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The two women strode briskly through the terminal. Merry Sharrow had plenty of
time to catch her plane. The fact that she was already checked in and had her
seat assignment failed to slow her down. As punctual in her private life as on
the job, she'd insisted on arriving at the airport two hours prior to takeoff
time.
Amy had learned to live with her friend's chronological fanaticism and didn't
complain. You've got your camera?
Yes, and my tickets.
What about a raincoat?
Are you kidding? Merry checked her watch. She didn't want to miss her plane.
This was her vacation, her choice. Her blood was rushing. She couldn't
remember when last she'd been this excited. Wonderful things were going to
happen to her in Washington. She could feel it. The city was beckoning to her.
All very childish, really. Cities didn't beckon.
How about Kotex?
Of course I've got Merry started to reply automatically. Then she saw the
grin on her friend's face and stuck out her tongue at her.
Tell me, Amy asked as they strode down the concourse toward Merry's gate,
why Washington, D.C.?
I don't know, really. It just kind of jumped into my head. Monuments and
museums and maybe some excitement.
Excitement? You?
I might surprise you. Heck, I might surprise myself.
What did Donald have to say?
I didn't ask him. I left a message on his answering machine.
Amy gaped at her. My, but we have taken charge all of a sudden, haven't we?
What prompted this sudden outburst of independence?
Seemed like the time was ripe. Besides, I
need a vacation. She stopped suddenly. People surged around her like water
around a rock. Amy, I hit a dog a couple of days ago. It really tore me up.
Immediately Amy was all sympathy. You poor thing!
Why didn't you call me? I know how you feel about animals. Where?
Getting off the interstate on the way home. The morning it was raining so
bad. But that's not what's got me all shook, Amy. I ... I looked at the thing
out of my right eye and it looked just like a dog, a big mutt like a wolfhound
or something. Then I saw it out of my left eye and it looked like something
else. Not like a dog. I can't describe it.
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Out of your left eye? Amy searched her friend's face. Man, you do need a
vacation.
That's what I thought. Someplace far away. Washington seemed as good a choice
as any, and that was the first thing that popped into my head.
You're sure you're okay?
Merry considered. The face and the clawed paw (hand?) were only faint images
now, like those left behind on the retina when the TV is turned off. All
around her busy men and women hurtled toward distant appointments. Each
carried an attaché case or garment bag or both. Their eyes were vacant, their
minds elsewhere, and the only time any of them looked anywhere other than
straight ahead was when they glanced at their wrists to check the time. They
looked like feeding flamingos, hunting minutes instead of tiny pink shrimp.
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It frightened Merry, but she didn't let it show. It was as if everyone in the
airport except Amy and herself was dead; unthinking, unseeing. Zombies. She
shuddered.
Chilly in here. I'd better go through security or I'll miss my plane.
Right. I gotta go too. The old man'll be wondering if I took off with you.
There was a brief, awkward pause and then they were hugging each other hard.
Take it easy. Merry pulled back. It's not like I'm going to Timbuktu or
something.
I know, but it still feels funny, watching you leave. I want postcards. Tons
of postcards. Now go and get on that plane before I get silly.
Washington, D.C. 19 June
...and so what you are really saying, Mr. Bush, is that you believe the
emphasis of law enforcement in this country insofar as these various extremist
groups are concerned ought to be changed.
There was silence in the Senate chamber except for the hum of the air
conditioning and the soft whirr of video cameras while the man known as Bush
composed his reply. He sat behind a long, curved table facing the raised dais
which protected the five members of the Senate Subcommittee on Crime and
Terrorism. A hood of black cloth covered his head and shoulders. When he spoke
it was into a special microphone which electronically distorted as well as
amplified his voice. The result was a nicely theatrical quaver.
Am I to understand, Senator, that you are actually asking for my opinion?
The senior senator from Nebraska nodded. Absolutely, Mr. Bush. If it were
only facts we wanted we could just read your reports, couldn't we?
The hooded man choked down his instinctive response and tried to view the
hearings in the same light the senators did. They couldn't be expected to take
him too seriously. Hearings on crime were good for media exposure but
contributed little to the actual running of the country. Two of the men on the
panel, Crawford of Texas and Eggleston of Michigan, were on the Armed Forces
Committee that was meeting early this afternoon. They were anxious to wrap
this session up.
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So why was he frustrated and disappointed? It was always like this. The same
questions to which he gave more or less the same answers. Radicals might
differ wildly in their philosophers, but their methodologies for overthrowing
the existing government by force were depressingly similar. They weren't
really interested in his opinions. That was part of the show, the theater.
He rather liked the senator from Nebraska, though. Baker was an anomaly who
thrived on the illusion that one man could actually make a difference in
Washington. That ingenuousness was one reason the voters of America's
heartland kept returning him to office. Whether he ever got anything done
didn't seem to matter as much as the fact that he stood for something.
The half dozen television folks were already starting to break down their
equipment. They looked bored.
So did the junior reporter from the
Post
. The important questions had already been asked. Baker had requested the
professional informant's opinion because the query would look good in the
record.
So be it. Well, Senator, since you've asked for my opinion, this is what I
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