President Budreau was in his ornate office with Lieutenant Banners. “I was going to send for you,” Budreau said. “We can’t win this, can we?”
“Not the way it’s going,” Falkenberg answered. Hamner nodded agreement.
Budreau nodded rapidly, as if to himself. His face was a mask of lost hopes. “That’s what I thought. Pull your men back to barracks, Colonel. I’m going to surrender.”
“But you can’t,” George protested. “Everything we’ve dreamed of . . . You’ll doom Hadley. The Freedom Party can’t govern.”
“Precisely. And you see it too, don’t you, George? How much governing are we doing? Before it came to an open break, perhaps we had a chance. Not now. Bring your men back to the Palace, Colonel Falkenberg. Or are you going to refuse?”
“No, sir. The men are retreating already. They’ll be here in half an hour.”
Budreau sighed loudly. “I told you the military answer wouldn’t work here, Falkenberg.”
“We might have accomplished something in the past months if we’d been given the chance.”
“You might.” The President was too tired to argue. “But putting the blame on poor Ernie won’t help. He must have been insane.
“But this isn’t three months ago. Colonel. It’s not even yesterday. I might have reached a compromise before the fighting started, but I didn’t, and you’ve lost. You’re not doing much besides burning down the city . . . at least I can spare Hadley that. Banners, go tell the Freedom Party leaders I can’t take anymore.”
The Guard officer saluted and left, his face an unreadable mask. Budreau watched him leave the office. His eyes focused far beyond the walls with their Earth decorations.
“So you’re resigning,” Falkenberg said slowly.
Budreau nodded.
“Have you resigned, sir?” Falkenberg demanded.
“Yes, blast you. Banners has my resignation.”
“And what will you do now?” George Hamner asked. His voice held both contempt and amazement. He had always admired and respected Budreau. And now what had Hadley’s great leader left them?
“Banners has promised to get me out of here,” Budreau said. “He has a boat in the harbor. We’ll sail up the coast and land, then go inland to the mines. There’ll be a starship there next week, and I can get out on that with my family. You’d better come with me, George.” The President put both hands over his face, then looked up. “There’s a lot of relief in giving in, did you know? What will you do, Colonel Falkenberg?”
“We’ll manage. There are plenty of boats in the harbor if we need one. But it is very likely that the new government will need trained soldiers.”
“The perfect mercenary,” Budreau said with contempt. He sighed, then sent his eyes searching around the office, lingering on familiar objects. “It’s a relief. I don’t have to decide things anymore.” He stood and his shoulders were no longer stooped. “I’ll get the family. You’d better be moving too, George.”
“I’ll be along, sir. Don’t wait for us. As the Colonel says, there are plenty of boats.” He waited until Budreau had left the office, then turned to Falkenberg. “All right, what now?”
“Now we do what we came here to do,” Falkenberg said. He went to the President’s desk and examined the phones, but rejected them for a pocket communicator. He lifted it and spoke at length.
“Just what are you doing?” Hamner demanded.
“You’re not president yet,” Falkenberg said. “You won’t be until you’re sworn in, and that won’t happen until I’ve finished. And there’s nobody to accept your resignation, either.”
“What the hell?” Hamner looked closely at Falkenberg, but he could not read the officer’s expression. “You do have an idea. Let’s hear it.”
“You’re not president yet,” Falkenberg said. “Under Budreau’s proclamation of martial law, I am to take whatever actions I think are required to restore order in Refuge. That order is valid until a new President removes it. And at the moment there’s no President.”
“But Budreau’s surrendered! The Freedom Party will elect a President.”
“Under Hadley’s constitution only the Senate and Assembly in joint session can alter the order of succession. They’re scattered across the city and their meeting chambers have been burned.”
Sergeant Major Calvin and several of Falkenberg’s aides came to the door. They stood, waiting.
“I’m playing guardhouse lawyer,” Falkenberg said. “But President Budreau doesn’t have the authority to appoint a new president. With Bradford dead, you’re in charge here, but not until you appear before a magistrate and take the oath of office.”
