Грэм Мастертон - Famine

Ed spent the day in his bedroom, drinking beer and watching on television the scenes of violence that his own words had helped to unleash. He didn’t yet know what to feel about what he saw. Should he feel angry? Sad? Indifferent? Was it really his fault that all this disaster had happened? Or would it have happened anyway?

He crumpled an empty Coors can in his hand and tossed it into the waste-basket. He wanted very badly to talk to Season right now, and not just to make sure that she and Sally were all right.

He needed more than a friend or a lover right now. He needed his wife.

Peter Kaiser came into his room shortly after eight that evening, and stood watching the television, his hands stuck deep in his pockets. He looked waxy, and sweaty, and there were dark rings under his eyes; but he had an air of satisfied tiredness, as if he had pulled off something really difficult.

‘Well?’ he asked Ed. ‘What’s the latest?’

Ed was sitting on his bed, in a buff-coloured shirt, jeans, and bare feet. He eyed Peter without answering, as if the question wasn’t worth his time.

‘Now you know what it’s like to wield power,’ smiled Peter, sitting himself uninvited on the end of the bed. ‘A few words from you, and the whole country goes crazy. Makes you feel pretty good inside, doesn’t it? Pretty damned important.’

‘There’s only one reason those people went crazy,’ Ed told him, in a harsh voice. ‘They went crazy because they’re afraid.’

‘Well, isn’t that what national politics is all about?’ grinned Peter. ‘The calculated exploitation of fear? Don’t tell me anybody does anything at all out of brotherly love. Do you pay your taxes out of brotherly love? Do you anything at all out of brotherly love?’

‘Maybe not,’ said Ed, ‘but at least I don’t exploit the country’s misfortunes for the sake of a few million lousy dollars.’

‘It’s very easy to call a few million lousy when they aren’t yours, Mr Hardesty. Or may I call you Ed? You are a celebrity now, after all.’

‘I don’t particularly care about that,’ said Ed. ‘I’d like to telephone my wife.’

‘Haven’t you tried already?’

‘All day. But the operator keeps telling me the lines are busy.’

Peter pulled a consoling face. ‘Well, that’s true, they are. But you can try again in the morning. Maybe Shearson will begin to cool off a little by then. He’s pretty mad at you right now.’

‘Isn’t he going back to Washington?’

‘In a while. We have a few unexpected problems to clear up before we go. You know, tidying up the Blight Crisis Appeal, things like that.’

Ed climbed off the bed, and walked across the bedroom to the french windows that led out on to the balcony. He dry-washed his face with his hands, and then let out a long breath of exhaustion. He’d been watching the television news bulletin all night, and he was bushed.

‘Would you tell me something about Shearson Jones?’ he asked Peter.

Peter shrugged. ‘Why not?’

‘Would you tell me what it is that makes it possible for a man to serve as an elected representative of a country he professes to love, and at the same time to make profits on the side? To me, the two sides of a man like that just don’t fit together.’

Peter glanced towards the television. The sound was turned off, but it was easy to make out what was happening. There were lines of people at Los Angeles International Airport with hurriedly-packed suitcases, all trying to leave the country before the looting and the rioting grew any worse. Los Angeles had been through one of the most horrifying nights of all. The Los Angeles Times had called it ‘Walpurgisnacht.’

Peter turned back to Ed. ‘I don’t know why so many people believe that politicians ought to behave like priests. They’re not elected to bring us all to the kingdom of Heaven. They’re elected to look after our interests at city hall, or in the state senate, or Congress, or wherever. So provided they look after our interests properly, what does it matter if they make a little money on the side? As long as they don’t sell out the people who voted for them, who’s to criticise? And besides, it’s a time-honoured American tradition, going back to Thaddeus Stevens and James G. Blaine.’

Ed stared at him. ‘Do you really believe that?’

‘Would I work for Shearson Jones if I didn’t?’

Ed slowly shook his head. ‘You people amaze me.’

‘We’re professionals, working in a professional environment, that’s all,’ said Peter. ‘So long as we keep the balance between public ignorance, political power, and financial leverage, then we’re fine. It’s like one of those diagrams you used to have in your trigonometry books at school. But as soon as someone starts tilting the balance – as soon as we get some amateur interference…’

‘Like me,’ suggested Ed.

‘Well, that’s right, like you – well, then , the whole balloon goes up with a rush; and, boy, didn’t it go up last night.’

‘They said on the news they’re going to mount a Congressional inquiry,’ said Ed.

‘Sure they will. They have to. You don’t expect the nation to tear itself to pieces in the space of one night without someone having to carry the can. And really that’s the reason I’ve come to talk to you.’

‘Oh, yes?’ asked Ed, suspiciously.

Peter got up off the bed, walked across to Ed, and laid a confiding arm around his shoulder. Peter must have been tired and out of condition, because there was a red pustular spot on the side of his nose. Ed didn’t know whether to look at him or turn away.

‘The point is,’ said Peter, ‘that within a week or two, you’re going to have to stand up in front of some very inquisitive Congressmen, and answer some very difficult questions. One of those questions is going to be – what led you to believe the Senator Shearson Jones was diverting money from the Blight Crisis Appeal Fund into his own pocket? And can you produce any substantiating evidence? And what are you going to say to that?’

Ed didn’t answer. He wanted to hear what Peter had in mind first. If there was one lesson he had learned since he had arrived at Lake Vista, it was that you kept your mouth closed until you knew what the hell was going on.

‘Well,’ said Peter, as if he hadn’t really expected any kind of reply anyway, ‘what you’re going to say is, nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘That’s right. You’re going to say that you made a mistake. That you overheard a telephone conversation, and misunderstood the implications of it. You thought that Senator Jones was arranging to divert some of the money from the Blight Crisis Appeal, when in fact he was making special arrangements to get it out to Kansas wheat farmers even more quickly than he originally planned.’

‘I see,’ said Ed, cautiously. ‘And why should I say something like that?’

Ed pulled an expression of surprise that was almost comical. ‘Why? Because it’s true. Or at least, it will be by the time you appear in front of a Congressional committee.’

‘What’s going to make it true? The philosopher’s stone?’

‘The what?’

‘The philosopher’s stone. A mythical catalyst that was supposed to be able to turn lead into gold. I’m amazed at your ignorance.’

‘I’m amazed at your pettishness.’

Ed, with great care, lifted Peter’s arm away from his shoulders. ‘I don’t care to be hugged by political hoodlums,’ he said.

Peter stood back, his hands on his hips, and then laughed. ‘I admire your nerve,’ he said. ‘You may be an amateur, by God, but I admire your nerve. Unfortunately, nerve isn’t going to be enough. Your wife and daughter are staying with the Snowman family on Topanga Canyon, aren’t they?’