The Minority Report and Other Classic Stories (62 page)

“Are we back on the air?” he asked Ed.

“Yes. It’s definitely out of the circuit, at least for a while.” Ed gestured toward the vacant stage on which the TV cameras and lights focussed. He said nothing more; he did not have to.

With his coat still on, Jim Briskin walked that way. Hands in his pockets he stepped back into the range of the cameras, smiled and said, “I think, beloved comrades, the interruption is over. For the time being, anyhow. So… let’s continue.”

The noise of canned applause—manipulated by Ed Fineberg—swelled up, and Jim Briskin raised his hands and signalled the nonexistent studio audience for silence.

“Does any of you know a good lawyer?” Jim-Jam asked caustically. “And if you do, phone us and tell us right away—before the FBI finally manages to reach us out here.”

In his bedroom at the White House, as Unicephalon’s message ended, Maximilian Fischer turned to his cousin Leon and said, “Well, I’m out of office.”

“Yeah, Max,” Leon said heavily. “I guess you are.”

“And you, too,” Max pointed out. “It’s going to be a clean sweep; you can count on that. Cancelled.” He gritted his teeth. “That’s sort of insulting. It could have said
retired.”

“I guess that’s just its way of expressing itself,” Leon said. “Don’t get upset, Max; remember your heart trouble. You still got the job of stand-by, and that’s the top stand-by position there is, Stand-by President of the United States, I want to remind you. And now you’ve got all this worry and effort off your back; you’re lucky.”

“I wonder if I’m allowed to finish this meal,” Max said, picking at the food in the tray before him. His appetite, now that he was retired, began almost at once to improve; he selected a chicken salad sandwich and took a big bite from it. “It’s still mine,” he decided, his mouth full. “I still get to live here and eat regularly—right?”

“Right,” Leon agreed, his legal mind active. “That’s in the contract the union signed with Congress; remember back to that? We didn’t go out on strike for nothing.”

“Those were the days,” Max said. He finished the chicken salad sandwich and returned to the eggnog. It felt good not to have to make big decisions; he let out a long, heartfelt sigh and settled back into the pile of pillows propping him up.

But then he thought,
In some respects I sort of enjoyed making decisions. I mean, it was—
He searched for the thought.
It was different from being a stand-by or drawing unemployment. It had—

Satisfaction,
he thought.
That’s what it gave me. Like I was accomplishing something.
He missed that already; he felt suddenly hollow, as if things had all at once become purposeless.

“Leon,” he said, “I could have gone on as President another whole month. And enjoyed the job. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I guess I get your meaning,” Leon mumbled.

“No you don’t,” Max said.

“I’m trying, Max,” his cousin said. “Honest.”

With bitterness, Max said, “I shouldn’t have had them go ahead and let those engineer-fellas patch up that Unicephalon; I should have buried the project, at least for six months.”

“Too late to think about that now,” Leon said.

Is it?
Max asked himself.
You know, something could
happen
to Unicephalon 40-D. An accident.

He pondered that as he ate a piece of green-apple pie with a wide slice of longhorn cheese. A number of persons whom he knew could pull off such tasks ... and did so, now and then.

A big, nearly-fatal accident,
he thought.
Late some night, when everyone’s asleep and it’s just me and it awake here in the White House. I mean, let’s face it; the aliens showed us how.

“Look, Jim-Jam Briskin’s back on the air,” Leon said, gesturing at the TV set. Sure enough, there was the famous, familiar red wig, and Briskin was saying something witty and yet profound, something that made one stop to ponder. “Hey listen,” Leon said. “He’s poking fun at the FBI; can you imagine him doing that
now?
He’s not scared of anything.”

“Don’t bother me,” Max said. “I’m thinking.” He reached over and carefully turned the sound of the TV set off.

For thoughts such as he was having he wanted no distractions.

In his demesne near the logging town of John Day, Oregon, Sebastian Hada thoughtfully ate a grape as he watched the TV screen. The grapes, flown to Oregon by illegal jet transport, came from one of his farms in the Sonoma Valley of California. He spat the seeds into the fireplace across from him, half-listening to his CULTURE announcer delivering a lecture on the portrait busts of twentieth-century sculptors.

