by Ruth Edwards
The President’s contribution was a colourless, blustering condemnation of lying trouble-makers and no other members of the faculty stuck their heads over the parapet. So we’ve won the preliminary skirmish.
What amazes me is that although the Sentinel is running with stories from the website daily, and students from all around the country are joining in, there’s been next to nothing in the rest of the media, which gives force to allegations about the conformity of the self-consciously diverse liberal press. Or maybe it’s just too confusing. Certainly, they don’t have the advantage of the numerous appalling stories that have been emailed to us off-site and that have been used by Jack in her indictment.
God knows what the President is thinking, but he’s continuing to absent himself as much as possible. He wanted to cancel Founder’s Day on the grounds that some students might cause trouble, but Martin Freeman refused the request out-of-hand and Dickinson had no option but to cave in since Freeman essentially is Founder’s Day. Freeman guesses he’s so corrupt he’s probably incapable of grasping that the campus might be in a state of moral outrage.
I summoned the officers and NCOs yesterday evening to be addressed by Jack in Henry V mode. The old bat is extremely good at inspiring confidence, so she managed to convince even the most nervous that their liberation struggle is a glorious thing and that even if their parents disapprove, there isn’t anything worse than continuing in the servitude of the thought-police state. By the end, they all seemed to think—like Betsy—that if the worst came to the worst, they could hide behind her ample skirts.
What’s extremely cheering is to see how the kids have taken enthusiastically to the idea that university is about thinking for yourself.
I’m off now, as I have to get back to work. Choreographing the big day is an enormous headache, and Jack’s contribution is mainly to wave an airy hand and say ‘Robert’s in charge and it’ll all be fine.’
Oh, I nearly forgot. There was no difficulty in identifying the assassin who came after Horace, because it turned out that the campus police had the DNA records of all the students. Yes, of course I thought this was an unspeakable infringement of civil liberties and contrary to the laws of the land, but apparently it was something everyone had to agree to if they wanted to be accepted on this totalitarian campus. This fellow turned out to be a dodgy IT student called Dwight who admitted he had done a deal with Gonzales that he would get through his exams despite his manifest stupidity and ignorance if he became one of Gonzales’s paid part-time secret police. And once Dwight agreed to be a stool-pigeon, of course he got further enmeshed, leading him to feel he had no option but to follow orders to dispose of Horace as an ’orrible warning to Jack. He wasn’t going to behead him, apparently. Too squeamish. Just knock him on the head or strangle him and leave the body on her desk.
Poor Dwight knew nothing of parrots.
Gonzales bawled him out when he reported failure, so it was some other agent of the Axis of Evil who ended up attacking Jack’s wardrobe. She now has enough evidence to sue the university for replacements for her Oxfam-acquired designer clothing should she so wish.
I was pleased to learn that although Dwight’s wound was deep and he will always have a scar, there are no indications that he proposes to sue Horace for using unreasonable and unnecessary force. And, of course, if he did, Horace would counter-sue for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.
One of the things I enjoy about America is that it encourages one to be eternally ingenious.
Now back to Founder’s Day. Sue-Ellen and Mark were chosen (female and black) and bravely agreed to put their names to an e-mail to the President, copied to Martin Freeman, asking permission for the SFU to be allowed to hold a modest demonstration just before the main ceremony began. Left to himself, Dickinson would of course have given them the bum’s rush and expelled them, but Freeman, who had been well-primed, told him that it was better to get it over and done with so their childish little protest could be answered and discredited in the presidential speech. It would be no harm to flush out the trouble-makers, he said; they could be dealt with later.
So Dickinson e-mailed back that SFU could have a five-minute silent protest at 2.55, and we doctored it so it read fifteen minutes at 3.00, took out the word ‘silent’ and forwarded it to all the student groups participating in the official ceremonies so they would stand idly by as we got going. They will be confused enough as their numbers deplete.
In the final words of Jack to the troops (taught her by me, I hardly need to say, since she has made not the faintest effort to learn American): ‘It’s time to step up to the plate and hit a home run.’
Chapter Fifteen
Betsy came out first at the head of a couple of dozen cartwheeling cheerleaders, who tumbled all round the stadium to thunderous applause from the assembled parents, staff, students, and dignitaries, who thought this the beginning of the official proceedings. Despite her worst forebodings, Betsy had managed to rehearse the cheerleading dissidents long enough to manage a few basic stunts, culminating in a three-rung pyramid, which—though slightly unsteady—held. When the pyramid dissolved, the girls ran to the sidelines, took up their positions on both sides of an enormous furled banner and a pile of crimson and blue pom poms and began their chant through the microphones on their lapels:
Hey! Hey!
Yea! Yea!
Whoo! Whoo! Whoo!
Save Freeman!
Save Freeman!
Save Freeman U!
As they chanted, the back rows began their pom pom routine and the front row unfurled the banner to reveal—in enormous red letters on a blue and white background—
SAVE FREEMAN U
Right on cue, a light plane appeared over the stadium with the same message trailed underneath on a huge banner, and red, white, and blue streamers, balloons, and leaflets began to drop onto the field and the stands. A large multi-racial group of students with SFU T-shirts ran out, picked up leaflets from the field, and ran around the stands distributing them to those parts of the audience that had missed out. When they finished they left the audience reading and ran back down the tunnel.
