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.From the helipad on top of his penthouse, the President could see the morning sun beginning to do its dawn-peek over a dusty horizon.Its golden-orange rays across New City gave a reddish silhouette to mountains in the distance.He enjoyed taking a heli-spin at this time of day, had often commented on it by saying, “The morning is as new and bright as the best products in our American Federation!”Onesayer spoke from the Bureau Monitoring Room: “Good morning, President Ogg.”Ogg jumped.The voice seemed to come from somewhere inside the cockpit.“Who said that?” Ogg demanded, sitting straight up and looking around nervously.He saw no one.“My name is not important,” the voice said.Onesayer smiled as he watched President Ogg reach for his radiophone.Onesayer mentoed a force-field gun, and Ogg felt invisible restraint against his forearm, preventing him from lifting the receiver.“There is no need for that,” the voice said.“Great Suffering Depression!” Ogg cursed angrily.He took a deep breath, released his fingers from the receiver and pulled his arm back.“Not to be alarmed, Mr.President,” Onesayer said.“The Black Box of Democracy would have a word with you.”“The Black Box? What soft of prank is this?”Ogg noted that the voice did not sound male or female.It could be a syntho-voiced meckie.Or someone speaking through a voice scrambler.He pinched the thin skin on the back of one hand to be certain he was awake.It hurt.“There is an evil electoral conspiracy, Mr.President.In violation of the American Federation of Freeness Constitution.”“Oh?”“An interesting dinner party will take place this evening, at the home of General Munoz.”“Munoz? What’s he up to?”“He is the leader of the conspiracy.”“I will need evidence,” the President said, “enough to appoint an investigating committee.” His gaze darted around the cockpit.“You will have the evidence, Mr.President, because you should always be kept informed.But there will be no investigating committee.”“We MUST have a thorough investigation,” Ogg insisted, his voice fervent, “with reports, meetings and photographs.” Ogg wiped perspiration from his brow.“We’ll set up a crisis bureau, employing thousands of people!”“No time for that! They plan to rig Tuesday’s election! Munoz will take power the same day!”“But we can’t take action without reports,” Ogg lamented as he shifted in his seat.His satin suit rustled.“It’s not possible!”“Leave it to us, Mr.President.And do not be alarmed at what you see happening.”“What will that be?”“Do not be impatient.First, there is a bit of evidence for you to observe, as required in the by-laws of the Black Box of Democracy.”Ogg rubbed the thumb and forefinger of one hand together nervously.The Munoz dinner party,” the voice said.“In the glovebox of your autocopter is a palm-held video receiver.Flip it on at six-thirty this evening.”President Ogg located the receiver, held it in one hand.It was blue plastic and chrome, had one red switch and a tiny darkened screen.“All right,” he agreed.“I’ll do that.”“They will say nothing incriminating at the table,” the voice said.“But watch their gestures and expressions.Pay particular attention to their eyes.”“This doesn’t sound like evidence to me!”“They thought-speak, Mr.President, with the aid of brain-implanted transceivers.”“My Rosenbloom! I’ve never heard of such—”“They also have a powerful subliminal transmitting device.At this moment, it is changing the voting preferences of a majority of the electorate.”“Munoz as a punch-in victor?”“Right.We have been on full alert for some time now.But we could not take action until they committed the overt act of changing votes.Just planning to do it was no crime.”“I see.No I don’t! Munoz isn’t clever enough for this!”“Dr.Hudson’s doing.Remember last year in your office when he explained the subliminal receiving features of every consumer brain implant? They were to make Harmak and Home Video advertisements more effective, he said.”“I remember.But how did you.”“They found another use for Hudson’s discoveries.I must caution you not to tell anyone about our conversation, Mr.President.” The voice fell silent.Ogg listened to the quiet in the cockpit, and a feeling of urgency came over him.He watched the golden orange layers of dawn give way to pale blue daylight.Whose voice was that? he thought.God’s?Dr.Hudson attended church services alone Sunday morning.Since the church building was overflowing, Hudson and hundreds of others sat in cars out in the parking lot, listening to the sermon through drive-in speakers.“Uncle Rosy and God are side-by-side in the Happy Shopping Ground,” the minister’s metallic voice said.Hudson turned a knob on the speaker to lower the volume, then glanced around nervously at the occupants of nearby cars.Did anyone see me do that? he thought.Across town in Building B of the Bu-Tech Space Center, General Munoz and Colonel Peebles stood in a sixth-floor briefing room.They squinted at one another against the glare of the midmorning sun which flashed through a nearby window.Peebles mentoed a window shade, watched it roll halfway down until the sun’s rays were covered.“Hudson’s people did a nice job, wouldn’t you say?” General Munoz asked, looking through a clear glassplex barrier to admire a three-dimensional galactic model.“Adequate,” Colonel Peebles said, fingering a strand of gold braid which encircled one shoulder epaulet and hung at the side of his Space Patrol uniform.“Adequate? It’s identical to our real model next door, except in this case the planets and other heavenly bodies don’t follow the impulses of parent bodies.These little spheres move in accordance with our fabricated control room instructions.”“Very nice,” Peebles agreed.He smiled as he looked at the model.Miniature comets and meteors made their way along varying courses in slow motion, trailing emerald green, blue or orange flames against a black, star-encrusted backdrop.Munoz glanced at the briefing room’s digital wallclock, noted the time: A.M.10:26:33.Below that, another digital reader showed the Estimated Time of Arrival of the garbage comet:DAYS 5HOURS 7MINS 28SECS 13D/SECS 0.73Looking back at the squeak of a door, they watched two dark blue-uniformed military policemen escort Tom Javik into the room.The MPs saluted, did a moto-boot about-face and left.Javik folded his arms across his chest, glanced around defiantly.“Mr.Javik!” General Munoz exclaimed, caressing his orange mustache.“So nice that you could make it!” The voice was honey-sweet but carried with it a threatening undertone.“Our brawler has a cut over his eye,” Peebles observed.An I-told-you-so smile touched his mouth as he added, “They had some difficulty restraining him last night at the Sky Ballroom.”General Munoz rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he studied Javik.He noted a torn and wrinkled tunic, fearless and defiant deeply-set blue eyes.“We’ll order you more suitable clothing,” Munoz said.“But then I’m getting ahead of myself.You know who I am?”“Yes,” Javik said, meeting the tiny General’s gaze.“And I’ve.met.Major Peebles.”“It’s Colonel now,” Peebles said stiffly.Javik heard a familiar whine to the voice.“Getting directly to the reason you are here,” Munoz said, “I am prepared to reinstate your commission in the American Federation Space Patrol.As a First Lieutenant.An Akron class cruiser is being prepared for the mission right now.”“Fast ship,” Javik said.“And long-range.” He narrowed his eyes warily, asked, “What’s the catch?”“No catch,” Munoz replied.“Your assignment is Project Romo [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]