Daniel remembered worrying that his campaign against the Institute might make the Institute famous. He need not have worried. The men and women of the Institute had their own ways of achieving respect and prestige without him. Their fame now transcended any silly discussions of cigarettes and health. It rested with their roles as American heroes.
His nostrils flared. More condensation from his breath on the window blurred his view of the Potomac. Thinking about the latest flip-flop of the news media, he felt a sensation similar to the feeling of being jilted by a woman. He had invested so much time and creative energy into molding those news people into an effective, focused tool. For a brief time, their energies had all pointed in the same direction—in an attack on Zeteticism.
And now, with the fickleness of a woman, they had turned their energies in reverse, lavishing incredible praise upon Zetetics, imbuing the Zetetic view of life with miraculous powers.
This belief in the invincible perfection of Zetetic discipline would bring people into the anti-smoking clinics in swarms. The swarms would grow so vast that the Institute might be overwhelmed. Daniel had a moment’s warm vision of an Institute growing so fast that the instructional quality deteriorated, driving the success rates down, causing yet another backlash from the fickle newspeople.
He suspected, however, that Nathan was too shrewd to make that kind of mistake. Nathan, he realized, was not interested in growth: he was interested in effectiveness. As often happened with effective people, growth came as a natural consequence.
Eventually, of course, the news media would backlash against Nathan anyway. The Institute was not perfect; its people, for all their enthusiasm and rationality, were nevertheless just people. Indeed, Daniel realized with a smile, the Institute’s own philosophy militated against an image of spotless perfection. The Institute would be the first to rebut the glowing praise.
But the luster of the Institute would not wear off soon enough to help the tobacco industry. A tidal wave of smokers would kick the habit. They would convince their friends to follow them in an even greater wave. Tobacco would soon lose a major source of its profitability. The foreign sales would continue, but Daniel.had little interest in riding a dying horse.
He reached into his pocket for a cigarette, thus breaking his own rule never to smoke in private. Reneging on this commitment to himself now seemed appropriate, since the very basis of the commitment would soon become irrelevant: this would be his last smoke. He lit up, in memoriam. The flavor filled his mouth and lungs.
What had gone wrong in his battle with the Institute? He worked this question over and over again in his mind. Slowly, oh so slowly, he drove to one conclusion: His loss had been inevitable with the coming of the Information Age.
He felt a bit surprised that he had not seen it coming sooner. He was the master at forecasting the future, after all. But he forgave himself. After all, the changes caused by the Information Revolution had not been readable in the nuances of life, in subtle twists of the road. Rather, the Information Age had struck everywhere with a steady, evenly applied pressure. It did not affect the road so much as it affected the very terrain upon which the road was laid. He had been so enmeshed in the change he could not see it, for he had been one of the principle users of the new information-rich terrain.
For years, every step he had taken in the defense of his industry had been based on advanced information processing. His sales projections; his political projections; his vulnerability projections; his data bases of men, women, corporations, laws, unions, and farmers; his strategies for campaigns against voters and reporters and networks—all stemmed from the central revolution. For years he had been fighting the Zetetic Institute and its forebears on their own turf, without realizing it.
Had he realized it, he would have cut and run long ago. He never fought on turf of his enemy’s choosing, as Nathan had observed in their encounter in the Mansfield Room in the Capitol.
Taking a drag on his cigarette, he savored the long history of success he had had in fighting on his own turf. He had never argued health issues when fighting anti-smoking referenda. He had always argued on freedom or money issues—issues such as, how much would it cost to implement the law ? In his favorite campaign, his forces had spread the word that a certain California Proposition would cost twenty million dollars to implement. The opposition had carefully analyzed his figures and found a massive error: it would only cost twenty thousand dollars.
He laughed at the memory even now, decades later. Fools! Once they started arguing about the price, the real numbers ceased to make a difference. Daniel swamped his enemies with commercial air time; people heard over and over again that the new law would cost millions. They heard it so often that in the end, the voters ridiculed the calculations made by his enemies, even though his enemies had been correct! Sweet.
But he had fought the Information Age Zetetics on their own terrain, on the terrain of information processing. This time it would be his turn to play the fool, unless he moved fast. The tight little world of the Wilcox-Morris Corporation would start crumbling in just a few months. He would have to ease his fortune out slowly, lest he cause panic. Even with care he would take a loss. He expected that his assets would drop below the magic billion-dollar threshold before the end of the affair.
But the tobacco industry would serve him well one last time, before he departed forever. Disasters could be very profitable for those who could see them coming. He would sell Wilcox-Morris stock short; that would make a tidy profit. Better yet, if he could cause a precipitous collapse in the industry, he could buy options with leverage that could get him a factor ten improvement in yield. Such a collapse could lift his worth into the multiple billions.
But the Institute would not precipitate such a fall. The Institute’s focus on gradual success did not mesh with the creation of sudden catastrophes. Extra effort would have to be invested to make his vision real. He, Daniel Wilcox, would have to arrange the sudden collapse of the tobacco industry.