There had been much anguish about the content of the leaflet, but Amiss and the baroness had won the battle to keep it simple. In heavy black type against a background representation of the American flag, it read:
TO ALL PARENTS AND BENEFACTORS THIS INDEPENDENCE DAY
You chose Freeman U for your children and your generous donations because you believed it offered a fine education in how best to contribute to making America an even better place.
We, the students who have formed SAVE FREEMAN U, came to college full of hope and determination to succeed.
Instead, we found corruption and intimidation and a system that allowed none of the freedoms our country holds so dear.
Students were forbidden to debate or think or just express ourselves.
The fine and idealistic concept of embracing diversity of beliefs and culture was perverted into the encouragement of bitter division on racial, religious, sexual orientation, and many other grounds.
The only competition allowed was competition in victimhood.
Political correctness became a crushing ideology.
Educational standards were sacrificed to greed.
Sexual depravity was condoned for the privileged.
Christianity was virtually outlawed.
In a climate of fear, we are standing up to be counted.
We want Freeman U to return to the principles on which it was founded.
We want our corrupt President and our useless Provost fired.
We want leaders who have at heart the interests of Freeman U and its students.
We want knowledge.
We want education.
We want diversity of thought.
We want high standards.
We want free speech.
We want to be Americans first and foremost.
We want integration, not segregation.
/> GOD BLESS AMERICA
www.savefreemanu.com
The baroness, who had positioned herself at the far end of the dignitaries’ section so as to have the best possible view of the faces of President Dickinson and his Acting Provost in the adjoining faculty area, was delighted by their stunned expressions. The Acting Provost then began to cry, as did Traci Dickinson, who hugged her. Martin Freeman, who had insisted on sitting beside Jack, chuckled in her ear. ‘Hey, it was sneaky, but it worked so far.’
Up through the tunnel came the marching ranks of thousands of students in Freeman University T-shirts waving American flags and chanting along with the cheerleaders—each group parading off more or less efficiently to the pre-ordained space laboriously mapped out for it by Ryan and Joshua. As they reached their halting-place, each group unfurled an enormous banner. Within minutes the audience were trying to take in dozens of negative messages ranging from BLACKS AGAINST BRAINWASHING, through CHRISTIANS AGAINST CONFORMITY and ITALIANS AGAINST INTIMIDATION to SIKHS AGAINST STALINISM.
When they had all taken up position, they ceased chanting. There was the blast of a bugle and each banner was turned to reveal such positive messages as ASIANS FOR ASPIRATION through MUSLIMS FOR MERIT and QUEERS FOR QUALITY to TURKS FOR TRUTH.
‘I thought they didn’t want to be divided into separate groups,’ whispered Freeman. ‘Isn’t that what most of this was all about?’
‘Be patient.’
The bugler sounded the reveille, and the groups put down their banners and began to mill about until the pitch was a mass of black, oriental, and white young people talking to each other randomly and animatedly. Higgle-piggledy, they sauntered over towards the tunnel and stood at ease, leaving a pathway for the cheerleaders.
Betsy clapped her hands, and the first banner was furled and put down and the second picked up. The cheerleaders marched in formation to the centre of the pitch until she clapped her hands again and they halted. The new banner was unfurled to reveal:
UNITED WE STAND
DIVIDED WE FALL
The bugle sounded again, and out of the tunnel emerged part of the Freeman University marching band, led by the drum major and playing a medley of patriotic tunes. ‘Recruiting him was a coup,’ whispered the baroness to Freeman. Among the defectors were the entire percussion section, several trombonists, and a saxophonist, so they were able to strike up “The Star-Spangled Banner” with a satisfactory amount of noise. As the students began to sing ‘O say, can you see, by the dawn’s early light/What so proudly we hail’d at the twilight’s last gleaming?’ the spectators stood up and joined in. After a moment’s hesitation, the President and the entire faculty followed suit. Unlike the students, who were armed with the words, most of the onlookers began to falter, but they hummed along and joined loudly in the conclusion: ‘And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave/O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!’
Slowly, the students turned towards the tunnel and began silently to file off the pitch. The vast majority of the crowd applauded rapturously.
‘What happens next?’ whispered Freeman.
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ said the baroness. ‘The ranks of official participants are sorely depleted and therefore will have great difficulty in carrying out their manoeuvres if ordered to do so. We seem to have got more than half the student body on board.
‘Let’s see how Dickinson copes. Look at him. You’d think he’d been beaten over the head by a brace of dead grouse.’
Dickinson got slowly to his feet. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, his voice shaking. ‘What has just happened is…is…is….’ He stopped, looked down at his bewildered wife, grabbed her by the hand, and started pulling her towards the exit.