If only I could get Jim Briskin on my network, Hada thought gloomily. The ranking TV news clown, so popular, with his flaming scarlet wig and genial, informal patter… CULTURE needs that, Hada realized. But—

But their society, at the moment, was being run by the idiotic—but peculiarly able—President Maximilian Fischer, who had locked horns with Jim-Jam Briskin; who had, in fact, clapped the famous news clown in jail. So, as a result, Jim-Jam was available neither for the commercial network which linked the three habitable planets nor for CULTURE. And meanwhile, Max Fischer ruled on.

If I could get Jim-Jam out of prison, Hada thought, perhaps due to gratitude he’d move over to my network, leave his sponsors Reinlander Beer and Calbest Electronics; after all, they have not been able to free him despite their intricate court maneuvers. They don’t have the power or the know-how…
and I have.

One of Hada’s wives, Thelma, had entered the living room of the demesne and now stood watching the TV screen from behind him. “Don’t place yourself there, please,” Hada said. “It gives me a panic reaction; I like to see people’s faces.” He twisted around in his deep chair.

“The fox is back,” Thelma said. “I saw him; he glared at me.” She laughed with delight. “He looked so feral and independent—a bit like you, Seb. I wish I could have gotten a film clip of him.”

“I must spring Jim-Jam Briskin,” Hada said aloud; he had decided.

Picking up the phone, he dialed culture’s production chief, Nat Kaminsky, at the transmitting Earth satellite Culone.

“In exactly one hour,” Hada told his employee, “I want all our outlets to begin crying for Jim-Jam Briskin’s release from jail. He’s not a traitor, as President Fischer declares. In fact, his political rights, his freedom of speech, have been taken away from him—illegally. Got it? Show clips of Briskin, build him up… you understand.” Hada hung up then, and dialed his attorney, Art Heaviside.

Thelma said, “I’m going back outdoors and feed the animals.”

“Do that,” Hada said, lighting an Abdulla, a British-made Turkish cigarette which he was most fond of. “Art?” he said into the phone. “Get started on Jim-Jam Briskin’s case; find a way to free him.”

His lawyer’s voice came protestingly, “But, Seb, if we mix into that, we’ll have President Fischer after us with the FBI; it’s too risky.”

Hada said, “I need Briskin. CULTURE has become pompous—look at the screen right this minute. Education and art—we need a
personality,
a good news clown; we need Jim-Jam.” Telscan’s surveys, of late, had shown an ominous dropping-off of viewers, but he did not tell Art Heaviside that; it was confidential.

Sighing, the attorney said, “Will do, Seb. But the charge against Briskin is sedition in time of war.”

“Time of war? With whom?”

“Those alien ships—you know. That entered the Sol System last February. Darn it, Seb; you know we’re at war—you can’t be so lofty as to deny that; it’s a legal fact.”

“In my opinion,” Hada said, “the aliens are not hostile.” He put the receiver down, feeling angry. It’s Max Fischer’s way of holding onto supreme power, he said to himself. Thumping the war-scare drum. I ask you, What
actual
damage have the aliens done lately? After all, we don’t own the Sol System. We just like to think we do.

In any case, CULTURE—educational TV itself—was withering, and as the owner of the network, Sebastian Hada had to act. Am I personally declining in vigor? he asked himself.

Once more picking up the phone, he dialed his analyst, Dr. Ito Yasumi, at his demesne outside of Tokyo. I need help, he said to himself. CULTURE’s creator and financial backer needs help. And Dr. Yasumi can give it to me.

Facing him from across his desk, Dr. Yasumi said, “Hada, maybe problem stems from you having eight wives. That’s about five too many.” He waved Hada back to the couch. “Be calm, Hada. Pretty sad that big-time operator like Mr. S. Hada falling apart under stress. You afraid President Fischer’s FBI get you like they got Jim Briskin?” He smiled.

“No,” Hada said. “I’m fearless.” He lay semisupine, arms behind his head, gazing at a Paul Klee print on the wall… or perhaps it was an original; good analysts did make a god-awful amount of money: Yasumi’s charge to him was one thousand dollars a half hour.

Yasumi said contemplatively, “Maybe you should seize power, Hada, in bold coup against Max Fischer. Make successful power play of your own; become President and then release Mr. Jim-Jam—no problem then.”