“This doesn’t make sense,” Hamner protested. “How long do you think you can stay in control here, anyway?”
“As long as I have to.” Falkenberg turned to an aide. “Corporal, I want Mr. Hamner to stay with me and you with him. You will treat him with respect, but he goes nowhere and sees no one without my permission. Understood?”
“Sir!”
“And now what?” Hamner asked.
“And now we wait,” John Falkenberg said softly. “But not too long . . .”
* * *
George Hamner sat in the council chambers with his back to the stained and punctured wall. He tried to forget those stains, but he couldn’t.
Falkenberg was across from him, and his aides sat at the far end of the table. Communications gear had been spread across one side table, but there was no situation map; Falkenberg had not moved his command post here.
From time to time officers brought him battle reports, but Falkenberg hardly listened to them. However, when one of the aides reported that Dr. Whitlock was calling, Falkenberg took the earphones immediately.
George couldn’t hear what Whitlock was saying and Falkenberg’s end of the conversation consisted of monosyllables. The only thing George was sure of was that Falkenberg was very interested in what his political agent was doing.
The regiment had fought its way back to the Palace and was now in the courtyard. The Palace entrances were held by the Presidential Guard, and the fighting had stopped. The rebels left the guardsmen alone, and an uneasy truce settled across the city of Refuge.
“They’re going into the Stadium, sir,” Captain Fast reported. “That cheer you heard was when Banners gave ’em the President’s resignation.”
“I see. Thank you, Captain.” Falkenberg motioned for more coffee. He offered a cup to George, but the Vice President didn’t want any.
“How long does this go on?” George demanded.
“Not much longer. Hear them cheering?”
They sat for another hour, Falkenberg with outward calm, Hamner with growing tension. Then Dr. Whitlock came to the council room.
The tall civilian looked at Falkenberg and Hamner, then sat easily in the President’s chair. “Don’t reckon I’ll have another chance to sit in the seat of the mighty,” he grinned.
“But what is happening?” Hamner demanded.
Whitlock shrugged. “It’s ’bout like Colonel Falkenberg figured. Mob’s moved right into the Stadium. Nobody wants to be left out now they think they’ve won. They’ve rounded up what senators they could find and now they’re fixin’ to elect themselves a new president.”
“But that election won’t be valid,” Hamner said.
“No, suh, but that don’t seem to slow ’em down a bit. They figure they won the right, I guess. And the Guard has already said they’re goin’ to honor the people’s choice.” Whitlock smiled ironically.
“How many of my technicians are out there in that mob?” Hamner asked. “They’d listen to me, I know they would.”
“They might at that,” Whitlock said. “But there’s not so many as there used to be. Most of ’em couldn’t stomach the burnin’ and looting. Still, there’s a fair number.”
“Can you get them out?” Falkenberg asked.
“Doin’ that right now,” Whitlock grinned. “One reason I come up here was to get Mr. Hamner to help with that. I got my people goin’ round tellin’ the technicians they already got Mr. Hamner as President, so why they want somebody else? It’s workin’ too, but a few words from their leader here might help.”
“Right,” Falkenberg said. “Well, sir?”
“I don’t know what to say,” George protested.
Falkenberg went to the wall control panel. “Mr. Vice President, I can’t give you orders, but I’d suggest you simply make a few promises. Tell them you will shortly assume command, and that things will be different. Then order them to go home or face charges as rebels. Or ask them to go home as a favor to you. Whatever you think will work.”
It wasn’t much of a speech, and from the roar outside the crowd did not hear much of it anyway. George promised amnesty for anyone who left the Stadium and tried to appeal to the Progressives who were caught up in the rebellion. When he put down the microphone, Falkenberg seemed pleased.
“Half an hour, Dr. Whitlock?” Falkenberg asked.
“About that,” the historian agreed. “All that’s leavin’ will be gone by then.”
* * *
“Let’s go, Mr. President.” Falkenberg was insistent.
“Where?” Hamner asked.
“To see the end of this. Do you want to watch, or would you rather join your family? You can go anywhere you like except to a magistrate—or to someone who might accept your resignation.”