The Probability Broach (22 page)

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Authors: L. Neil Smith

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BOOK: The Probability Broach
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“You got the point. Listen—they’re about through.” The Franklinites had lost, 99.99 percent to 0.01; on to the next order of the day.
“The Chair recognizes Sandy Silvers of the Dissolutionist Faction.”
“Madame President,” said a pretty, honey-haired girl with a wry smile, “I move that Congress
adjourn
—”
Catcalls and curses filled the room.
Shouting over the tumult, Jenny exclaimed, “I’ll remind the delegates that a motion to adjourn is always in order! Second?”
“Madame President! May I be allowed to
finish
my motion?” She was still on her feet, others around her standing in their chairs. The noise died down—what can you add to a motion to adjourn? “Madame President, delegates assembled, I move that this body adjourn—
permanently
”
Her cohorts jumped and cheered, answered by yells around the room, some friendly, some not. The Franklinites shot a unanimous raspberry at them. Sandy answered, lowering her voice seductively in the pickup, “We love you, too, Buckie.”
Lucy had leaped up, shouting, “Second, Second!” Now she came back to herself, grinned sheepishly, and sat down. “Always did have a radical streak, I guess.” She relit her cigar. The Dissolutionists lost, three to one, but for some reason they cheered again, and Lucy beamed. “Highest total yet! Hope Pete’s restin’ happy tonight. He’s got good reason.”
The Telecommunicants, who simply wanted voting allowed remotely, yielded to Buckley F Williams. Amid hisses and boos, he moved that Congress be conducted by Telecom—
on a regular basis.
This time the ayes were too small for the big screen to express accurately. The Franklinites got up and walked out.
“Tryin’ t’sabotage us,” Lucy explained. “Below 90 percent, we’re outa business, remember?” She didn’t seem perturbed. “They hope the Dissolutionists will join ’em, but Sandy’s too smart for that.” She waved at the young anarchist leader who grinned and waved back.
“I don’t know, Lucy, all this petty maneuvering …”
She pounded my shoulder. “What else you expect? Politics brings out the worst in people every time. Maybe I’ll join the Dissolutionists after all.” I glanced around later that evening. Most of the Franklinites had sneaked back in, not wanting to miss the real action.
The big board went on shifting as more viewers tuned in. Next up, the Prosimians, contending that orangutans and gibbons should be admitted to the Confederacy. All of their delegates were human. Forsyth had mentioned these worthies in disgust: do-gooders and ward-heelers looking to benefit from the proxy-power of others. The captain had curled his lip, “Orangs and gibbons may be the most intelligent folks on the planet—won’t have anything to do with politics!” But the Prosimians were yielding to the Alliance of Sapient Machines.
“Lucy, are there really any sapient machines you know of?”
“Well, some sure have their own personalities. My two old Thornies have consecutive numbers, but each one handles differently. You’ve probably noticed the same thing with guns. The day a machine walks in here and—Come to think of it, some prankster tried that, back in—”
“But there’s some seriousness in all this?”
She considered. “Probably not now, but y’never know about tomorrow …”
I nodded emphatically, looking around idly for an exit and a bathroom.
The Alliance—as human as the Prosimians—moved to admit orangutans, and any “other intelligences” (their definition), automatically henceforward. Their definition would have included cantaloupes, elephant’s-foot umbrella stands, and at least half the FBI agents I’ve encountered. The proposition failed.
The Neoimperialists, after a brief, Cato-esque commercial demanding destruction of any remnants of government left anywhere in the world, yielded to the Annexians. “Nothin’ new,” Lucy explained. “The Neos, mostly war vets, start with a good enough idea. Government’s morally repugnant to any decent person. But how’d they avoid killing a lot of the very folks they’re liberating? Just won’t
wash.”
A slight twinge in my bladder. “What about these Annexians?”
“They just want Antarctica and some other places admitted. I dunno—we generally encourage other continents t’do things on their own. On the other hand, Greenland”—she indicated the agenda—“that might not be a bad idea.”
