Mike shrugged. “It’ll be ‘conservative,’ sure, but his definition of the term. Not Quentin’s. I’m not sure yet, but I think Wilhelm will base most of his program on the theories of the cameralists, who’ve been the rising new reform movement here in Germany for quite some time. Interesting stuff, actually. Becky’s uncle Uriel is quite a fan of the cameralists, in a lot of ways, and I’ve been talking to him about them over the past few months. Then Wilhelm will graft onto it, probably, a hefty dose of stuff from the Anglo-American political tradition back in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Edmund Burke, for sure—and you might be surprised how conservative a lot of the Founding Fathers were. They didn’t all see eye to eye with Tom Paine and Sam Adams.”
Frank was frowning again. “Becky is ruining you. I lost count, exactly, but I know there was more than one three-syllable word in those sentences you just rattled off. Keep it up, buddy, and I’m taking away your Caterpillar hat. Don’t even think of applying to the Ancient Order of Hillbillies for a Harley-Davidson decal.”
They shared a laugh. When it was over, Mike shook his head and said cheerfully: “The reason I’m not too worried about the political hit I’m going to take from Quentin’s resignation is because I know what’s going to happen. Bet you dollars for donuts. Wilhelm’s going to agree to form an alliance with Quentin because Wilhelm is plenty smart enough to know that for an opposition party here in the U.S., having some well-known and respected American adherents and leaders is critical to success. A purely German-based party won’t have enough credibility that it can keep the tech base up and running—and nobody who lives here, not any longer, has any doubt that’s necessary. Having Quentin Underwood signed up, on the other hand, is about as gold-plated as it gets.”
“Makes sense. But I still don’t understand what you’re grinning about.”
“I’m grinning about what’s going to happen afterwards. After Wilhelm’s milked Quentin for all he’s worth and then has to explain to him that the cameralist definition of ‘conservative’ is not ‘what’s good for General Motors is good for America.’ ” Mike leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers across his midriff. “The cameralists—in some ways, like the founding fathers of conservatism in our own political tradition—were basically a bunch of forward-looking and socially-conscious noblemen and gentry figures who felt that government should, among other things, look out for the needs of the common people. They weren’t actually all that fond of unbridled capitalism, which Quentin thinks will solve all problems. Rather the opposite, in fact.”
He pursed his lips. “Uriel once told me he thought the best translation of what ‘cameralism’ meant into modern political concepts—as near as he could figure it out—would be something like ‘aristocratic municipal socialism.’ Or ‘social democracy,’ at least, to use the more appropriate European term. Think of it as a mix and match between noblesse oblige, Teddy Roosevelt’s progressives, and Milwaukee-style ‘sewer socialism.’ For guys like Wilhelm, the notion of ‘deregulation’ ranks right up there with fornication and adultery and worshipping graven idols.”
Frank’s eyes were almost bulging. “Socialism?!” he choked. “Quentin Underwood?”
James Nichols entered the room, then, talking as he came through the door. “Okay, Mike, it’s set. Stoner’s starting to get the stuff packed up and Anne Jefferson’s volunteered to lead the medical side of the mission to Amsterdam. Sharon’ll go to Wismar and—”
He stared at Frank. “What the hell’s so funny?”
Frank, his shoulders heaving, pointed an accusing finger at Mike.
“James, this bastard is a sneaky, conniving, scheming—”
“It’s taken you this long to figure that out?” Nichols shook his head sadly. “Dumb-ass hillbilly. I figured it out within a week after the Ring of Fire.”
He plumped himself onto another chair. ” ‘Course, I did have the advantage of a Chicago street education. He’s a politician, Frank. For my money, the best one in Europe. I sure as hell hope so, or we’re dog meat.”
Chapter 36
“Monsieur L’Admiral et Madame Simpson!” cried out the majordomo, in a tone of voice which somehow managed to be stentorian without actually bellowing hoarsely. As he passed by the man into the huge and crowded ballroom beyond, maintaining a stiff and stately progress with his wife’s hand tucked under his arm, John Simpson found himself possessed by a sudden and well-nigh irresistible urge to have the man impressed on the spot and shanghaied into the United States Navy. One of the many discoveries Simpson had made concerning naval service in the 17th century was that—in a navy without powered phones—a petty officer with leather lungs and a carrying voice was worth his weight in gold.