He would start in California, with a new series of restrictions on smoking. Once California had shown the way, he had great confidence that he could leverage his personal anti-smoking organization into the other leading states. The rest would follow on their own. With a bit of hustle, he could brutalize the Wilcox-Morris profit margins six months from now.
Daniel hummed a little cigarette commercial jingle as he turned from the window. Change yields opportunity, he remembered one of Nathan’s little sayings. And opportunity yields change . Daniel could navigate the terrain of the Information Age, now that he had corrected the major flaw in his map. Profits beckoned in every direction. He had a sweet vision of one day buying up the Zetetic Institute itself. It was, after all, a corporate entity, with shares of stock for sale. What better property could he hold in a world where information was power?
On his way out the door, he paused at the trash can to toss out his cigarette stub. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his last pack of Wilcox-Morris cigarettes, running a finger over the embossed emblem that bore his name. The touch was almost a caress.
With no further hesitation, Daniel crushed the pack until shreds of weed regurgitated from it. He felt a great relief as he dumped the shreds into the trash. Smoking was a filthy habit; the world would be far better off without it.
Nathan had lived this nightmare exactly one year before. He remembered waking in the middle of the night at a chance sound, the terror of a ringing telephone, the horror of waiting. One year ago he had waited, knowing that soon the ringing telephone would end with a polite voice telling him to come to the hospital, telling him that Jan had finally escaped from the agony of dying by passing through death.
Now he waited again. This time the outcome was not quite so certain; even now the doctors were trying a radical new surgery, a technique devised during a Zetetic brainstorming conference just a month earlier. There was a chance, delicate as a snowflake, that Nell might survive. Still, the ringing of the telephone frig
htened him.
He waited in different surroundings. Entering the Blue Room, he joined Hilan Forstil in this vigil. Nathan hefted the small metal disk concealed in his right hand and tried to smile. Sunlight through the bay windows made it warm here; the air tasted dry.
Nathan watched as Hilan stared out the window, shifting his weight from side to side, left, right, left. “Mr. President,” Nathan addressed him.
Hilan turned. His lips pursed tightly; other than that, he looked calm.
Nathan continued. “I have something for you. A medal.” He opened his hand and waved the dingy metal disk, dangling from a rainbow-colored ribbon.
Hilan looked puzzled. “Tsk, Nathan. You know I can’t accept gifts. It’s in the Constitution.”
Nathan chuckled. “I suspect they’ll make an exception for this one. After all, we had to make an exception, too, to give it to you.” He held out the disk. Hilan reluctantly took it. His puzzlement grew.
The disk was made of an undistinguished alloy of common metals, a gray monotone. It looked like a Boston subway token, save for two words inlaid in silver. The words “Rationality Token” flashed against the dull metal background.
Hilan flipped it over several times. “A rationality token? Just what is a rationality token?”
“It’s a tradition,” Nathan explained. “A Zetetic tradition that goes back before the birth of Zeteticism.” He smiled. At least for a few moments, this story would take his mind off Nell and Jan. “Years and years ago, a friend of mine noticed an odd thing when he went to meetings with large groups of government bureaucrats. He would take a list of questions to each meeting, and put forth each question to the assembled body. He found that for each question, one bureaucrat in the room would have something rational and intelligent to say about the question; the rest would answer either with a magician’s verbal handwaving, or with statements that were internally inconsistent, or with statements that had no apparent connection to the topic.
“Oddly, for each question, a different bureaucrat gave the rational response. It seemed as though a law of nature was in effect that prevented more than one bureaucrat from being rational at one time. And you could never predict beforehand which lucky bureaucrat could answer a particular question rationally.
“So my friend developed the theory of the Rationality Token. In this theory, a roomful of bureaucrats shares a single rationality token. Whoever holds the token can act intelligently, but no one else can. And the bureaucrats pass the token around, secretly, in between questions.”
Hilan thought about this for a moment, then pointed at the Rationality Token disc in Nathans hand. 4If you go around handing out too many rationality tokens, you could find yourself violating this natural law.”
Nathan clapped his hands. “Exactly! After sitting through these kinds of meetings for several years, my friend noticed that, scattered amongst the bureaucrats who shared tokens, there were special people. These special people were always rational, on all questions. My friend expan ded his theory to include the notion that some people carried their own rationality tokens with them wherever they went, and as such were not bound by the laws that governed the others.”
Nathan took the token in his hands, and slid the ribbon around Hilan’s head so that the token dangled on his chest. “We established the decision duel to train people to such heights of rationality that they could always carry their own tokens. At the graduation ceremony we give the graduates their very own Rationality Tokens. As you can see, the token is not only useful for rationality; it is also good for a single trip on the Boston subway in case of emergency.”
Hilan laughed. “But I’m not a certified decision duelist.”
“No. But someone clearly displayed full rationality in a decision duel that took place the day before the Night of Steel Sleet. Someone devised an insightful third alternative—an alternative of preemptive mutual arms reduction. I would like you to hold his token for him until we find him, whoever he was.”
