remaining lawless elements in our continental soci
, ,,
ety.
Dad cocked a brow at Morgan. “How many does that make since they took over?”
“Let’s see. . . Salinas . . . Colorado Springs . . . uh, six, including St.
Joe.”
“Son, there weren’t more than sixty million Americans left after Final
Sunday. If they keep up, we’ll be kind of thinned out in a few years.”
“I know.” Morgan looked troubled. “We’ve got to work out ways to operate
without calling attention to the towns. Too many hostages.”
Page 89
A short, dark man dressed in dirty dungarees entered from a side tunnel,
followed by Margie. “You wanted me, boss?”
“Yes, Jerry. I want to get word to McCracken to come in for a meeting. Two
hours from now, if he can get here.”
“Boss, you’re using radio too much. You’ll get him shot and us, too.”
“I thought that business of bouncing it off the cliff face was foolproof?”
“Well . . . a dodge I can work up, somebody else can figure out. Besides,
I’ve got the chassis unshipped. I was working on it.”
“How long to rig it?”
“Oh, half an hour-twenty minutes.”
“Do it. This may be the last time we’ll use radio, except as utter last
resort.”
“Okay, boss.”
The meeting was in the common room. Morgan called it to order once all were
present or accounted for. McCracken arrived just as he had decided to proceed
without him. McCracken had a pass for the countryside, being a veterinarian, and
held proxy for the colony’s underground associates in Barclay.
“The Barclay Free Company, a provisional unit of the United States of
America, is now in session.” Morgan announced formally. “Does any member have any
item to lay before the Company?”
He looked around; there was no response. “How about you?” he challenged Joe
Benz. “I heard that you had some things you thought the Company ought to hear.
Benz started to speak, shook his head. “I’ll wait.”
“Don’t wait too long,” Morgan said mildly. “Well, I have two points to bring
up for discussion-”
“Three,” corrected Dr. McCracken. “I’m glad you sent for me.” He stepped up
to Morgan and handed him a large, much folded piece of paper. Morgan looked it over,
refolded it, and put it in his pocket.
“It fits in,” he said to McCracken. “What do the folks in town say?”
“They are waiting to hear from you. They’ll back you up-so far, anyway.”
“All right.” Morgan turned back to the group. “First item-we got a message
today, passed by hand and about three weeks old, setting up another provisional
government. The courier was grabbed right under our noses. Maybe he was a stooge;
maybe he was careless-that’s neither here nor there at the moment. The message was
that the Honorable Albert M. Brockman proclaimed himself provisional President of
these United States, under derived authority, and appointed Brigadier General Dewey
Fenton commander of armed forces including irregular militia-meaning us-and called
on all citizens to unite to throw the Invader out. All formal and proper. So what do
we do about it?”
“And who the devil is the Honorable Albert M. Brockman?” asked someone in
the rear.
“I’ve been trying to remember. The message listed government jobs he’s held,
including some assistant secretary job-I suppose that’s the ‘derived authority’
angle. But I can’t place him.”
“I recall him,” Dr. McCracken said suddenly. “I met him when I was in the
Bureau of Animal Husbandry. A career civil servant. . . and a stuffed shirt.”
There was a gloomy silence. Ted spoke up. “Then why bother with him?”
The Leader shook his head. “It’s not that simple, Ted. We can’t assume that
he’s no good. Napoleon might have been a minor clerk under different circumstances.
And the Honorable Mr. Brockman may be a revolutionary genius disguised as a
bureaucrat. But that’s not the point. We need nationwide unification
more than anything. It doesn’t matter right now who the titular leader is. The
theory of derived authority may be shaky but it may be the only way to get everybody
to accept one leadership. Little bands like ours can never win back the country.