They all looked at him in puzzled surprise, but nobody gave him any argument. Funny, now that he thought of it; it had been quite a long time since anybody had ever given him any argument about anything. A couple of guys out in Pittsburgh had tried it, but somehow they’d lost interest in arguing, after a little—
When he returned to the office and opened the door, a blast of shots greeted him through the open door of Prestonby’s private office. He had his pistol out before he realized that the shooting was going on at Pelton’s Purchasers’ Paradise, ten miles away. Literate Martha Collins, in the inner room, was fairly screaming: “Shut that infernal thing off and listen to me!”
The dozen-odd boys whom Ray had recruited for the improvised relief-expedition were pulling weapons out of the gun locker, pawing through the boxes on the ammunition shelf, trying to explain to one another the working of machine carbines and burp guns. Yetsko shouldered through them and turned down the sound volume of the TV.
“This is absolutely outrageous!” Literate Martha Collins stormed at him. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, taking these children to a murderous battle like that—”
“Well, maybe it ain’t right, using savages in a civilized riot,” Yetsko admitted, “but I don’t care. The captain’s in a jam, and I’d use live devils, if I could catch a few.” He took a burp gun from one of the boys, who had opened the action and couldn’t get it closed again. “Here; you kids don’t want this kinda stuff,” he reproved. “Sono guns, and sleep-gas guns, that’s all right. But these things are killing tools!”
“It’s what we’ll have to use, Doug,” Ray told him. “Things have been happening, since you went out. Look at the screen.”
Yetsko looked, and swore blisteringly. Then he gave the burp gun back to the boy.
“Look; you gotta press this little gismo, here, to let the action shut when there’s no clip in, or when the clip’s empty. When you got a loaded clip in, you just pull back on this and let go—”
Frank Cardon looked at his watch, and saw that it was 1345, as it had been ten seconds before, when he had last looked. He started to drum nervously on his chair arm with his fingers, then caught himself as he saw Lancedale, who must have been every bit as anxious as himself, standing outwardly calm and unruffled.
“Well, that’s the situation which now confronts us, brother Literates,” the slender, white-haired man was finishing. “You must see, by now, that the policy of unyielding opposition which some of you have advocated and pursued is futile. You know the policy I favor, which now remains the only policy we can follow; it is summed up in that law of political strategy: If you can’t lick ’em, join ’em, and, after joining, take control.
“In spite of the Radical-Socialist victory in this state at tomorrow’s election, it will not be possible, in the next Congress, to enact Pelton’s socialized Literacy program into law. The Radicals will not be able to capture enough seats in the lower house, and there are too many uncontested seats in the Senate now held by Independent-Conservatives. But, and this is inevitable, barring some unforeseen accident of the order of a political cataclysm, they will control both houses of Congress after the election of 2144, two years hence, and we can also be sure that two years hence Chester Pelton will be nominated and overwhelmingly elected president of the Consolidated States of North America. Six months thereafter, the socialized Literacy program will be the law of the land.
“So, we have until mid-2145 to make our preparations. I would estimate that, if we do not destroy ourselves by our own folly in the meantime, we should, two years thereafter, be in complete if secret control of the whole Consolidated States Government. If any of you question that last statement, you can merely ask yourselves one question: How, in the name of all that is rational, can Illiterates control and operate a system of socialized Literacy? Who but Literates can keep such a program from disintegrating into complete and indescribable confusion?
“I don’t ask for any decision at this time. I do not ask for any debate at this time. Let each of us consider the situation in his or her own mind, and let us meet again a week from today to consider our future course of action, each of us realizing that any decision we take then will determine forever the fate of our Fraternities.” He looked around the room. “Thank you, brother Literates,” he said.
Instantly, Cardon was on his feet with a motion to recess the meeting until 1300 the following Monday, and Brigade commander Chernov seconded the motion immediately. As soon as Literate President Morehead’s gavel banged, Cardon, still on his feet, was running for the double doors at the rear; the two Literates’ guards on duty there got them unsealed and opened by the time he had reached them.
There was another guard in the hall, waiting for him with a little record-disk.
“From Major Slater; call came in about ten minutes ago,” he said.
Cardon snapped the disk into his recorder-reproducer and put in the ear plug.
“Frank,” Slater’s voice came out of the small machine. “You’d better get busy, or you won’t have any candidate when the polls open tomorrow. Just got a call from Pelton’s store—place infiltrated by goons, estimated strength two hundred, presumed Independent-Conservatives. Serious rioting already going on; I’m taking my reserve company there. And if you haven’t found out, yet, where China is, it’s on the third floor, next to Glassware.”
Cardon pulled out the ear plug, stuffed the recorder into his trouser pocket, and began unbuckling his Sam Browne as he ran
