Ben Bova - The Multiple Man

“It’s the second Industrial Revolution,” I said. “It’s happening all over again. People have been bombing computer facilities here and there.”

Hank nodded. “They tell me there’s even a new kinda robot that’s working foot patrol with the New York Police Department. Guess my job’ll be next.”

I said nothing, just watched the crowds. They seemed to be more in a holiday mood than anything else, laughing and hollering at each other. Drinking beer, inside the buses we passed.

“Maybe I oughta join ’em,” Hank muttered.

“No,” I said. “There’s something more important for you to do. Find Vickie and get the two of you out of town. Tonight. As soon as you let me off at my place.”

“Now that’s a damn good way t’ get me fired,” Hank said. “My orders are t’ stick with yew…”

“I’ll be all right,” I said. “They’re after you and Vickie, too.”

“How d’yew know?”

“What the hell do you think shook me up back there?”

His jaw dropped open. “Th’ First Lady? She’s in on it?”

“Deep enough to know that you two are in as deep as I am. Get Vickie and disappear. Go up to Boston and live with Johnny Harrison for the next day or two. Wait ’til after my press conference before you come back.”

“But yew…”

“Jesus Christ Almighty! Will you do what I tell you, or do you want to get yourself killed? And Vickie too?”

“I’ll get one of my buddies to fill in with yew…”

“No, that would tip them off. Just grab Vickie and get the hell out of town. I’ll lock myself in my apartment and phone the cops if I even hear a mouse squeak.”

With a shake of his head, “I dunno…”

“But I do. And if Vickie gets hurt I’ll blame you for it.”

His face tightened. “God damn! Life jes’ gets more complicated ever’ goddamned day.”

“Do what I tell you,” I said.

He hated the idea of leaving his assigned responsibility, but he was enough of an old-style Westerner to worry more about Vickie than about me. And I was old-fashioned enough to know that if they grabbed Vickie, I’d do whatever they told me to.

I sprinted from Hank’s unmarked car to the lobby of my apartment building, waved to him through the glass doors, and went up to my rooms. The first thing I did was snoop around the place, poking into closets and even the shower stall, to make certain I was alone. The first thing after triple-locking the front door, thatis. Than I put a frozen dinner in the cooker and called the door guards and told them I didn’t want any visitors allowed up, under any circumstances. They could talk to me on the phone if they needed me.

I settled down with the aluminum dinner tray in my favorite living room chair and flicked on the TV. The evening news was mostly about the gathering horde of Neo-Luddites congregating at the Capitol. Congress had courageously adjourned early, so that the Congresspersons and Senators could be safely home and far from their demanding constituents. The Capitol building itself was now closed to all visitors, and there were thousands of DC and Capital police ringing the venerable old marble pile.

“Unofficial reports from generally reliable sources,” the TV commentator added, “claim that the Army has several regiments of troops standing by in nearby locations, ready to deal with any emergencies that might arise.”

“Generally reliable sources” was me. We had argued in the office a good part of the day about tipping off the press that the Army was standing by for riot duty. Finally I decided it was better that the people hear about it from us, beforehand, than to have the troops show up as a surprise or, worse still, have some enterprising snoop like Ryan find out about them in spite of us. The President had agreed with my views and let the balloon float out into the public airways.

“There is also a rumor,” the TV commentator went on, “completely unconfirmed, that the President himself will address the demonstrators later this evening. As I say, this rumor is completely unconfirmed…”

That was news to me. Watching the gathering crowd on the TV screen, I didn’t think they looked particularly dangerous. But I knew that in a throng as big as that, a riot could erupt as easily as spitting on somebody’s sandal. And a crowd that size would need tanks and water cannon before they were calmed down. Or maybe worse.

So I picked listlessly at my dinner, drank damned near a whole bottle of white wine, and watched the special coverage of the demonstration that came on after the regular news show. The speakers were dull, inane, making absurd demands that, if met, would turn the economic clock back a generation and throw everybody out of work.

But the people cheered every asinine punchline and waved their signs: COMPUTERS MUST GO! HUMAN DIGNITY REQUIRES HUMAN JOBS. I couldn’t see anything dignified about being a secretary or a copyboy or even a typesetter, for that matter. On the other hand, I had a job that exercised my brain, not my hands and legs, so who the hell was I to complain?

It was a combination of the wine and the moronic speeches droning from the TV that put me to sleep. It was the phone’s insistent buzzing that woke me up.

I blinked. The TV was still on, and both in the panoramic view of the Capitol showing on the screen and through my own living room windows, I could see that it was dark outside. Night, as they say, had fallen.

The TV audio was saying, “And now, the President of the United States.” The view zoomed down to a makeshift podium that had been set up on the Capitol steps. And there he was, James J. Halliday, smiling confidently at the assembled multitudes.

“I don’t have a prepared speech,” he said disarmingly. “I thought I’d come out here and listen to what you have to say.”

They roared their approval. Must be John, I thought. He’s the charmer.

The phone was still buzzing, louder and more insistent. I reached over from my chair and tapped the ON button.

On the phone’s picture screen, the features of James J. Halliday took form.

“Good evening, Meric,” said the President.

I glanced from the phone to the TV, where the President was saying, “I understand that automation has taken many jobs, but that’s just a short-term situation…”

“Good evening,” I said to the phone image. “Your brother’s out there walking on water.”

“That’s Johnny for you,” said the President. “He loves it.”

“You don’t?”

“I’m not much for crowds. I’ve always preferred Hamilton to Jefferson.”

I squinted hard at the phone screen. The wine was making my head thunder.

“It won’t do you any good to try to figure out which one I am. You can’t tell by looking, and I’m not going to spell it out for you”

“Why’d you call?” I asked.

The President said, “I wanted to make one final appeal to you to call off this ridiculous press conference tomorrow afternoon.”

“No deal,” I said.

His face hardened. “You’ll never get to it. You understand that?”

“Doesn’t matter. The story will pop.”

With just a hint of exasperation, “You still don’t seem to understand, Meric, the power in my hands. By tomorrow afternoon those tapes you mailed out will be destroyed. The people who’ve been working with you will be silenced. It won’t work, Meric. It’s doomed.”

“Then why call me?”

“Because I’m not a willful slaughterer. I don’t want to kill anyone…”

“Tell that to your deceased brethren. Tell it to the General, I’m sure he’ll understand.”

“Meric! Don’t force me to act.”

“Mr. President… this nation has survived an awful lot of stupidity in the White House. We’ve had ignoramuses for Presidents, we’ve had innocent do-gooders and out-and-out crooks. But I’m not going to willingly allow a madman to take the job.”