THE COMMITTEE, by Ron Stauffer
--------THE COMMITTEE--------
(Chapters 1 thru 16 appear in reverse order AFTER a prologue, just posted below, portrays the conclusion.)
Ron
THE COMMITTEE -- PROLOGUE
Gretchen and I have two little girls now, and our lives seemingly are making the adjustment to our big, broad home we call 'Forever Free'. The skies aren't quite as blue as Earth's on a clear day at the turn of that last remembered millenium, but the air is unpolluted. Our breathing media contains more of a mix of inert gases that have yet to escape this planet's gravity. We are a little heavier here, about one and quarter as much since this larger diameter planet probably --and luckily -- lacks the heavy molten iron core of our former, ancient home.
I say ancient because we haven't been able to raise communication with Houston since we arrived here three Earth years ago. Our onboard clocks registered July of 2257 GMT at the time of our sensors' first sighting of this comfortable planet. With our average speed through stellar space estimated at an incredible 6,600 kilometers per second -- if Nanette's and Richard's dead reckoning are to be trusted -- we should be 5.5 light years away. I must say, most if not all of Dr. Winthrop's theories panned out -- and we can't thank him and his team because they have been dead at least two centuries.
The days are a lot longer, however, and we would burn or freeze if it were not for the perpetual cloud cover that insulates the planet's surface from such large extremes of exposure to the System's star, which we believe to be Gliese 665 (very close number to the biblical 'mark of the beast') in the computer's ephemeris. Since our sentiments suffer little superstition, Dr. Winthrop considered this G2-V star a good possibility (though no orbiting planets had been spotted by occultation), hence our furtive trajectory. Though I must say we've had our share of 'rude' awakenings, one of which cost the life of Lieutenant Commander Robertson. Probably, his death lies in the mystery of his race's DNA -- something that was not tested in the extensive trials on the Semite, David Burak.
What I mean by rude awakenings are the hardly subtle -- primitive if you will -- bringing back from unconscious hibernation to full alert status of the four command figures. They were 'awoken' on a rotational basis as promising planetoid conditions were sensed by telemetry. The pilots. and myself, were rigorously prepared for the final determination of a planet's attributes as to whether it would make a viable home for us. There were three computer alerts during the long journey that awakened Commander Nanette Weede, Lieutenant Commander Robertson, and Civilian pilot Richard Sloan respectively. The first awakening, 3.5 light years out, concerned a planet that exuded all the requirements the sensors were programmed to approve. However, Commander Weede's 42 hour analysis indicated that there was a flaw in the planet's spectrograph that would have been fatal to an expeditionary landing. Far less oxygen was available than sensors had previously indicated -- the resultant media having been masked by a preponderance of inert gas data in the atmosphere. Its fairly elliptical orbit rendered it borderline anyway.
The second occurrence involved Robertson, the first officer. The black astronaut was awakened in the pre-determined rotation when a candidate planet -- not too unlike an Odysseus siren calling 'take me, take me' wafted into the sensors range, indicating eight of ten of the required major attributes. Robertson encountered difficulty in adjusting his faculties upon arriving at consciousness, losing valuable time in the limited temporal window afforded for decisive reaction acceptance/denial of the candidate. Whether the planet was a viable one became moot when he lost consciousness and froze to death after the interrupting protocol had timed-out. The onboard computer simply and indifferently reverted back to the programmed default mode.
The third event brought Richard Sloan into the breach of decision making after two and a half centuries of hibernation. It wasn't expected that such a time lapse would allow maintenance of suspended life in the human form, but then the crew of the Exodus was in the knowing hands of the good theoretical genius, Doctor Winthrop -- if not the fates. Sloan's revival was immediately met with the detritus of Robertson's molecular disassembly, prompting him to throw-up -- nothing! Fighting the dry-heaves and intense aching, he made his way to the conning tower of the converted Trident and found the moisture bearing rations still intact. Regaining a semblance of his former self, he scanned the available readouts of the candidate planet. With professional coolness, and confidence in his trained-for expertise, he double-checked and triple-checked the computer readings, finally satisfying himself that they had reached their new home.
Upon manually over-riding the interstellar flight protocol, placing Exodus into high orbit about the new planet, Sloan went about terminating the hibernation support systems of the remaining crew members after, of course, vacuuming the residual of Robertson.
It turned out, the new planet had little surface water, though the atmosphere was very humid to the point of balminess. There was always thunder and heat lightning, but no violent downpours. Their final destination was determined from study of the infra-red surface models that were scanned and compiled during 1,068 orbits. In the final analysis, it would be a trick to navigate to the abstract model by instruments not knowing how much visibility there would be at the surface -- and was the surface not a fluid? However, infra-red telemetry indicated moderately undulating relief in the subject area -- hardly a liquid or gas.
During those many orbits, supplies were shifted and stowed in the lander projectiles which had been gyroscopically fitted for flight maneuvers. Although the Trident hull originally contained twenty-four vertical tubes, only twelve were outfitted with lander pod transit capability because of weight considerations. Lander One, unmanned, would carry needed supplies and robotically attempt the first landing. Lander Two thru ten would follow suit, at least forty orbits apart, to attempt landings in near vicinity of the first. Finally, Lander "A", piloted by Richard Sloan, would carry Beth, myself and Gretchen to the mysterious surface below, where we would successfully set down just thirteen kilometers from the pattern of the first ten landers. Sixty-four orbits later, Commander Weede did even better, bringing Lander "B" within half that distance. It was determined that our village be erected on a rise not far from, but east of a ravine where eight of the first ten supply vehicles had landed. We would name our new community Free-Harmony. The fact that all landings were a success and within lucky thirteen kilometers of each other bespoke of the stuff miracles come from. But to have a miracle, it must be prayed for and there was nothing of that sort happening among these atheists.
