contempt for that increasingly powerful rival, though. She sneered. “The Northern Union. What a dumb name! What does that make us — the Confederacy?”
There was a long and awkward silence and much gazing at floor, walls, and ceiling.
“All right, all right,” Fancy said. “Let’s get on with it. Secretary of Development.”
The Secretary of Development was the only one present not wearing a suit. Instead, he always dressed as a forest ranger. It was the uniform of his Department. His khaki outfit was complete with ranger hat, which he wore all the time, even indoors, even at Cabinet meetings.
“The National Forever Majestic Redwoods Forest is in fine shape, ma’am. Sorry, I mean the National Gone Away Forever Majestic Redwoods Forest. I was out there just yesterday. The tree is up to three feet in height already. Looks healthy. Lots of well paved space around it, so we won’t have to worry about fires or insects. We’re good for a few hundred years!” He laughed a hearty outdoorsman’s chuckle that no one joined in on, so he continued quickly.
“I was there to dedicate a plaque. It’s the first thing any tourists will see when they enter the forest. It’s right in front of the tree, and it says, ‘When you’ve seen one redwood, you’ve seen them all.’ It’s really appropria
te and really beautiful and impressive, and it just makes your heart swell with pride in this great land of ours.”
Fancy didn’t seem all that interested. “Fine. Well done.” She waved her hand dismissively and moved on to something more interesting. “Secretary of Posterity, what’s the latest on the Naming Initiative?”
The Secretary of Posterity jerked straight and blinked a few times. Malcolm realized the man had been dozing and that before that he had probably been drinking. Poor guy, Malcolm thought. He’s under even more pressure than the rest of us. Which means he’s in more danger.
The Secretary said, “Moving right along, ma’am.” He pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from his shirt pocket, flattened it out on the table, and said, “Let’s see. Since my last report, we’ve added 5,100 middle schools, 1,870 high schools, 3,503 city office buildings, 132 junior colleges, and over 15,000 grade schools to the list.”
“How about the cowboy museums? You know how important that would have been to Gone.”
The Secretary licked his lips. “We have five of those, ma’am.”
“Five?” Fancy barked. “That’s the same number you had last time.”
“I think that may be all there are nowadays, ma’am. They’ve been shutting down over the years.”
“All right, all right. So all these places now have Gone’s name on them?”
“Yes, ma’am. The Gone Away South Middle School, the Gone Away North Junior High School, and so on.”
“Hmm. Lacks something. No ring to it. Maybe I should have told you to include my name. The Gone and Fancy Away South Middle School. The Fancy and Gone Away West Senior High School. That sort of thing. Well, I’ll think about it. While we’re on the subject of schools, remember I told you we needed to throw a bone to the supporters of my predecessor.”
“Yes, ma’am! We’ve got the Jibber Longlegs Memorial Jungle Gym at a middle school in Duluth. Or maybe it was DuBuque. Begins with a D, anyway.”
“Good enough. Now. What’s the situation with that stupid National Cathedral?”
“Not stupid any more, ma’am!” the Secretary said enthusiastically, relieved to have something good to report. “The bill passed both houses this morning and is already on your desk. As soon as you sign it, the building will become The House of Gone Away Glory! Ma’am!”
Fancy nodded in satisfaction. “Not bad. Although... Gone and Fancy... Oh, never mind. Let’s move along. The Rushmore Project. Status?”
“Right on schedule.” The Secretary of Posterity was feeling better — and safer — by the minute. “Three of the heads are already gone. Washington, Jefferson, and Lincoln. Those were the easy ones to get at. Demolition on Roosevelt will be getting underway in the morning. They tell me it should be done in a week. Then they’ll have to start the refacing and reshaping of the cliff before construction starts. As I told you before, it’s going to be tricky because of the shape of the mountain. Getting a single giant head carved in there is going to mean removing an amazing mount of rock.”
Fancy glared at him. “I give the orders. You execute them. That’s the way it works. The details are up to you. If you can’t handle it, there’ll be a different kind of execution.”
The Secretary froze in his chair, blinking rapidly.
Suddenly Fancy smiled. “But that’s okay, because I’ve changed the plan. Instead of Gone’s head in the middle, I’ve decided I’d like to have Gone’s head on one side and mine on the other. Facing each other. They’ll be hollow. Then after I’ve passed to the higher plane where Lukas of Aldebaran lives,” she smiled fondly at Malcolm, who replied with a grimace that he hoped she’d take for a smile, “Gone’s and my mortal shells will be placed inside our heads. They’ll be,” she looked up at the ceiling, “tombs that generations of Americans will visit to pray and light candles before.”
The room was silent. The rest of the Cabinet, Malcolm was sure, was as stunned as he was. And probably as terrified.
“Not generations,” Fancy said. “Thousands of years.”
“But, ma’am,” the Secretary of Posterity said, proving Malcolm wrong in the sense that one Cabinet Secretary was not too terrified to speak, or possibly was too tipsy to hold his tongue, “if we change the plans like that, the engineers and designers will have to start all over. It’ll put us way behind schedule — months, maybe years!”
