“Session adjourned,” Ben said.
Tri-states’ laws, the liberal press said, and even after a nuclear war the press was still controlled by liberals, constituted a gunpowder society.
They were correct to a degree.
But those reporters with more respect for their readers and viewers—and they were outnumbered by their counterparts—looked at Tri-states a bit more closely and called it an experiment in living together, based as much on common sense as on written law. Most of those reporters concluded that yes, Tri-states could probably exist for a long, long time, and it was no threat to America. And, yes, its citizens seemed to be making the Tri-states’ form of government work, for they were of a single mind, and not diversified philosophically.
But could this form of government work with millions of people? No, they concluded, it could not.
And they were correct in that assumption… to a degree.
But most people can govern themselves, once basic laws are agreed upon;
That a people must be bogged down in bureaucracy; beset by thousands of sometimes oily, rude, arrogant, and frequently hostile local, state, and federal “civil servants”; licensed, taxed, and harassed; ruled by a close-knit clan of men and women whose mentality is not always what it should be and whose weapons are power; be dictated to by judges who are not always in tune with reality; and yammered at year after dreary year that a couple of senators and a handful of representatives have the power to decide the fate of millions… is a myth.
And Tri-states proved it.
There was not much pomp in Tri-states. Ben’s governor’s mansion was a split-level home on the outskirts of Vista. In good weather he rode to work in a Jeep.
Ben was on the road a lot, visiting the districts, listening to grievances, if any; and they were few. But of late, the one question asked, the one question paramount in the minds of Tri-states’ residents was: what happens when we open our borders?
The residents had met in open town meetings (something that was required by law before any decision affecting the lives of the citizens was initiated) and finally had decided to open their borders to the public, if any persons wanted to visit. They had been wholly self-contained for almost six years. Maybe it was time.
But most viewed the border openings with highly mixed feelings.
The Tri-states’ communications people contacted the major TV and radio networks, and the major papers, asking if they would like to cover the opening of Tri-states’ borders.
All did.
“Now the shit really hits the fan,” Ike projected.
The driver of the lead bus brought it to a hissing halt and motioned for the chief correspondent of CBN to come to the front. “Take a look at that, Mr. Charles.” He pointed to a huge red-and-white sign that extended from one side of the road to the other, suspended twenty-five feet in the air. Other buses and vans stopped and discharged their passengers. Cameras focused on the sign and rolled, clicked, and whirred.
“It hasn’t been up long,” a reporter from Portland said. “I’ve been out here a half-dozen times during the past six months and this road has always been blocked. And no sign.” He looked at the message.
WARNING—YOU ARE ENTERING THE TRI-STATES. YOU
The international symbol for “danger—keep out” was on either side of the huge sign.
“I think I want to go home.” A young lady grinned. In truth, a mule team could not have dragged her from the area.
The knot of press people, sound people, and camera-persons laughed. Clayton Charles put his arm around the young woman’s shoulders. “Come, now, Judith—where is your sense of journalistic inquisitiveness?”
“Well, the nuke and germ war came so fast no one had a chance to cover it. So, maybe this will do.”
Larry Spain, reporter for another network, pointed to a steel tower, much like those used by the forest service, except that this one was lower. The tower sat inside the Tri-states line, across the bridge.
“Low for a fire observation tower,” he said.
“Look again,” a friend told him. “That one’s got .50-caliber machine guns to put out the blaze. Jesus! These people aren’t kidding.”
They said nothing as they all looked at the tower. The muzzle of the heavy-caliber machine gun was plainly visible. Silently, the men and women climbed back aboard their vans and buses. A moment later they were the first outside reporters to visit the Tri-states (legally) since the states’ inception. One reporter would later write: “The soldier in the tower never made a hostile move; never pointed the muzzle at us. But it was like looking at the Berlin wall for the first time.”
The vehicles pulled off the road and onto a huge blacktop parking area. Set deep in the area was a long, low concrete building, painted white. On the front and both sides of the building, in block letters several feet tall, painted in flame red, were the words: ENTERING OR LEAVING—CHECKPOINT—ALL VEHICLES STOP.
“I think they mean it,” someone said.
“Very definitely,” another said.
“Unequivocally,” Judith replied.
“Explicitly,” another reporter concurred with a smile.
“Knock it off.” Clayton Charles ended the bantering.
The bus driver turned to the press people before they could enter the building and spoke to the entire group. “I want to tell you people something,” he said. “I have friends in the Tri-states; I’ve been checked and cleared and am moving in here next month…. So listen to me. It might save you a broken jaw or a busted mouth, or worse.
“Whatever impression you might have of the people who live in the Tri-states—put it out of your mind, for it’s probably wrong. Even though they are doctors, dentists, farmers, shopkeepers, whatever, I’m betting you’re thinking they are a pack of savages or crazy terrorists. If you do, you’re wrong. They are just people who won’t tolerate trouble—of any kind. You’d better remember that.
“Don’t go sticking your nose in their business uninvited. The laws are different here; you’re liable to get punched out. I hope all of you are going into this assignment with an open mind—I really do. ‘Cause if you get cute with these folks, they’ll hurt you. Even the kids are rough.”
A lone male reporter stood in the back of the crowd and solemnly applauded the driver’s speech. “How eloquently put,” he said.
The driver looked at him; then slowly shook his head in disgust, as did many of the press people. Barney had the reputation of being rude, arrogant, obnoxious, and a double-dyed smart-ass.
“Barney,” Judith said. “I know we work for the same network, and are supposed to be colleagues, and all that, but when we get inside, stay the hell away from me, O.K.?”
Barney smiled and bowed.
The reception center was large and cool and comfortable, furnished with a variety of chairs and couches. Racks of literature about Tri-states, its people, its economy, and its laws filled half of one wall. A table with doughnuts and two coffee urns sat in the center of the room; soft drinks were set to the right of the table. Between two closed doors was a four-foot-high desk, fifteen feet long, closed from floor to top. Behind the desk, two young women stood, one of them Tina Raines. The girls were dressed identically; jeans and light blue shirts.
“Good morning,” Tina said to the crowd. “Welcome to the Tri-states. My name is Tina, this is Judy. Help yourself to coffee and doughnuts—they’re free—or a soft drink.”
Barney leaned on the counter, his gaze on Tina’s breasts. She looked older than her seventeen years. Barney smiled at her.
“Anything else free around here?” he asked, all his famous obnoxiousness coming through.
The words had just left his mouth when the door to an office whipped open and a uniformed army Rebel stepped out, master sergeant stripes on the sleeves of his tiger-stripes. He was short, muscular, hard-looking, and deeply tanned. He wore a .45 automatic, holstered, on his right side.
“Tina?” he said. “Who said that?”