The Annexians took the floor. By Telecom, the current speakers for Greenland were testifying. Independent more than a century, the island had a Gallatinist assembly. In a recent 90-percent-or-better session, they’d decided to petition for admission.
The vote was affirmative. The North American Confederacy, a culture which routinely handled English, Spanish, and Quebecois, now would add another language. Well, if they could handle Cetacean, why not Danish?
And now, just as I was desperate to leave the room, I found I couldn’t.
It was our turn.
 
I often wonder why the ecology movement attracts leftists—there’s a lesson there you’d think they’d avoid at all costs: the economy is like any other part of the environment, small interferences create elephantine dislocations in later years and unpredictable places. If altering algae populations can cause an Ice Age, it’s equally true that minimum wage laws can cause mass unemployment. If they can learn such things about nature, why can’t they learn them about their own society?
—Mary Ross-Byrd
Toward a New Liberty
 
“Y’all enjoy them goobers now, y’heah?” The vendor smiled nervously at Lucy as she handed him a few small coins.
“Thanks a bunch, Jimmy-Earl, I sure will.” She offered me a handful. “Can’t help it, Win,” she whispered, “that little guy gives me the creeps. Well, looks like they got Greenland seated. Told you it wouldn’t take long.”
Scratch another chance to leave the room.
Jenny rose and cleared her throat. The roar of random conversation faded. “The Chair now yields to Dr. Olongo Featherstone-Haugh”—she pronounced it “Fanshaw,” but the readout told a different tale—“Vice President of the North American Confederacy.” From her right, nine hundred pounds of
Gorilla gorilla
ascended to the rostrum. Jenny stepped down. I’d been warned about this gambit: people might take our case more seriously, presented by the leader of the Gallatinist Party, a pretty, well-liked lady who just happened to be president.
“Mr. Vice President!” Jenny shouted from the floor. The background murmur died in anticipation. We were coming to the main event.
The mountainous vice president held his wristvoder near the mike. “The Chair recognizes Jennifer Smythe of the Gallatinist Party.”
“Thank you, Mr. Vice President. Assembled delegates,” she addressed the cameras, “people of North America and the System. Twice in the last century, our culture has embraced new peoples—peoples we had long known, but failed properly to understand. I refer, of course, to simian beings and to the people of the seas, the cetaceans. Today, we anticipate a time when new life is discovered on a distant world, life that shares with us that sum of values we call Civilization.”
The assembly buzzed again, but shut up as Jenny caught her breath. “Fate has chosen me to bring you that news—with two shocking qualifications: the new world is called
Earth,
its location,
anywhere you look around you,
for it shares
space
with our own, existing at a different point along one of the several dimensions of
time.”
The audience began to stir. “Ladies and gentlemen! We shall be
at war
with this new Earth within days—weeks at the most—a terrible new kind of war, ending only when all life on both our planets
is utterly extinguished!”
The stirring became a jumbled buzz. “Therefore …” It was useless. The noise crested: shocked reactions, fervent denials, even an isolated catcall.
“Therefore,
ladies and gentlemen …” In the roaring chaos she went unheard. This was affirmation of weeks of circulating rumor. Faces stretched around to stare at me. Others tried to hush the noise, adding their own to the uproar. Jenny climbed back onto the dais, tiny beside the vice president’s furry bulk.
“THEREFORE!”
she shouted into the pickup.
“Thank you. Therefore, I move that Congress declare a state of emergency to deal with this situation before civilization itself is destroyed.”
A tidal wave of noise swept over the crowded room. Lucy grabbed her mike, punching for recognition. This too was prearranged. “Mr. Vice President!—Shuddup, you varmints!—Mr. Vice President!” In exasperation, she drew her enormous pistol, triggering three devastating blasts into the timbered ceiling. Sawdust fell, and with it, silence.
“The Chair recognizes Lucille Kropotkin.”
“About bloody time, too, Fanshaw, old ape. Okay, I second Jenny’s motion, so’s we can explain to all these yahoos here exactly what’s been going on!” She holstered her pistol and sat down.
