Glenn Beck - The Eye of Moloch

“No.”

“Google? Facebook? Netflix? Reddit?”

“No—”

“How about eBay? YouTube? WordPress? Surely they thought of Wikipedia?”

“No, listen,” Lana said. “The real stuff, the content, that’s not their damned job. Regular people invented all those things, mostly individuals and little start-ups. What you’re asking about is not some big government, there’s no need for that. All that’s needed is just the bare, boring essentials of a structure underneath.”

“Oh,” Ira said. “Kind of like a foundation.”

“Right.”

“So then, what’s the job of the government of the Internet?”

“Like I said, it isn’t much. Their job is mostly to stay out of our way. They protect and maintain the foundation, and just let things flow.”

“They just let things flow.”

“Now you’ve got it,” Lana said.

“Gosh. That’s worked out pretty well.”

“It just totally changed the world within a few years. No big deal.”

“Yes, I see,” Ira said. “You realize, I hope, that you’ve just described the genius behind the U.S. Constitution, and the magic of capitalism and the free-market system.”

Lana laughed out loud. “I think you forgot to take your meds this morning.”

“There are how many millions of people on the Internet? Billions now, and somehow it’s succeeded without tens of thousands of regulations. Sure, some of its citizens are only sitting by and watching, but a lot of them are using that unlimited freedom to build places, start businesses, create whole careers out of their imaginations. It’s a perfect environment for invention. And somehow with just those few simple rules and a handful of managers, it not only works, but like you said, it’s changing the world.”

Ira leaned to her, and continued. “That’s what this country was meant to be. Hundreds of millions of imaginations, free to invent and reinvent and adjust to the changing times, succeeding and failing and succeeding again without a big, meddling government to leech off their treasure and get in the way. That’s why it should be wonderful to live here, and why there’s a lot to learn before someone’s prepared to become a part of it.

“You just described the America those Founders envisioned, and they thought of it a quarter of a century before Babbage even designed his first steam-powered computer. So you see, kid? You might not like what our greedy, bloated government’s made of America today. But just like me, whether you realized it or not, with all your heart you love what it was once meant to be.”

A few seconds passed in a quiet stare-down, and then Lana responded matter-of-factly. “I hate you so much I can taste it.”

“Just say it, you’ll feel better. I won.”

She got up abruptly and headed for the hall with the snack machines.

Ira leaned back in his chair again, seeming quite satisfied with himself, and he looked over at Noah. “I think I’m finally starting to get through to her.”

“I really don’t think so.”

“And what about you, Mr. Gardner?” Ira asked. As had happened before between the two of them, the look on the older man’s face suggested that there was more in his question than the words alone might suggest. “What do you think the future holds for the troubled land of your birth?”

“I agree with you. I think this country was a great idea, maybe the best idea ever. Maybe it had a chance once, but now it’s over; the other side’s just too well organized. Now it’s too far gone to save.”

After a moment Ira looked quickly to the door and the windows as though to check that the coast was clear. He opened his bottom desk drawer and withdrew a small device, rolled his chair closer, and then handed the thing across.

“What’s this?” Noah asked. It looked like nothing but a coil of wire and some clips and bits of junk mounted to a small block of wood, with an earpiece dangling from one side.

“ Shh. Hide it, and take it home with you tonight. It’s a radio.”

“I’ve already got a radio—”

“Not like this one. Don’t let anyone see it, and don’t try to tune it; it’s already set to the right frequency. Listen to it tonight before you turn in. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

• • •

When the day was done, upon returning to his apartment, Noah immediately went to the desk and checked his e-mail. There was nothing but spam and some bureaucratic notices from the complex; again, he found no reply to his earlier messages to Molly. He wrote to her one more time, fixed a quick bite to eat, and reclined on the couch for some quiet thinking. The next thing he knew, he awakened suddenly, near midnight.

After a glass of water and a last check of his inbox he readied himself for bed, and that odd radio he’d been given came to mind. At least Ira had said it was a radio; when Noah retrieved it from his coat it still looked like some rejected craft project from a below-average Cub Scout.

As he lay down, he put in the earphone, expecting nothing at all, but there was a faint, intermittent sound, windy and barely there. A short chain of copper-plated paper clips was hung from a connector labeled “Antenna,” and when he held this in various positions the signal changed and gradually grew stronger. And then a man’s voice came through, thin but clear and steady behind the static, and Noah cupped a hand over his ear and closed his eyes and listened.

“. . . so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

There was more at the very end, delivered as though it was a common sign-off for these nightly underground broadcasts. It was only seven little words, but they left Noah troubled and sleepless for a good long while after they’d come in.

We are Americans, the anonymous man had said. God bless Molly Ross.

Chapter 34

Arthur Gardner hadn’t died immediately from the effects of his tragic accident at the elevator.

In fact, it was several hours later, and still he hadn’t yet managed to give up the ghost. As bad luck would have it he’d fallen only about fifteen feet into the empty shaft before striking a maintenance platform and coming to rest unconscious on its narrow steel ledge.

Well, when life hands you a lemon, Warren Landers thought.

His former boss’s stubborn lingering-on might be made into a small blessing in disguise. As was so often the case in this job, one must roll with the changes, and thus he’d immediately set about making the best of this unexpected development.

Mr. Gardner was in that rare class of people who don’t go to the hospital; the hospital comes to them. One urgent call to the multibillionaire’s version of 911 and the quick and discreet process had been set in motion.

The victim was collected and brought to his own bedroom, which in the interim had been rearranged and fully equipped to support intensive care. His ragged wounds and fractures were stitched and daubed and splinted to the extent required to stabilize him, and the proper drugs were administered to make his final hours comfortable and quiet.

Quiet, in particular.

Sadly, he wasn’t expected to pull through. This wasn’t a medical opinion so much as a direct order, delivered by Warren Landers to the company physician in charge. After the proper inducements had been paid, the rest of the staff concurred and proceeded accordingly with Arthur Gardner’s terminal treatment plan.