Attachment A lists active insiders. Almost everyone associated with the governing board of this organization is on file. Attachment B contains press releases and public pronouncements by John Fielder, spokesman for the group, and Abner Wright, its founder. You will note their concern with getting the Roundhouse out of the hands of foreigners (they seem to be referring to the Sioux) and their stated willingness to use force. Will advise as situation develops.
TO: Director, Customs Management Center,
Chicago, IL
FROM: Area Port Director, Fort Moxie, ND
SUBJECT: Roundhouse, Status of
As you are aware, people are entering and exiting the country through a “transdimensional door” on Johnson’s Ridge. Please advise whether Johnson’s Ridge should be considered a port, for customs purposes. Of course, no one is bringing back commercial merchandise, at least to our knowledge. But there are fish and game requirements and other laws that would come into play.
If instructed to establish an entry area, please note that the action will require additional personnel.
Project Forty’s ratings had gone through the roof. As a consequence, criticism of Old-Time Bill also soared.
Bill’s enemies were the mainstream press, liberal politicians, and left-leaning churches, which is to say all the various forces that were conniving in the moral collapse of the American people. They accused him of every conceivable crime but concentrated particularly on fraud and hypocrisy. They charged that he used religion to solicit donations, that he was a theological con artist, that he probably didn’t even believe in God.
None of this, strictly speaking, was true. To deal with the last first, Bill didn’t think seriously enough about theology to worry about details, but he sincerely believed that, as he often preached, everyone had a direct line into God’s study. Don’t hesitate to use the phone, he said; say what you really mean, and God will never put you on hold.
He sincerely believed in his own uprightness, because he gave hope to the despairing, meaning to those who had lost direction, and a sense of belonging to the unloved. To all who came to him, who wandered the various Sinais of their lives in keeping with the spirit of the Volunteers, he offered redemption, an easing of pain, and a celestial compass.
Oh, yes, Bill was a believer. God stood by Bill’s side when the choir was singing and the pipes were playing and people sobbed out their sins and promised to amend their lives.
And he most certainly did not do it for money.
The money was nice; he never denied that. But he thought of it as a corollary benefit for doing what was right, for walking the path of the Lord, for living by the Book. His real motivation would have been found in the exhilaration of standing before audiences in English-speaking countries around the world and feeling their response to God’s truth. He loved to draw them into the power of the Word, to hold their emotions in his hands, and, with his soaring rhetoric, to loosen the chains that bound them, not to an earthly existence, but to prosaic lives.
Bill understood the romance implicit in the tales of a desert God who had loved his people and who had eventually faced the Roman cross for all who had ever drawn breath. Yes! That was what people understood and what they loved. And they loved him because he had made himself part of the message.
His second Fort Moxie broadcast took place during the last snow storm of the season. Ordinarily, Bill didn’t get to see much snow, and it inspired him. While the flakes drifted against the windows, he understood God’s love for Adam in spite of his disobedience. And he felt his people’s hearts beat with his.
“But Adam has gone back into the Garden.”
“Amen,” cried the Volunteers.
“O Lord, we need your strong arm.”
“Alleluia!”
“Give us a sign. Show the faithless You stand by our side!”
He urged his listeners to write to their representatives. “Demand that we withdraw. For we are deaf to His word.” Tears appeared in his eyes. The wind began to build. Bill felt the Presence. “Show them your strength, God of Abraham,” he said. “I ask it in your Son’s name.”
The chorus, on cue, burst into “Rock of Ages.” The room shook and people sobbed and the wind wrapped itself around the building. Amanda Dexter, who could always be counted on to go to pieces at the climax of a good service, shrieked her undying gratitude to her Creator and collapsed in a quivering heap.
They rolled through several choruses while the wind played with the windows. Bill felt something open in his soul, and the power of the Angel of the Almighty entered into him. He knew once again the sheer exuberance of bringing people to the Lord. He flowed into the Angel and became one with it, directing the storm, watching the snow submerge the harsh angles of roof and shutter and drainpipe, enshrouding the building, burying it, removing its harsh lines.
Abruptly, he was back inside and the organ had stopped, and the Volunteers were in the aisles, exhausted, helping one another to their feet, delivering alleluias, collapsing into chairs.
“Praise the Lord,” said Mark Meyer, whose face was ashen. “Did you feel it?” He was looking directly at Bill.
“Yes,” said Bill, shakily. “I felt it.” Tonight, more than at any other time in his career, he knew he walked with the Blessed. “I think we got the sign,” he added. “I think we actually got the sign.”
He remembered the TV cameras. And at that moment, while he wondered if the network had picked up his remark, the lights went out.
“Check the circuit breakers,” someone shouted.
His people didn’t mind a little power failure, and they laughed their way through “Victory in Jesus.”
Bill put on his headset so he could talk to Harry Staples, his maintenance chief. “I’ll have the lights back in a second,” Harry said.
The room was absolutely dark. Bill could not even see any illumination coming in through the windows. That suggested the streetlights had also gone out.
“Everybody stay put until we get the power working again,” Bill said.
His producer reported that they were off the air. “But we went with a bang,” he added. The Whitburg studio had picked up and was covering with gospel music.
The Volunteers finished with “Joshua.” They cheered, conquering failed lights the same way they conquered everything else.
Harry’s voice again: “Power failure’s outside, Reverend. We’ve lost the heater, too.” Flashlights had appeared on the stairs.
“Okay,” said Bill. “Let’s close up and clear out.” They were staying in motels in Morris, Manitoba, about a half-hour north of the border. He turned to his audience. “You folks have done great,” he said. “Let’s go home.”
They were already filing toward the door, struggling into coats and boots. Bill waited, talking with his people. He heard the front door open.
And a rough masculine voice, breaking tone with the evening, said, “Hey, what the hell is this?”
Bill heard a whimper.
The door had opened on a wall of snow.
Frank Moll was at home listening to a Mozart concerto when the lights went out and the music died. Through his picture window, he could see that the streetlight located immediately in front of the house had also gone dark.
Peg came out of the den with a flashlight, headed for the circuit breakers.
“They’re off all over,” Frank said, reaching for the phone book.
“We are sorry,” came the recorded response at the electric company, “but all our service representatives are busy. Please stay on the line.”
He hung up, sat down, and propped his feet on the hassock. “Must be lines down somewhere,” he said. It was cold outside, but the house was well insulated.
They talked in the dark, enjoying the interruption in their routine. Across the street, Hodge Eliot’s front door opened. Hodge carried a lamp out onto his porch and peered down the street.
The phone rang.