“Fischer has the Armed Forces behind him,” Hada said gloomily. “As Commander-in-Chief. Because of General Tompkins, who likes Fischer, they’re absolutely loyal.” He had already thought of this. “Maybe I ought to flee to my demesne on Callisto,” he murmured. It was a superb one, and Fischer, after all, had no authority there; it was not U.S. but Dutch territory. “Anyhow, I don’t want to fight; I’m not a fighter, a street brawler; I’m a cultured man.”

“You are biophysical organism with built-in responses; you are alive. All that lives strives to survive. You will fight if necessary, Hada.”

Looking at his watch, Hada said, “I have to go, Ito. At three I’ve an appointment in Havana to interview a new folksinger, a ballad-and-banjo man who’s sweeping Latin America. Ragland Park is his name; he can bring life back into CULTURE.”

“I know of him,” Ito Yasumi said. “Saw him on commercial TV; very good performer. Part Southern U.S., part Dane, very young, with huge black mustache and blue eyes. Magnetic, this Rags, as is called.”

“But is folksinging cultural?” Hada murmured.

“I tell you something,” Dr. Yasumi said. “There strangeness about Rags Park; I noted even over TV. Not like other people.”

“That’s why he’s such a sensation.”

“More than that. I diagnose.” Yasumi reflected. “You know, mental illness and psionic powers closely related, as in poltergeist effect. Many schizophrenics of paranoid variety are telepaths, picking up hate thoughts in subconscious of persons around them.”

“I know,” Hada sighed, thinking that this was costing him hundreds of dollars, this spouting of psychiatric theory.

“Go careful with Rags Park,” Dr. Yasumi cautioned. “You volatile type, Hada; jump too quick. First, idea of springing Jim-Jam Briskin—risking FBI wrath—and now this Rags Park. You like hat designer or human flea. Best bet, as I say, is to openly face President Fischer, not deviousness as I foresee you doing.”

“Devious?” Hada murmured. “I’m not devious.”

“You most devious patient I got,” Dr. Yasumi told him bluntly. “You got nothing but tricky bones in your body, Hada. Watch out or you scheme yourself out of existence.” He nodded with great soberness.

“I’ll go carefully,” Hada said, his mind on Rags Park; he barely heard what Dr. Yasumi was telling him.

“A favor,” Dr. Yasumi said. “When you can arrange, let me examine Mr. Park; I would enjoy, okay? For your good, Hada, as well as professional interest. Psi talent may be of new kind; one never knows.”

“Okay,” Hada agreed. “I’ll give you a call.” But, he thought, I’m not going to pay for it; your examination of Rags Park will be on your own time.

There was an opportunity before his appointment with the ballad singer Rags Park to drop by the federal prison in New York at which Jim-Jam Briskin was being held on the sedition in time of war charge.

Hada had never met the news clown face-to-face, and he was surprised to discover how much older the man looked than on the TV. But perhaps Briskin’s arrest, his troubles with President Fischer, had temporarily overwhelmed him. It would be enough to overwhelm anyone, Hada reflected as the deputy unlocked the cell and admitted him.

“How did you happen to tangle with President Fischer?” Hada asked.

The news clown shrugged and said, “You lived through that period in history as much as I did.” He lit a cigarette and stared woodenly past Hada.

He was referring, Hada realized, to the demise of the great problem-solving computer at Washington, D.C., Unicephalon 40-D; it had ruled as President of the United States and Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces until a missile, delivered by the alien ships, had put it out of action. During that period, the standby President, Max Fischer, had taken power, a clod appointed by the union, a primitive man with an unnatural bucolic cunning. When at last Unicephalon 40-D had been repaired and had resumed functioning, it had ordered Fischer to depart his office and Jim Briskin to cease political activity. Neither man had complied. Briskin had gone on campaigning against Max Fischer, and Fischer had managed, by some method still unknown, to disable the computer, thereby again becoming President of the United States.

And his initial act had been to clap Jim-Jam in jail.

“Has Art Heaviside, my attorney, seen you?” Hada asked.

“No,” Briskin said shortly.

“Listen, my friend,” Hada said, “without my help you’ll be in prison forever, or at least until Max Fischer dies. This time he isn’t making the mistake of allowing Unicephalon 40-D to be repaired; it’s out of action for good.”

Briskin said, “And you want me on your network in exchange for getting me out of here.” He smoked rapidly at his cigarette.