To general alarm, Ryan, who had been lurking below the faculty stand, ran up the steps and shouted, ‘Come back, you bastard,’ through the microphone to Dickinson. Dickinson stopped, shook his head, and began to run. ‘You’re not getting away,’ shouted Ryan. ‘I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it any more.’ He reached down to the end of his baggy trousers, drew out a gun from the ankle-holster and aimed and fired at Dickinson. As Dickinson fell, Ryan fired at him twice more. He turned, and as he took aim at Acting Provost Pappas-Lott, the baroness took a small gun from her handbag and shot him in the right shoulder.
Wincing, he reached with his left hand for the gun he had dropped. She shouted, ‘Don’t, Ryan, or I’ll kill you. It’s the only rational thing to do.’ He hesitated just long enough for a professor of Black Studies, who was known to be keen on the martial arts and behind whom the Acting Provost was now hiding, to shout, ‘Come on, guys, let’s roll’ to the rest of platform. Just two of them, both junior historians desperately hoping for tenure, helped him jump on Ryan and save his life.
It was too late for Dickinson.
***
‘What the hell was all that about?’ asked Martin Freeman.
It was five hours later, and he was sitting in the baroness’s sitting room. From the moment that Ryan had been disarmed, there had been an interminable sequence of frustrating events. Freeman’s appeal to the crowd to be calm and stay put had dampened down the threatened hysteria, but while the police sent almost everyone home within half an hour, they required a dozen or so witnesses to stay on. So Freeman, the baroness, and several others had to wait about until Ryan had received medical attention and been taken away to be charged, Dickinson’s corpse had been removed, and they had given statements to a couple of slow policemen. It was only through Freeman getting rough with the D.A. that the baroness had not been charged as well.
‘Ayn bloody Rand,’ said the baroness, who was in low spirits.
‘What’s that?’ asked Freeman.
The baroness sighed. ‘Tell him, Robert.’
‘I’m not clear how she’s responsible, but she’s a philosopher of the last century who had an intellectual grip on Ryan. She believed in rational self-interest, individualism, and unfettered capitalism.’
‘Why should that make him shoot Henry Dickinson?’ asked a bewildered Freeman. ‘If anyone ever went in for rational self-interest, individualism, and unfettered capitalism, it was Henry.’
They both looked expectantly at the baroness. ‘When I bent over Ryan after the academics got off him, he said something like, “I had to do it, Buddica. Like Howard Roark did.”’
‘Who the hell is Howard Roark?’ asked Amiss.
‘A hero Rand created in a novel called The Fountainhead who was apparently her ideal man.’ The baroness got up, went over to her desk and scrabbled around until she found a pile of paper which she took back to her armchair and riffled through. ‘This is all the crap Ryan gave me ages ago,’ she said. ‘Listen to this: “Howard Roark takes pleasure in the act of creation, but is constantly opposed by ‘the hostility of second-hand souls.’” One of the ways Roark shows his heroic mettle is by blowing up a building of which he disapproves for reasons I won’t bore you with. Though he certainly doesn’t go round shooting people.’
‘How do you know this?’ said Amiss. ‘I thought you completely dismissed it.’
‘I did, but I had another look at it recently, because I was concerned about Ryan.’
‘In what way?’
‘I’d come to the conclusion that he had murdered Helen and the Goon.’
‘What!’ said Amiss. ‘You never said anything about that.’
‘I wasn’t certain. I had no evidence. And it wasn’t the time to deal with it. I was waiting until we’d got through Founder’s Day.’
‘Explain.’
‘Intuition. His desire to be a hero as evinced in all that Goodkind rubbish. He was in search of an ideology, and people like that always worry me because of the ease with which ideologies can be perverted.’ She shook her head. ‘And I couldn’t believe in the crazed Islamist. There were a few who threatened me who might be capable of doing something unpleasant if given proper training in terrorist camp, but they looked like very small-
town agitators from what I saw of them. I couldn’t imagine any of them being up to planning and executing what happened in the Provost’s office. Whereas Ryan thought the Axis really was evil.’ She sighed. ‘And I had told him and the others that Gonzales might have had Mike and Vera murdered. I intended to warn, not provoke.’
‘But the bearded brown running man?’ asked Amiss.
‘Theatrical make-up. False beard. Not difficult.’
There was a silence, then Amiss said, ‘But you were always complaining that the cops hadn’t properly gone after the Islamists.’
‘That’s because they weren’t doing it for all the wrong reasons. And anyway, considering how they’d got away with threatening to kill me, I thought a bit of inconvenience was in order. We know what happens when people think they’re invulnerable.’
‘I still don’t get it,’ said Amiss. ‘Are you saying he was murdering bad people on principle? Wasn’t Rand against altruism?’
‘Yes, but….’ She rummaged around the pages. ‘This comes from the appendix to her Atlas Shrugged, which is apparently a fantastically successful cult novel: “My philosophy, in essence, is the concept of man as a heroic being, with his own happiness as the moral purpose of his life, with productive achievement as his noblest activity, and reason as his only absolute.”’
‘So killing them was a rational act and a noble productive achievement?’ said Amiss. ‘Which made him happy?’
The baroness shrugged. ‘There’s no accounting for taste.’