“Citizens of Jabalpur! Do I really have to tell you these things? Do I really have to tell you that murdering thugs roam your country, burning factories and businesses, setting crops to the torch, driving settlers from their homesteads; do I have to tell you good citizens of the innocent folk slaughtered like animals in bomb attacks, shot down on their own doorsteps? No!”
The audience brayed its approval.
“No! I do not need to tell you these things, good citizens! You know it only too well! And you may ask yourselves, where are the armed constables patrolling your streets? Where are the Local Defence Units, where are the regular troops? Yes, where are the Jabalpur Volunteers, the First Oxiana Division, the Twenty-second Airmobile? I will tell you where they are!”
She treated them to a few seconds calculated pause.
“Sitting on their hands in their barracks, that’s where! And why? Why? Because your local opposition-dominated assembly doesn’t think the situation warrants that kind of intervention! So: three million dollars worth of finest military technology gathers dust and the local defence forces have neither arms nor uniforms to drill in because Campbell Mukajee doesn’t think the situation warrants that kind of intervention! Let him tell that to the Garbosacchi family! Let him tell that to the Bannerjees, the Chungs, the MacAlpines, the Ambanis, the Cuestas, and they will tell him whether or not the situation warrants that kind of intervention!”
She let them howl while she nodded to the candidate, then palmsdowned them into simmering calm.
“But best of all… best of all, my friends, the constables; your constables, your guardians of law and order, routinely escort Whole Earth Army demonstrators through the streets of this city! ‘Preservation of the right of political expression’ says Campbell Mukajee. Really, Mr. Mukajee? And what of the rights of Constantine Garbosacchi, Katia Bannerjee, Rol MacAlpine, Abram Ambani; Ignacio, Mavda, Annunciato and Dominic Cuesta, all butchered this past week by the murder squads of the Whole Earth Army?” The audience drew breath to thunder a condemnation, but Marya Quinsana played them like Blue Mountain tilapia on the line. “Escorting them? They should be arresting them!” She smelled frenzy-sweat and hysteria in the hall but still she did not release them. “There are Whole Earth Army representatives sitting in each of the three houses of this regional assembly who openly condone murder and violence and Mr. Campbell Mukajee has never once tabled a motion for their dismissal! He openly consorts with murderers and terrorists, he and his party: because of his bleeding-heart liberalism hundreds of your fellow countrymen have been butchered; he refuses to mobilize the security forces because he does not think the situation warrants that kind of intervention: his own words, ladies and gentlemen! And now… now… now he asks you to re-elect him and his party for another three years!
“And I know, I know in my heart of hearts that the people of Jabalpur District are going to say no, no, a thousand, ten thousand, a hundred, a million times no on Thursday to another three years of Liberal misrule and say yes, yes, a million times yes to the New Party, the party with the will, the party with the determination, the party with the power and your mandate, citizens, to sweep the Whole Earth Army from the face of the globe; on Thursday you will say yes to the New Party, yes to Pranh Kaikoribetseng, your local candidate, yes to victory and strength!”
And now she released them As one the audience rose; audience, party nominees, party members, party workers, a storm of applauding hands. Marya Quinsana smiled, bowed. But her performance had not pleased her. She preferred subtlety to tub-thumping and welkin-ringing. Clumsy, unsophisticated, unsubtle. A dirty night’s work. Unseen and unheard in the tumult, a messenger slipped onto the platform and handed her a piece of paper: a telegram.
RETURN WISDOM IMMEDIATELY COMMA EMERGENCY MEETING RE JONATHON BYRDE OUTRAGE COLON KAROLAITIS STOP.
Jonathon Byrde? Jonathon Byrde?
She only learned that Jonathon Byrde was not an assassinated dignitary when the cabin attendant on the Jabalpur-Syrtia Night Mail brought her the morning papers with breakfast and banner headlines toppled over each other in plumbing the thesaural depths of outrage and horror.
She met First Minister the Honourable Vangelis Karolaitis on the veranda of his town house overlooking the Syrtic Sea. He was a fine old gentleman, honourable as his title, and wise, and Marya Quinsana hoped he would die in his bed before it became necessary for her to depose him. A butler served mint tea. The breeze carried the scent of jasmine and wisteria from the gardens that reached down to the sea.
“Well,” said the First Minister.
“I’ve said it all along. Get me out of Science and Education into Security and I’ll have the Whole Earth Army on its knees in six months.”
“I’ll be announcing the ministerial reshuffle this afternoon. I’ll also introduce the emergency bill outlawing the Whole Earth Army per se; shouldn’t have any trouble getting it passed, the Liberals aren’t sounding quite so liberal this morning. So: the army’s yours. Remember, they’ve never fought a proper war, so try and bring it all back in one piece, but that aside, do whatever you have to do to rid these lands of this… cancer of terrorism.”
“One question: who destroyed the Jonathon Byrde? I want him first.”
“Some faction calling itself the Whole Earth Army Tactical Group. The Parliamentary Group’s issued blanket denial of any involvement with this group: personally I don’t believe them. Leader’s called… yes, Arnie Nicolodea Tenebrae.”
45
The world had lost its sense of wonder. The marvels that seven, six, five years ago excited gasps and sighs of amazement today prompted contemptuous yawns of tedium. Only one hundred and fifty years old, the world was already middle-aged and cynical, consigning its cast of wonder-workers, tellers of tales, showmen, miracle men, medicine men, and carnival touts to the rusted sidings of forgotten stations.
“Old train, the world has lost its sense of wonder!” cried Adam Black. He poured himself another liberal brandy and stood in the centre of his onceopulent now-shabby showmaster’s carriage, glass raised high in an ironic toast. “The world has grown weary of Chautauquas and Educational ’Stravaganzas, my friend. What shall Adam Black do now?”
“Might I suggest pooling your resources with those of the Immam of Bey and his Circus of Glass?”
Adam Black hurled his brandy glass at the wall.
“That charlatan! That mountebank! That money-spinning titillator of public fancy! Adam Black is a man of education and learning, his mission is that of teacher and preacher, not hustler and whore!”
“Still, I maintain that his is the sole remaining carnival of wonders in this hemisphere.” The train’s voice was calm and patient, almost unbearably so.
“Maintain what you will. Adam Black will not stride the same midway as the Immam of Bey.”
Two days later locomotive and three coaches pulled away from the freight sidings of Ahuallpa Station and headed onto the main southbound line, eight tracks wide. The Great South Line was buzzing that day with the rolling stock and haulers of the world’s great railroads: Bethlehem Ares, Great Southern, Great Eastern, Grand Valley, Argyre Express, Transpolaris Traction, Llangonnedd and Northeastern, Trans-Borealis, and among their jewel bright flashing liveries was the chipped and pimpled paintwork of Adam Black’s Travelling Chautauqua and Educational ’Stravaganza. In his managerial car Adam Black stormed and hurled things.