“People are upset,” he said. “Who can blame them? It’s a sign of the times. And talking of which…” He pointed to the left as they passed a series of apartment buildings. More than one of them had banners slung from balconies, most of them reading PEACE NOW! or similar exhortations. “Vietnam, Watergate, riots in the streets. Cities burning. It’s like the end of times.”
Brooks glanced across at Randa and raised an eyebrow. Randa expected a smartass response, but his companion continued driving. He had quickly become used to Randa waxing philosophical, never more so than occasions like today, when the future balanced on a fine knife edge—rich and revelatory, or shady and unknown. With so much at stake, Randa was well aware that he was diverting his own extreme nervousness onto the unsettled masses around them.
“At least some of them have a sense of humour,” Brooks said. He slowed at a set of traffic signals at a crossroads, and it took Randa a while to see what he was talking about. Across the street, on the crossroads’ far corner, a movie theatre’s announcement board had been vandalised. Alongside the title DELIVERANCE, someone had spray-painted, FROM NIXON!
Randa chuckled, but such public signs of dissatisfaction inspired a sense of deeper unease. The idea that society could not even take care of itself disturbed him greatly. What if it was confronted with some greater, deeper threat? Something cataclysmic? He liked to believe that the human race would step up.
He really tried to believe.
“They can hang banners and march, sure. But when the shit really hits the fan… what happens then?”
Brooks had no response. He drove, Randa sat in the passenger seat hugging his briefcase to his chest, and with every minute that passed he felt the stark future, and his true purpose in life, drawing close.
The congressional building baked in the scorching afternoon sunlight, and usually Randa would have taken a moment to admire the architecture, the grandness, and take in the atmosphere of this place, the heart of the country he loved. But not this time. Urgency drove him onwards, and an excitement and nervousness that was playing hell with his stomach.
He should have never had those pancakes for breakfast.
Eager to make his meeting, he hurried up the wide steps in front of the building, and Brooks worked hard to keep pace with him. He knew this was the young man’s first visit here, and he’d have liked to give him time to take it all in. But there was no time.
“It’s hard to imagine that there will ever be a more screwed-up time in Washington,” Randa said. “Politicians are at odds. And even if they weren’t, the boys on the Hill have their hands tied. They’re directed to cut budgets, but they have no money for infrastructure and basic needs. With all the noise around them, they can’t see how important our project is.”
“So maybe it’s not the best time to ask?” Brooks suggested.
Randa stopped three steps from the top and glared at the young man.
“I mean… we’re hardly infrastructure or… or basic needs.”
“Survival,” Randa said. “That basic enough for you? Monarch is on the cusp of being shut down, Brooks. We’re broke. Can you think of a better time to ask?” He continued inside the building and Brooks followed, both of them swallowed into the massive structure’s cool embrace. It was a relief to get out of the sun, but Randa was too focused on his reason for being here to take much pleasure from it.
They crossed the large lobby area, Randa picking his route from memory. Passing through a wide corridor then taking a left, they came to a smaller open area and faced a wide, deep reception desk on one side. As they approached the desk, and their meeting loomed, a nervous Brooks started to express doubts that Randa had been struggling to allay for the past few days.
“I’m not confident in our presentation,” the younger man said. “I mean, all our materials are loose leaf.”
Randa was about to give their names to the woman behind the desk when a TV flickering in the corner caught his eye.
“In one day I could have it organised and bound,” Brooks said, but Randa raised a hand to silence him.
Nixon’s face filled the TV screen, and as they watched, one of the admin staff behind the desk also noticed and flicked up the volume.
“—a ceasefire, internationally supervised, will begin at seven p.m. this Saturday…” the president said.
“We don’t have one day,” Randa said. He tapped the desk to attract the woman’s attention. Then he coughed, smiled, and tried to switch on his charm. “Hello there. Bill Randa, here to see Senator Willis.”
The woman seemed to freeze, looking from Randa to Brooks and back again.
“Is there a problem?” Randa asked.
“Oh, well, Mr Randa. I think… Actually, sir, we were trying to reschedule today’s appointment—”
A door opened behind her. She paused and glanced back, and Randa saw her shoulders slump. Perhaps she was seeing her job ending there and then.
Framed in the doorway stood Senator Al Willis. He was a big man, tanned, greying, and some might have called him fat. But beneath that fat was strength, and Randa knew more than most that he was definitely not a man to mess with. He looked agitated and angry, his face red and lips pressed tight. For a moment he didn’t appear to notice Randa and Brooks, his eyes seeing something much further away. But a senator’s preoccupations didn’t concern Randa right then. He coughed, shifted from foot to foot, and then Senator Willis saw him and froze.
“Oh, God,” he said.
“Al!” Randa said, putting on a big smile. “You’re looking well!”
Willis stared at Randa and Brooks for a few seconds, then seemed to dismiss them entirely. It was a trait that had always unsettled Randa in this man’s presence—he held the room, however many people were there, and with one look or word he could make everyone in it feel about three inches tall. He held out his hand to his assistant, and she knew exactly what he was asking for. She pulled open a drawer, dug around, pulled out a packet of Rolaids and handed them over.
“Didn’t you get my message, Randa?” the senator asked. He popped some Rolaids and swallowed them down. “To reschedule?” He continued looking at the Rolaid packet, as if far more interested in that than the two men standing less than fifteen feet from him. If he sought to disarm, he was succeeding.
“Reschedule for the fifth time?” Randa asked. “Sorry, I must have missed it.”
Willis looked up sharply at the sarcasm—probably not used to being talked to like that, not by anyone—but that was just what Randa wanted.
“Senator, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t pressing,” he said. “I know your plate’s full, and that leaves precious little time for our small but hugely important cause.”
The senator didn’t answer, but his passive-aggressive bullying techniques switched target. He eyed Brooks up and down. “Who’s this?”
“Houston Brooks, my colleague and an expert on Hollow Earth theory.”
Brooks stepped forward and leaned across the reception desk, hand held out and a shit-eating grin on his face. Randa sighed inwardly. True, the guy was young, but he had a whole lot to learn about dealing with people like Senator Willis.
Willis didn’t even look at Brooks’s proffered hand, and he was left standing awkwardly with his hand held out. After a brief pause he stepped back and rolled his eyes at the senator’s assistant. She threw him a quick smile.