The Brave New World 105 The Hand of God

The padded seat of Kirk's chair had a small brown stain right in the center of the cushion. Kirk frowned at it for a while: it looked dry. He sat down cautiously and glanced left, then right.

The neighbor on his left was one of the few women in the room. Her name was Anabel Adams, and she was a senator from Alabama: the first black female senator ever elected in a southern state. The last few weeks had been good to her; she'd shed at least twenty kilograms of weight. She needed to lose another forty - her arms were as thick as Kirk's thighs.

On Kirk's right sat Edwin Looseberry, the octogenarian senator from Maine. Looseberry sported an improbably thick mop of white hair on the top of his head, painstakingly installed by a talented hair transplant professional. The mottled hands sticking out of his expensive suit looked as if they'd been transplanted too, from an ancient Egyptian mummy. He was always grinning, maybe because his eyesight and hearing were very poor.

Kirk exchanged how-are-yous with Adams, and patted Looseberry's shoulder to get his attention.

"What? What?" said Looseberry. "Wait a moment. Wait a moment! I got it. Lander! Kirk Lander. How are you. You from California, right?"

"Correct," said Kirk, wondering how the hell Looseberry could have been appointed Maine's governor. The other Maine senator, Chuck Piffel, would have been a much better choice.

Looseberry seemed to read his thoughts.

"Chuck went private," he said. "Chuck's starting a colony of his own. So here I am."

"It's good to see you," lied Kirk, stunned by Looseberry's prescience. He reminded himself that this was exactly why Looseberry kept being re-elected as senator. He seemed to have the ability to read people's minds.

He was doing it now. Grinning, he said:

"Didn't expect that, eh? I'll tell you something. Yes, I'll tell you something. We are all going to be very surprised, shortly. We -"

"Ladies and gentlemen," the megaphone voice interrupted, "May I have your attention please."

The hubbub around the long table died; heads turned. With everyone's eyes on her, Lea Panatella confidently strode towards the empty chair at the head of the table, and sat down. What was this? Had she been appointed governor of the entire US territory? Impossible!

But Lea's enormous tits, seemingly unaffected by the laws of gravity, were a silent statement that anything was possible. She beamed at the shocked faces, and said:

"First of all I want to apologize very deeply on behalf of governor Brock. Governor Brock has been detained by unexpected developments. As we all know, these are difficult times. Governor Brock has instructed me to say he'll meet you all tomorrow at nine in the morning, for a working breakfast followed by a series of briefings and a working lunch. There will be a question and answer session next, and following that governor Brock will remain available for one-on-one consultations, until... until five o'clock. You are all invited to a working dinner at six, during which any remaining issues and questions will be dealt with. As long as it's possible, of course - as we all know, these are difficult times."

She broke off and beamed at everyone once again, as if difficult times were a source of unending joy.

"Now wait a moment," boomed Anabel Adams, making Kirk jump in his chair. "Can you tell us something about the other arrangements? What about the rest of today? It's almost dinner time."

Before Panatella could answer, another voice shouted:

"Where can I get a can of Raid or Black Flag or whatever? My room's crawling with bugs!"

A chorus of voices strongly supported that statement. Lea Panatella smiled, and waited for the ruckus to die down. When it did, she said:

"Unfortunately, given the ventilation situation we cannot use chemical insecticide inside the building. It could cause serious respiratory problems. And we have been unable to secure any insect traps. Believe me, we tried very hard. So in absence of everything else, we have provided each room with a supply of illustrated magazines."

"Magazines?"

"You expect me to read myself to sleep with cockroaches crawling across my face?"

"I didn't see any magazines!"

"Neither did I!"

Lea Panatella rose from her chair and pulled her shoulders back, aiming her tits like a couple of nuclear warheads at the outraged faces. It worked. They fell silent, just like wailing babies plugged with pacifiers.

"You will find the magazines, along with food, when you return to your rooms," she said. "Once again, I'd like to apologize for all those inconveniences. Whatever they are, they are relatively minor in comparison to what's happening right now in most American families. In fact, in families all over the world. Which is why governor Brock has convened this conference. We have to find solutions!"