“It has been moved,” Olongo said, “and rather vigorously seconded, that we declare a state of emergency. Discussion? Mr. Madison, of the Fed—er, Hamiltonian Society.” At the far edge of the room, Madison rose. I stiffened, but Lucy reached out quickly, pinning my gun hand to the console.
“Mr. Vice President, we have just witnessed the introductory maneuvers of an unprecedented criminal conspiracy. I—”
“Oh, yeah?” someone shouted.
“What about Hawaii?”
There were echos to this, stomping and whistling.
Madison waded on. “I myself have been accosted by these lunatics, and have some acquaintance with what they’re trying to sell. In the interests of decency, I demand that their fantasies be dismissed immediately, so that we may all go home.” Boos, hisses, interspersed with a cheer or two. One of his henchman rose and shouted, “Second!”
“Out of order, Dr. Skinner. There’s a motion already on the floor. Captain Couper, you have a comment?”
Couper was a beefy Neoimperialist wearing double shoulder holsters. “If Miss Smythe would accept a friendly amendment …”
“That depends, Captain,” Jenny answered.
“Would you consider reconvening in committee-of-the-whole, delaying the vote until we fully understand the nature of this emergency of yours?”
She hesitated. “I’m not sure I could accept that right now.”
“Good going, Jenny!” whispered Lucy.
“Then,” Couper replied evenly, “I offer it as a formal amendment.”
“Second!” cried Sandy Silvers.
“There’s a precedent.” Lucy giggled. “Dissolutionists seconding a Neoimperialist motion!”
“Thank you,” Olongo said. “Any discussion on the amended motion?”
“Mr. Vice President!” A Franklinite chimpanzee was recognized. “As I understand it, Captain Couper merely wants more discussion before we commit ourselves.” For some reason, Lucy tensed. “You’re not proposing any long-term study, are you, Geoff?”
“You know I’m not, Fred.”
“Captain Couper, Mr. Muggs, will you gentlemen
kindly
address the Chair?”
“Herr Doktor Vize Prezidendt!”
Olongo sighed resignedly. “Mr … um … Kleingunther?”
“If Herr Oberst Couper did not zo intendt,” Madison’s butler said,
“I
vould ligh zuch a ztudy formally to propoze.” He bowed stiffly and sat down.
“Second!” Skinner shouted.
Olongo sagged. “We now have,” he spread his huge hands helplessly, “an amendment to the amendment to the original motion.” He hunched over the lectern, lowering threatening eyebrows.
“Any discussion?
I didn’t think so.”
“
QUESTION!
” a hundred voices cried, Lucy’s foremost. “Ain’t politics fun?” she whispered gleefully.
“The question’s been called. We will now vote on the—”
“Point of information?” A plumpish lady stood up, waving her arm.
“What is it, Mrs. Grundy?”
“Olongo, dear, I don’t understand. Are we voting on a declaration of emergency, or a
discussion
of a declaration of emergency?”
“Neither. We’re voting to … Mr. Kleingunther, please reiterate for Mrs. Grundy, and anyone else who’s confused.”
“Oh for blither’s sake!” Lucy muttered. Kleingunther started to speak, looked confused himself, read over his notes, and consulted with Madison. Finally, he restated the motion.
“Now if everybody understands what’s going on, we’ll proceed. All in favor of Mr. Kleingunther’s amendment to Captain Couper’s amendment, please signify by entering ‘are.’” In a mass-flurry of keyboard activity, many of the names on the screen turned from white to green. I began counting, but lost track when—
“All opposed, type ‘nay.’”
Lucy’s name and others changed to red. A few remained white—the delegate beside us was snoring softly. He didn’t have my aching bladder to keep him awake.
But we were outnumbered, sabotaged before we’d even gotten started! Would Madison be allowed to take over two worlds without a fight? Would we ever see Clarissa and Ed again? Would I ever get to the bathroom?
