THE NEXT DAY. ATHENS. TNG DISTRICT. (ATHENS. GEORGIA.) 10:30 A.M. EST. WEDNESDAY. DECEMBER 25.
It wasn’t the worst prison in the world; they fed him the same as they did the guards, and he was allowed notebooks and paper, and the time to sit and write.
When the summons came, the guard said, “While you’re meeting with the NCCC, we’re supposed to pack all your things. He said to ask you if the notebooks go in a special order, and if you’d rather have them any particular place in this.”
The man held up a canvas/steel rucksack that was probably an antique, since there was no whiff of rotting plastic or nylon about it.
“If this one goes in this outside pocket,” Chris said, “with a few pens, so I can whip it out and write fast, that would be great. The older ones over there on the bench should all go in on top of my spare boots and clothes, so they won’t get damp from just setting the pack down, but not too close to the top in case rain leaks in.”
“Kind of bury them in the middle? Got it. He also wanted us to see if you wanted one or two more spare blank notebooks to take with you, but he thought you’d be able to forage for them on your way, too.”
“Maybe one spare would be nice, so I don’t have to forage too soon. Where am I going?”
“Beats me, Mr. Manckiewicz, I’m supposed to take you to the Natcon, and get your pack ready while you’re in with him. Maybe he’ll tell you.”
Cameron Nguyen-Peters was thinner than ever, and whatever traces of a smile had ever been around his mouth had vanished. He still had his pliers-like handshake and disconcerting way of looking directly at you. “Chris,” he said, “you are a problem, and there are only three things that can be done with a problem—ignore it, solve it, or make it someone else’s problem. Have a seat, and we’ll discuss the situation and the options.”
“Um,” Chris said. “I kind of thought I was being held for sedition or some such.”
“Well, that’s the problem. I have a war to run, and the war may go on for decades. From a winning-the-war perspective, which is the only perspective I can really allow myself, a free press has a lousy track record. Yes, I know”—Cameron waved a quick dismissal—“there have been many journalists who did great things for the war effort in past wars, and many ethical journalists who at least did no harm, and so on. But even the best journalists in the wars where they did the best jobs sometimes leaked vital information. As of this moment, we’re beaten, Chris, badly beaten, and I think we’re more likely than not to lose—don’t quote that, anywhere, ever. But I think there’s still a chance to win—if we get it all together and fight seriously. The next year or so will tell the tale, and if we win, then in 2026 we’ll hold those elections, and in 2027 I will set the entire Constitutional apparatus back up. I suppose after that I’ll retire to a farm or something, or maybe hire you to ghostwrite my memoirs. If we lose it won’t matter. But for right now, the Constitution is suspended—to preserve the possibility that someday I will set it back up.”
“I don’t imagine you’re asking for my opinion.”
“Not at all. But here’s the rest of the situation. There can be no point in getting into a civil war, and frankly, almost all of the country’s remaining military strength is down here in the South—actually pretty much in a belt across the bottom of the country from the Carolinas to Arizona. The upper-left-hand corner of the country that went over to Weisbrod, which we might call the Goofy Quadrant, are no danger to us. None. They have historically low rates of military enlistment, they’re not very disciplined in any other way, they’re just not going to put together an army for a civil war, and if they try it will take them years. And they can’t possibly be an invasion route for the other side—whoever that is—because we control most of the warships still moving. So the Goofy Quadrant can’t help us much in the war, and they can’t hurt us much, and common sense says to let them go.
“Which brings me to my solution to the problem of you. I’m giving you the gear you need, and a space-a pass that you should be able to ride out to somewhere on the Plains or maybe down to the Canal Zone, telling you to have fun and go do what you do, and sending you over to Graham Weisbrod. As a public official, I can’t ignore you; as an American, I can’t stand to do anything that would solve you; but luckily, I can make you someone else’s problem. Good luck, Chris, and Merry Christmas! I’ll watch for your byline.”
Chris thought, Well, Cameron Nguyen-Peters has given up smiling for the duration, I guess, but I’ve seldom seen him so cheerful.
FOUR DAYS LATER. SOUTHEAST OF PALE BLUFF. ILLINOIS. 11:00 A.M. CST. SUNDAY. DECEMBER 29.
Chris had struck I-64 the day before, and thanks to his old TV days and his time at KP-1, he hadn’t had to sleep outside or go hungry so far; people here remembered him, and when he said he was going to Olympia to start a new paper there, mostly people seemed to be happy to help.
He’d risen with a couple nice old-farmer types before dawn. They’d given him a large breakfast, filled both his canteens, and sent him on his way. Good weather was holding, so far. There’re a lot of worse walks in the world.
He topped the rise and decided that he was either having the best luck or the worst hallucination of his career. Right there in front of him was what could only be the DC-3 that had brought Weisbrod to Pale Bluff, Illinois. That meant two things: a chance to look at a piece of history, and that Pale Bluff was nearby, which meant a hundred good interviews in all probability.
He was about a hundred feet from the plane when he realized that there was a man inside, talking to himself and swearing. He crept closer and discovered a man in a pair of coveralls, seated on the floor of the plane, and busily wrapping pieces of copper wire with flannel and Elmer’s Glue. It looked like the maddest craft project he’d ever seen.
The man said, “I don’t have any money or food and I’m not leaving soon.”
“I wasn’t going to rob you or jack you. Are you, by any chance, Quattro Larsen, freeholder of Castle Larsen?”
“I am. I am also Quattro Larsen, man bored out of his skull as he wraps miles of wire and hand-rebuilds fuses. The barometer is falling, the hygrometer is rising, and the clouds tell me I’ve got a storm coming; I’ve a day at best to get this idiot thing fixed so I can fly south, dodge the storm, and get home. And I’m a fumble-fingered idiot. Plus I won’t be able to work after dark; I don’t have any artificial light, and I’ll have to walk back to the village in the dark. So I am getting very scared and very sorry for myself.”
“Mind if I climb up and join you?”
“Help yourself.”
“Suppose you show me how to wrap wire. My name is Chris Manckiewicz, I’m a reporter, and I’d be very happy to be your assistant. And it so happens I have a small oil lamp.”
“I used to hear you on the radio.”
“So you know you can trust me.”
“Wrap some wire and let’s see.”
THREE HOURS LATER. PALE BLUFF. ILLINOIS. 2:00 P.M. CST. SUNDAY. DECEMBER 29.
Chris explained who he was quickly; Carol May Kloster said, “Well, I’d sort of like to hang on to the original document. Can you read shorthand?”
“Not a blessed bit. They didn’t even teach it anymore in J-school.”
“Well, of course, I’m flattered and honored that you want a copy of this, but I’ve only had time in the last couple of weeks to make four copies in decent handwriting; my niece Pauline has made about twenty in shorthand, practicing her Gregg, so I was going to give you one of those instead. But that’s all right; I kind of like the idea that my work is going to be published in the country’s biggest newspaper.”