Kirk glanced around the table. The glum faces indicated proposed solutions would be few and far between. He felt Anabel Adams nudge his shoulder.

"What is it with those magazines?" she hissed into Kirk's ear. "Has that woman gone crazy?"

"It's not like that," said Kirk, edging away and turning to look at her. "I mean, they aren't meant to be read. What you do is take a magazine, roll it into a baton, and use it to whack bugs."

Unexpectedly, Anabel giggled.

"Lordy me," she said. "I haven't done that since I was a little kid! It might be fun."

"I envy your optimism," Kirk said, a little stiffly, and turned to look at Lea. Lea Panatella was saying something that sounded very important. However, he was late.

"... is no further questions, governor Brock and I would like to wish you all a good and restful night. See you in the morning!"

Edwin Looseberry turned in his seat to grin at Kirk.

"Did she say, a good and restful night?" he asked.

"She did," Kirk told him. "She seems to have a sardonic sense of humor."

He got up, instinctively noting that he was the first to do so: immediately, several others followed suit. Good timing! That was what really made a politician: good timing. A successful leader sensed what people wanted, and moved first. Everyone followed automatically.

Small was in the act of getting himself up when Kirk touched his arm.

"Ron," he said.

'Yes," Small said. "Let's talk."

They retreated to the anteroom, moving to a corner where they wouldn't be overheard unless someone tried really hard. Kirk glanced round to make sure no one was doing that, and said:

"What did Lea say at the very end? It sounded important, but I didn't catch that."

"Oh, just bullshit about not going out without an escort and sentries posted on every floor."

"Sentries? They're keeping us in here under armed guard?"

"It's supposed to be for our own good. Our own safety."

"Yeah. I seem to remember they said something like that to the people sent off to concentration camps."

"Kirk."

"Yes."

"I'll repeat my earlier question. Have you got a colony going?"

Kirk grinned.

"Of course I have," he said. "So have you. So has everyone else. Carlton specifically appointed governors from senators with active colonies."

It was a real whopper of a lie, and this was exactly why it succeeded. Kirk was familiar with the teachings of Goebbels, the Nazi propaganda minister. Goebbels was the master of the big lie. A small lie attempted to influence its audience through a manipulation of facts. A big lie ignored facts altogether, and appealed directly to the emotions. It worked much better than a small lie: people trusted their emotions more than they trusted their brains. That was what made them people.

Small's face had turned pale. He said:

"How do you know? Who told you that? I'm not running a colony."

"No," agreed Kirk. "Your proxies are. Who told me that? Carlton himself."

He'd scored; he was victorious! Small knew that disproving something was much harder than proving it. And Kirk knew that Small was sure to keep tabs on many illegal colonizers in Colorado. It was part of his nature to gather dirt on people. And he would have a hard time explaining why, being Colorado's governor, he hadn't reported and shut down all the illegal colonies. It was logical to assume he had a personal interest in that.

"If I were you," Kirk said in a friendly tone, "I'd keep all that under my hat. Know what I mean? Like Lea said, these are difficult times. We mustn't make them more difficult."

"No," agreed Small, still a little pale. Kirk was happy to see Small was looking at him with new respect.

"See you in the morning, Ron," he said. He gave Small's shoulder a squeeze, and went off to his room.

As had been promised by Lea, food and magazines had been delivered in the meantime. The food consisted of a bunch of MREs, and Kirk grimaced when he read the labels: elbow macaroni with tomato sauce, cheese tortellini, spaghetti with meat sauce.

"Mamma mia," he said, sounding as if he was a movie mafioso mourning a dead mother. Then, guided by a sixth sense, he had a look inside the mini bar. Yes! His instinct hadn't failed him. In his absence, an unseen, mysterious hand had put five new miniature bottles of liquor inside the mini bar.

It had to be The Hand of God. No one else could have done that. Kirk rolled his eyes in minor ecstasy.

"Thank you," he murmured, reaching out.

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