Fancy stared at him for a long while. Finally, she said, “Say good night now.”
The Secretary of Posterity began to rise from his chair in alarm. Suddenly, a brawny arm encircled his neck. He was yanked up, over the back of his seat, and then dragged from the room choking and trying to breathe. None of the other Cabinet Secretaries or their assistants or Under Secretaries moved. The Vice President certainly didn’t.
Fancy patted her stiff helmet of gray hair. “We’ll continue. Social Secretary!”
And they continued.
At which point, Malcolm’s story ended. There were some things he had never told his friend Carol, and never would tell him, about his brief career just beneath the pinnacle of power.
For example, after the Cabinet meeting he had just described to Carol, as Shirley was escorting Malcolm through a crowd of respectful — indeed, cowed — tourists outside the White House, he said to her, “This is ridiculous. This is terrible. This is awful. I don’t belong in the vice presidency any more than... than... than Fancy belongs in the presidency.”
“Ssh!” Shirley looked around quickly. “Christ, you idiot, save it for when we’re alone. For now, she’s still basically fond of you. Something to do with a prophecy from Lukas that came true. Something about a successor.”
“Oh, God, that. I told her that Lukas said it was best to be the successor to the successor’s successor. In that case, meaning she should strive to be the successor to Gone’s successor.” He stopped in amazement. “I was right! I mean, Lukas was right! She’s the successor to Jibber, and he was the successor to Gone.”
They started walking again, but they stared at each other, both frowning in puzzlement.
“Is that right?” Malcolm said. “Something’s missing there. Was there someone else?”
Malcolm was scarcely aware of the tourists, but the tourists were very aware of him and Shirley. Despite his title, Malcolm’s face wasn’t well known. Only Fancy’s picture appeared in newspapers, and only her image showed up on the evening news. But the tourists sensed something about these two, and they shuffled away to get out of their path. Perhaps Malcolm and Shirley had an aura of power about them. More likely the aura was Shirley’s. The tourists were aware of something, though. It didn’t really matter who these two were. Better safe than sorry. Best not to stare at someone whose back was straight. Certainly wisest not to look them in the eye. You never knew.
Foreigners were very rare in American cities nowadays. These tourists were Americans, born and bred. (Naturalized citizens were extremely rare, too.) They were typical Americans, the salt of the Earth, the backbone of America, minutemen at heart all of them, ready to defend against invasion by the evil British, or, to bring matters up to date, the vile and despised Northern Unionists.
They were shuffling about in the very place where, in the summer of 1814, the indescribably treacherous British set fire to the young nation’s sacred capital, the flames being watched from a safe distance by President Madison and the city’s valiant defenders, who had skedaddled out of way of the cowardly Redcoats. The tourists wore t-shirts emblazoned with the American flag with its sadly diminished star field and pugnacious mottoes such as “These colors don’t run!” and “Patriotic pride!” and “Land of the free, home of the brave!” They watched the ground and they watched their thoughts. Back home, they watched their neighbors.
The tourists parted for Malcolm and his dream girl, revealing the glass coffin around which the crowd had been clustered. It contained the onetime Great Discombobulator, now the First Mummy. Gone lay on his back, hands folded across his chest, smiling his famous vacuous smile and staring up into
space.
Malcolm’s attention was distracted and then riveted. “Did you see his lips move just now?” he whispered to Shirley.
“No, of course not. He’s dead.” In fact, though, she had not been watching the Great Prune. Instead she had been nervously examining the crowd of tourists for faces she knew from her own agency. As she knew from a recent briefing, undercover agents with recording devices were everywhere.
“Could have sworn they moved. Looked like he was trying to say ‘Mommy.’”
“Oh, forget that, damn it!”
By now, they were clear of the tourists, and Shirley relaxed a bit. Behind them, invisible tubing fed another jolt of paralyzer into the First Mummy.
“All right, Malcolm, let me look into it. I’ll see if I can get you out of the job in some way that doesn’t have anything to do with death or crippling injury.”
“Gee, thanks!”
Shirley rubbed her chest and smiled. “That’s okay. Life is full of interesting surprises, and some of them are even pleasant.”
Too few of them, in the opinion of most of us, and especially in Malcolm’s opinion.
On his way into the Cabinet meeting, he had run into the Secretary of Security in the hallway. They had never exchanged anything beyond the briefest of greetings before, and Malcolm wanted to keep it that way. Mr. Umbral gave him the creeps.
Today, though, Mr. Umbral seemed to be in a good mood, and he greeted Malcolm more warmly than he usually did.
Malcolm considered what he knew about the other man’s Cabinet department and decided to respond in kind. “Fine day, isn’t it, Mr. U.? Shame not to be outside.”
Umbral grimaced at the nickname and even glared at Malcolm for a moment, but then his good mood returned. “Always better to be on the inside than on the outside, Mr. Vice President. Especially now. After all this time, I’m finally getting it right. I can tell. I’ve tried and failed so often, thought I had it each time, found out I was mistaken, that I’d chosen poorly. I didn’t understand that you have to meld all the disparate forces together, rather than choose just one of them.” He nodded. “Yes, it’s working at last.”
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