Computer War

“Let’s go,” he said.

At the door, he stood aside to let the older man precede him. The two goon-like Temple Vicars fell in behind. For a brief moment a suspicion hit him. What would have happened had he refused to accompany the United Temple representative?

The group passed Jet Pirincin who followed them with her eyes, a surprise in their depths, until they had passed completely from the offices.

She thought about it for a moment, reached down slowly and picked up a handphone, unequipped with screen. She said into it, “Relay this to T.”

Outside the Commissariat of Information building was the elaborate, almost flamboyant, hover-limousine of a Temple Bishop, the insignia of the United Temple prominent on its side. Behind was parked a small vehicle, more decorous but with the emblem on both doors and rear. For the Temple Vicars cum guards, Ross told himself.

He was accorded the honor of riding with the Temple Bishop, wondering, as they drove, at the destination.

He might have known. Temple Bishop Stockwater dialed the coordinates of the War Ministry and they were there within the quarter hour, their clearing control dividing the city traffic for them. They wouldn’t have taken any longer in the pneumatic.

They spoke only once during the ride, Ross Westley spending the time in hurried attempt to think this all out.

He had said, “Who else will be there?”

“That remains to be seen, my son,” the other had said smoothly.

The car took them to a back entrance, through highly guarded byways, and the major of the Surety men posted there did no more than take in the car’s insignia before coming to the salute.

They stepped out of the luxurious vehicle and Ross stood to one side to let the berobed older man precede him. He followed in silence. The Temple Vicars remained outside, still seated in their car.

At the entry, they passed two more guards, one of whom was seated at a control board. A light flickered red.

The other Surety agent stepped before them respectfully, but with his right hand only inches from his bolstered sidearm.

“Coaid,” he said to Ross, “you’re carrying a shooter.”

Ross looked at him. “I’m a full Deputy and the country’s at war. Why shouldn’t I carry a shooter?”

“Sorry, Coaid Deputy. You’ll have to leave it here.”

Ross looked at the Temple Bishop who nodded with the same benign expression.

He shrugged, brought the gun from his shoulder holster and tendered it to the guard, then followed after the older man.

There were four more guards before a heavy door. Two of them flung it open, somewhat dramatically, Ross thought, upon Temple Bishop Stockwater’s approach.

Inside, around a conference table, were those whom, after all, Ross Westley had actually expected to see. Well, there were several others as well. In fact, he was somewhat surprised to find his own Assistant Deputy, Job Bauserman.

There were a full dozen of the Central Comita and a check revealed all the more important faces, save, possibly, that of Philip McGivern of Socioeconomics. One of the Old Hands, Ross told himself. He had probably not even been approached.

Mark Fielder, the Surety head, broke off the whispered conversation he was having at one end of the room with Marshal Croft-Gordon, and said, smiling his cold smile, “I assume this is all, Coaids. Shall we call the conference to order?”

He strode to the head of the table and took up the gavel there, saving them, however, from the necessity of hearing it bang.

Ross Westley secured a chair at one end, two seats away from anyone else. He watched and listened warily.

Mark Fielder had evidently appointed himself spokesman as well as chairman. As soon as they had all found places, he looked out over them suavely, then began.

“Coaids, it hardly needs to be pointed out that Alphaland is in a crisis. Due to the most inept handling of a relatively simple situation, we now face disaster unless strong steps are taken by those of us assembled here. Frankly, and as is well known to you all, our leader has failed to rise to the occasion.”

“Right!” somebody growled.

“If we are to rescue the situation, we must act with dispatch.”

Marshal Croft-Gordon was on his feet, his swagger stick banging on his leg. “Then let’s stop talking and start acting! I’ll tell you all this: I’ll take no more orders from the arrogant flat!”

Fielder held up a hand, though smiling his understanding. “Please, Marshal. Some preliminary decisions must he made.”

Jon Matheison, of Finance, called out, “One immediate problem. Who is to step into his shoes? Who among us is strong enough to take over the office of Presidor?”

“Who’s Number One, in short?” one of the assistant deputies present called.

Fielder was shaking his head. He looked at Ross Westley and said, “I’m sure our deputy of propaganda would agree with me in this. It is not going to be enough to remove the present Presidor and place another in his office. The people are going to want the outer semblance, at least, of a complete change. That we can sell. Am I right, Coaid Westley?”

Ross shifted in his chair, all eyes upon him. “If you can sell them a change at all, it had better be something revolutionary, all right. Half measures would be probably worse than none at all.”

“Correct!” the Surety head applauded.

Temple Bishop Stockwater said worriedly, “Now, my children, let us not become too radical here. We would not wish to disturb established institutions.”

Job Bauserman, unduly articulate in this gathering of his superiors, Ross thought with some surprise, said, “But we’ll have to seem to disturb them, Coaids. The candidate for office, whether he means to attain it through force or by ballot, promises great reform in the attaining. Living up to it, later, is another matter.”

Fielder looked at the propaganda man thoughtfully. “You are quite correct, of course, Coaid. We must promise them the moon, as the ancient expression goes.”

Matheison added, “And later deliver green cheese.”

Fielder took direction again. “So simply changing the Presidor would be insufficient. I propose, Coaids, that a triumvirate be nominated here, this afternoon. And that elections be promised within a year after our coming to power.”

“Elections!” the Marshal blurted, unbelievingly. “You mean real elections?”

The Temple Bishop, too, led the objections. “My son, much though I am in sympathy with democratic institutions, and look forward to the day when they are practical, surely it is realized by all present that our good people are not, at present, capable of voting intelligently. They lack, ah, the educational background, the, ah, intelligence. Until they are arrived at a higher level than now prevails, it falls upon us of the, ah, better classes to lead them.”

Ross Westley looked at the holy man. It was a cry heard down through the ages. He wondered if Stockwater had ever read of the fact that most primitive men, long before the advent of writing, not to speak of education, ruled themselves democratically. Not that Ross had any intention of bringing forth the subject in this gathering.

Fielder held up a hand again, the hands holding the travel, and chuckled without humor. “Coaids, please. You evidently failed to hear me. I said that we would promise elections. Once in power, various emergencies can arise—a threat of the Karlists attempting to put their own candidates on the ballot, or some such. We can face such problems when they confront us; certainly no one here is so foolish as to suggest mob rule.”

“Amen,” the Temple Bishop murmured.

Fielder pressed on. “A ruling triumvirate, fraternally united, will be a departure from one man control, such as the Presidor has exercised. It will seem, and on the surface be, a radical change and appear to herald still more