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But what he hadn't expected-certainly not hoped for!-was the immediate aftermath. He heard Melissa Mailey's voice behind him, speaking into the microphone. Melissa was in her mid-fifties, and spoke with all the self-assuredness of a woman who had been teaching her whole adult life.

'Mayor Dreeson, I'd like to nominate Michael Stearns as chairman of the emergency committee.'

Mike stopped in his tracks and spun around, his jaw dropping. The crowd's applause deepened, grew positively fierce. Through the din, he heard Ed Piazza quickly second the motion.

Then, behind him-et tu, Brute?-he heard the stentorian voice of Frank Jackson: 'Move the nominations for chairman be closed!'

Frank's motion drew more applause. Mike's brain was whirling around like a top. He hadn't expected-hadn't so much as 'The nominations are closed!' announced the mayor firmly. 'Call for a vote.'

Mike gaped at him. Dreeson was grinning like an imp. 'Under the circumstances-running unopposed and all-I think we can handle this with a voice vote.' He pulled out a gavel from the shelf underneath and smacked the podium once. Firmly. 'All in favor?'

The shouts ringing through the gymnasium were like a deafening roar. In a daze, Mike found himself staring at John Simpson and his wife. He was relieved to see that they were scowling as fiercely as mastiffs.

Well, thank God. At least it's not unanimous.

***

Moments later, Mike found himself shepherded up to the podium by Melissa Mailey, greeted cheerfully by Ed Piazza, and having the gavel thrust into his hand by Henry Dreeson. Before he knew it, he was chairing the town meeting.

That task, in itself, posed no particular difficulty. Mike had chaired plenty of UMWA meetings. Coal miners were as famous for their knowledge of the arcane forms of Robert's Rules of Order as they were for the often-raucous content with which they filled those forms.

No, the problem was simply that he hadn't caught up with the reality of his new position. So, after a time, he stopped worrying about what he was going to do, and simply concentrated on who he was going to do it with.

'This isn't going to work, folks,' he said forcefully at one point. 'You've already nominated a hundred people for the committee, and I don't doubt half of them will get elected. I've got no problem with that-but I'm still going to need a working committee to actually help me out. Fifty people can't get anything done. I need a-a-'

He groped for the right term. Melissa Mailey provided it: 'You need a cabinet.'

He gave her a sour glance, but she responded with nothing but a cheerful smile. 'Yeah, Melissa. Uh, right. A cabinet.' He decided not to argue the point at the moment. Remember, Mike-it's just a temporary committee.

Mike scanned the crowd. 'I'm willing to pick the-uh, cabinet-out of the people elected to the committee.' Half-desperately: 'But there are some people I've just got to have.'

A loud male voice came from the stands: 'Who, Mike? Hell, just name them now! We can vote in your cabinet right here!'

Mike decided to accept that proposal as a motion. And the crowd's roar of approval as a second. All in favor? The ayes have it.

The gymnasium, for the first time, became silent. Mike's eyes scanned the crowd.

His first selections came automatically, almost without thought.

'Frank Jackson.' Several dozen coal miners whistled.

'Ed Piazza.' Hundreds of voices applauded-many of them teenagers from the high school. Mike felt a moment's whimsical humor. Not too many principals in this world would get that kind of applause. Most would have gotten nothing but raspberries.

His eyes fell on the teachers sitting next to Piazza. Mike's face broke into a grin. 'Melissa Mailey.' The history teacher's prim, middle-aged face broke into a moue of surprise. Ah, sweet revenge. 'And Greg Ferrara.' The younger science teacher simply nodded in acknowledgment.

'Henry Dreeson.' The mayor started to protest. 'Shut up, Henry! You're not weaseling out of this!' A laugh rippled through the gym. 'And Dan Frost, of course, when he's up and about.'

Mike's mind was settling into the groove. Okay. We need production people, too. Start with the power plant. That's the key to everything.

'Bill Porter.' The power-plant manager's face creased into a worried frown, but he made no other protest. Machine shops. Critical. I'd rather work with Ollie, but his shop's the smallest. 'Nat Davis.'

Need a farmer. The best one around is- Mike spotted the short, elderly figure he was looking for. 'Willie Ray Hudson.'

His eyes moved on, scanning the sea of faces. Mike was relaxed, now. He was accustomed to thinking on his feet, under public scrutiny.

Need some diversity, too. Nip that in-group crap right in the bud. Out-of-town and- He spotted the face he was looking for. Which was not hard, since the face stood out in the crowd. 'Dr. James Nichols.'

Okay. Who else? Like all union officials, Mike was no stranger to politicking. It would be a mistake if his cabinet appeared too cozy and cliquish. I need an enemy. In appearance, at least.