Hilan nodded. “I see.” His hand closed over the token, clenching it. “Thank you. I’m glad you think I did the right thing.” Tension flowed across his features. He turned his back to Nathan, staring out the window across the south lawn of the Ellipse. Sunshine poured in, outlining Hilan as a lonely figure.
Hilan shook his head as if to toss off an evil spirit. “I remember walking past Blair House, where Ronald Reagan was staying, the day before his first inauguration. It was cold and damp, a typical Washington winter day.” He turned to face Nathan, though he still looked back into the past. “The street was lined with bleachers. Scattered through the bleachers were desolate, sad people, all staring at Blair House. Those people didn’t know Ronald Reagan, but they knew he would be different from Jimmy Carter. They had no rational reason for believing that Reagan’s arrival would improve their individual lives, but they still stared at the house. They seemed to think that if they could just catch a glimpse of the new president, the vision could change them. Those sad, desolate people stared at the windows of Blair House with hope .” He laughed. “And you know what? I wanted to join them.”
He sighed. “They’re out there now, watching for a glimpse of me. They love me without question. The gamble I played with their lives paid off, and now they believe I can do no wrong. I hope it lasts, at least long enough for me to keep my word with Klimov. I’ve accelerated the schedule for dismantling our missile silos. I hope that in the long run, what I’ve done helps the people who watch presidents from the bleachers with their sad but hopeful eyes.”
Nathan nodded. “At least they know that you have changed their lives.”
“Have I? You know, the Russians and Americans might have worked out a peaceful world without the Night of Steel Sleet. As it is, the world may be safe for democracy, but it certainly isn’t safe from hate. When I initiated that Night, I increased the hate. The Russians hate us more now than ever before. We’ll probably never know whether I made the right decision.”
Nathan shrugged. “Your solution might not have been optimal,” he conceded. “But at least it was effective. Too many of the people who have shaped the world have never even achieved that much.” Nathan snorted. “I’m already annoyed when I think about the historians a hundred years from now. Some damn fool will look back on our story—the story of the birth of the Information Age—and prattle about the sweeping inevitability of our victory. Idiots!”
Hilan laughed. He moved out of th$ sunlight. “Certainly no Zetetic would develop or believe such an unsane view of history.” His smile held just a hint of mocking amusement. “And surely the Zetetic Institute will destroy all the bureaucracies and rule the world.”
“No!” Nathan was surprised by his own vehemence. He softened his tone. “At least, I hope not. I designed the Institute as a temporary structure, a scaffold, on our way to new and better Information Age organizations. Most of the good in Zetetic philosophy should be absorbed by the school system, and maybe the corporations. Zeteticism as such would then disappear, because it would be the norm. It would cease to be distinguishable from the background of normal society. If the Institute continued on indefinitely, then we would merely have created another institution. We would have failed.”
Hilan waved his hand expansively. “Do you believe that only teachers can learn from you? Then what about my institution, Nathan? What about my bureaucracy, the United States government?”
Nathan looked into the distance. “I believe you are obsolete, Mr. President.”
“Really! And who will replace me?”
Nathan shook his head. “No one will replace you, Hilan. It’s the office you occupy, as head of a nation-state, that will be replaced.”
“What will replace it?”
Nathan’s forehead creased in concentration. “I don’t know. I can’t see it yet.” Tears glittered in his eyes. “Perhaps Jan would have known. She often saw the future more clearly than I, though she never tried to look too far.” He shrugged. “When the time comes, I’m sure som
eone will know. It may not be our problem. Not all the ramifications of the Information Age will settle out in our lifetimes.”
“Thank heavens! We already have too much to do.”
The telephone rang. The sound swept Nathan’s mind with electric terror. Was this the call from the polite men from the hospital? Was it over? Was it too late?
He had never told Nell he loved her. He had been a coward, insufficiently self-assured to think of himself as a proper consort for a Madam President. Had she felt the same? Why had he waited?
Hilan s steps sounded soft as he walked across the room to pick up the obscenely ringing instrument. Hilan s tense impassivity turned to a serious frown as he listened, then changed to mischievous humor. “Thank you. Well be right over.” He hung up and headed for the door. “I think you’ll want to come with me,” he said over his shoulder to Nathan.
“Who was it?” Nathan’s pulse pounded as he asked.
“Well, it seems my obsolescence has already caught ug with me. I’m about to be evicted from the White House.” He opened the door to let Nathan go through first. “It seems that Nell has just regained consciousness. They think she’ll be fine.”
Nathan froze. Then his eyes widened, and joyful warmth suffused his whole body. “A miracle,” he said simply. It was funny, Nathan noted, that even he himself could sometimes take the goodness of the world for granted. Even he needed an occasional miracle.
He had never lost his sense of wonder, despite the loss of Jan and the jeopardy of Nell. But with Nell’s return from danger, every detail of his universe shined brighter. He appreciated the air he breathed, the scent of Washington springtime, the metallic polish of the limousine that stopped for them, the texture of the leather seat, the quiet rumble of the engine, the pressure of acceleration, the glow of the green light, the blue sky, the soft clouds, the antiseptic smell of the hospital, the bright white of the walls, the cold metal of the bed rails, the warm smile on Nell’s face.
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