 
“MR. SECRETARY, PLEASE assess the proportions!” Suddenly, everything reversed. I’d forgotten that each delegate carried a different voting weight, from those representing only themselves, to the tiny professional minority with millions of proxies. The motion had failed, twenty to one!
The next order of business was Captain Couper’s amendment by itself. All in favor? Furious typing. All opposed? More of the same. The board looked hopelessly green, but this time I waited for the proportions. Slam! went the gavel. “The amendment passes by a majority of 99.44 percent. This body is recessed and reconstituted as a committee-of-the-whole!”
I groaned. Had we lost?
“Great goiters, no!” said Lucy. “We were hoping for something like this, but couldn’t figure a way to swing it ourselves. Those Hamiltonians did it for us, bless their cruddy little hides.”
I rested my head in my hands. “I give up. What’s going on this time?”
“You’ll learn,” she laughed. “Look. Anybody wants to speak at this bellywhop’s limited to ten minutes, right?”
I remembered something like that. “But what’s all this other junk?”
“Well, now we’re a committee-of-the-whole, just asittin’ around the potbelly stove. No time limit, no question to be called. Trouble was figurin’ how t’get it done. Never woulda passed if
we’d
suggested it.”
“I see,” I said. “So you got Captain Couper to—”
“Like pox we did! Neoimperialists don’t do favors for Gallatinists, and everybody knows it. It was just dumb luck. The Federalists finished the job, annoying everybody with their amendment to the amendment!”
I shook my head. “More smoke-filled-room chicanery.”
“Winnie, it’s the same game, wherever it’s played. Only difference is,
this
Congress can’t force anyone to do anything. Hell, you people can raise taxes, steal land, deny justice and the laws of nature, all before noon recess! Ain’t a soul in this room—’cept maybe the Hamiltonians and Franklinites—doesn’t want to get rid of politics altogether, someday. Got something better back home?”
“Hmm. You may have a point in there among the land mines.”
“Well, try doin’ a little thinking sometime. Might get to like it after a while.”
“They always said it’d make us go blind. Speaking of that, are the whites of my eyes turning yellow? I need to—”
“Hush, boy! They’re startin’ again!”
“Marvelous.” I crossed my legs and bit down hard on my cigar.
Resuming the Chair, Jenny called on Deejay Thorens, via Telecom, to describe the Probability Broach. A second circuit, to Emperor Norton University, allowed Ooloorie to chip in by split-screen. It was the first I’d seen of Deejay’s recordings of my world. They were depressing. The United States now looked dingy and threadbare to me. I’d forgotten already what grime, noxious fumes, and poverty in the soul of a society can do to the people who have to live there.
“Madame President!”
“The Chair recognizes Mr. F. K. Bertram.”
“Madame President, we demand this demonstration cease! Those recordings are private property, which these two individuals” —he pointed to the inset images of Deejay and Ooloorie—“are using without authorization!”
The main screen went white. Everybody blinked. “Is this true, Dr. Thorens?” asked Jenny, knowing perfectly well it was.
“I’m afraid so,” Deejay admitted ruefully.
Bertram shook his fist at the ’com. “Thorens, you and your, your—specimen, are discharged! Turn those recordings over this very minute!”
“That, sir,” Ooloorie answered coolly, “is a logical impossibility. They’re
already
in your custody, being run from a tele-computer in Laporte.”
“I don’t care! I—we want it stopped, right now!
Right of private property!”
It was growing harder for me to follow the action. My bladder was demanding full attention.
“Wait a minute!” It was Olongo, out of order and towering above the rostrum. “What do you mean, private property? I’m one of your stockholders, and
I
want to see those recordings!”
“Mr. Vice President, with due respect,
we
are obligated to make decisions in the best interests of the company as a whole.”
I glanced over at Lucy, typing frantically into her console. She’d established a datalink with a Chicago stock exchange, summoning up a list of stockholders and cross-referencing it with the roster of delegates. “Oh horsehockey! There’s only four of any significance here, and one of ’em’s Madison. He’s in for five percent! Couldn’t raise a majority if our lives depended on it—which they might!”

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