His gaze fell on John Simpson, still glaring at him. The gaze slid by without a halt. No appearance there. I don't need an endless brawl.

When Mike's eyes came to a burly, middle-aged man sitting not too far from Simpson, he had to force himself not to break into a grin. Perfect!

'And Quentin Underwood,' he announced loudly. The name brought instant silence to the gym. Utter, complete silence. Followed, a second later, by Darryl's loud 'Boo!'

And, a second later, by Harry Lefferts' even louder bellow: 'Treason! I say 'treason!' Mr. Chairman, what's the procedure for impeaching your sorry ass?'

That produced a gale of laughter, which went on for at least a minute. Throughout, the newly elected chairman of the emergency committee exchanged a challenging stare-fading into a mutual nod of recognition-with the manager of the coal mine in which he had formerly worked as a miner.

Mike was satisfied. He's a stubborn, pig-headed son of a bitch, pure and simple. But nobody ever said he was stupid, or didn't know how to get things done.

Henry Dreeson's voice came from behind him. 'Anybody else, Mike?'

Mike was about to shake his head, when a new thought came. And there are the people outside. Thousands and thousands of them.

He turned his head and stared into a corner of the gym. Then, pointing his finger, he named the last member of his cabinet. 'And Rebecca Abrabanel.'

***

To his dying day, Mike would claim he was driven by nothing more than logic and reason. But the counterclaim began immediately. No sooner had the town meeting broken up into a half-festive swirling mob, than Frank Jackson sidled up to him.

'I knew it,' grumbled his older friend. 'I knew all that stuff about the American Revolution was a smoke screen. Admit it, Mike. You just engineered the whole thing to impress the girl.'

With great dignity, Mike ignored the gibe. With considerably less dignity-almost with apprehension-he stared at the girl in question. She was staring back at him, her hand still gripping Judith Roth's hand. Rebecca's mouth was open, in stunned surprise. But there was something other than surprise in her eyes, he thought. Or, perhaps, he simply hoped.

'Oh, come on!' he snapped. Even to him, the reproof sounded hollow.

Chapter 8

Mike and his 'cabinet' held their first meeting an hour later, in Melissa Mailey's classroom. Mike began the meeting with a fumble. Of the hemming and hawing variety.

'For God's sake, young man!' snapped Melissa. 'Why don't you just come out and say it? You want me-the only woman in the room, except Rebecca-to be the committee's secretary. Take the notes.'

Mike eyed her warily. Melissa Mailey was a tall, slender woman. Her hair was cut very short, and its color matched the conservative gray jacket and long dress she was wearing. Her hazel eyes were just as piercing as he remembered them, from days gone by when he stammered out an unstudied reply to a stiff question. She looked every inch the stern and demanding schoolmistress. The appearance was not a pose. Melissa Mailey was famous-or notorious, depending on who was telling the tale-for her acid tongue and acerbic discipline.

She was also famous for being Grantville's most unabashed and unrelenting liberal. Flaming irresponsible radical, according to many. As a college student, she'd been a participant in the civil rights movement. Arrested twice. Once in Mississippi, once in Alabama. As a young schoolteacher, she had marched against the Vietnam war. Arrested twice. Once in San Francisco, once in Washington, D.C. The first arrest had cost her first teaching job. The second arrest had done for the next. Boston Brahmin born and bred, she'd wound up teaching in a small town in West Virginia because nobody else would hire her. Her first year at the newly founded high school, she'd organized several of the schoolgirls to join her in a march on Washington demanding the Equal Rights Amendment. A clamor had gone up, demanding her dismissal. She held onto her job, but she'd been treading on very thin ice.

As ever, Melissa didn't give a damn. The next year, she got arrested again. But that was for denouncing an overbearing state trooper at one of the UMWA picket lines during the big 1977-78 national strike. When she got out of jail, the miners held a coming-home party for her in the high-school cafeteria. Half the student body showed up, along with their parents. Melissa even snuck out, halfway through the proceedings, and joined some of the miners for a drink in the parking lot.

Melissa Mailey had finally found a home. But she was still as unyielding and acerbic as ever.

'Look, Melissa,' Mike muttered, 'I know it looks bad. But we've got to have accurate records, and-'

Melissa broke into a smile. That expression was not seen often on her face. Not in Mike's recollection, at any rate. But it was quite dazzling, in its own cool way.

'Oh, relax,' she said. 'Of course we have to keep meticulous records.' Again, the smile. 'We're the Founding Fathers, you know. And Mothers. Wouldn't do at all not to have accurate notes. I know-I'm a history teacher. Historians would damn us for eternity.'

The smile vanished. Melissa's eyes flicked around the faces gathered in the center of the room. Her expression made plain just how sloppily and carelessly she thought men would keep important records.