"Again, no news from Houston?"
"Nothing." Sloan answered me in his taciturn expression. He looked at me with those saucers of mischievousness, "It's like we expected, Earth has imploded in its infinite wisdom! We saw it coming from the top of the heap, and it caved in. Others like us are probably still clinging on at the top of the crumbling layers -- but we flew the coop! We did it, and we only have you and me to thank for that!"
His smile confirmed it all. "The fates have been kind to us," I said.
"If the fates are luck, yes, we've been lucky." The lines around his mouth pursed. "But luck is usually on the side of the best prepared, the most aware of all the possibilities -- god, what a rush this has been; and we are free, so utterly free."
It was true, Richard Sloan had forced the issue when the team was voicing morbid thoughts in the face of terrible odds against success. His lifelong obsession to leap into space, a secret unbeknownst to us until his fateful, vulnerable confession several months before leaving Earth, rekindled the pioneer spirit in the rest of us -- of course with some little help from circumstances devolving on fateless Earth. "We start anew with a clean slate!"
"Yes, and with no supplications to some nebulous idea of a creator -- we KNOW where we come from!
"But what about making some nominal offering to the Flying Spaghetti Monster that Troy smuggled onboard?"
"Hey, it's a free planet. Just don't ask for money to build a house for it."
"Oh, c'mon. It would be just like old times," I further tested.
"Sometimes, Dustin . . ."
"All right, all right . . . a clean slate it is -- right after a ceremonial burial of Mr. or Mrs. Pasta."
Just then Sloan lunged for my throat.
"Just kidding," I said, backing quickly away.
Troy popped his head into the dome. "What are you two arguing about?"
"We were just discussing the startup of a fresh State."
"Oh, and what day will be the new Sabbath?"
"The day we celebrate your expiration," Sloan shot back with fire in his eyes.
"How nice of you to deify me."
"Sometimes I get the distinct feeling that you may not be fond of me."
"He's just a little sensitive about the church and state thing, this being early on in this new-nation business."
"Then Cheryl might be too late about setting up a menorah?"
"You brought one along?"
"Oh, for sure . . . Whad'ya take me for -- a complete idiot?"
"Hey guys," I interjected, "we all know you two love each other, but . . ."
"There's always a 'but' with you, Dusty."
"You ARE in a bad mood today, aren't you?"
"Just cut the crap about religion, will you; I'm still in de-tox from that horrid contamination on Earth."
And so it went those first few years in Free-Harmony, the give and take and all. By this time three of the four couples had two children; Nanette and her medical doctor husband doted on their only child, a little boy. Cheryl and Troy had the one other boy, making our offspring population five girls and two boys. There were no end to the jokes about little Sean and Allen having their hands full in the coming years. But foremost was our concern about initiating the children's education. With fifty years of university education among us, an early matriculation for three year-olds became a certainty. Cheryl and Gretchen, having been teachers on Earth, set up the primary school program, while us six remaining adults continued with erecting the village.
Early on, our lodgings were encampment style in and around the supply pods. We soon found that the taller vegetation continually absorbed moisture from the atmosphere and grew not unlike the soft tulip poplar common in the temperate zones of Earth. We improvised a sawmill, using power generated by portable wind and solar units, transforming soft timber, and scraps from cargo crates, into dwellings and furniture . The tall trees existed mysteriously, and fortunately, in large clumps surrounded by grasslands and low plant life that provided our windows for landing.
We soon erected a functional community hall, having four outrigger type apartments for each couple's privacy. A communal kitchen, living room, office, Playroom, and classroom made up the central area. With little effort, we could squeeze water from the air with dehumidifiers. We first collected waste once a day and tracked it to a ravine where it was washed away by the downpours that occurred very infrequently. Later, wood-slab pipes carried sewage to the same dumping area.
Our entertainment was provided from the many CDs and computer files brought with us, and were played in the living, office and classroom area where battery stored electricity was available 60 minutes before necessary recharging. Since religion's long nose of propriety was non-existent, we had no restrictions concerning extra-marital relationships; indeed, they were encouraged in certain circumstances, to break up an otherwise monotonous routine of lonely survival. By then, at least two children had been communally conceived, and accepted without prejudice. DNA history was gathered by Nanette's husband, Dr. Thurmond Weede, and stored for later study when maturing children would be selecting their mates. It was decided unanimously that the institution of marriage be put on hold indefinitely, and to be reviewed periodically in the light of propagation circumstances. We agreed that circumcision was unnecessary, in the light of our awareness to the importance of proper hygiene.
"Our history needs to be preserved," Gretchen suggested at their weekly meeting.
Of course, her suggestion was met with our unanimous approval.
"Who'll be the historian?" Troy asked. "It can't be me, 'cause I can't write."
"Oh, . . . now we're down to seven . . . anyone else want to fink out?"
"It shouldn't have to be one of us girls, seeing we've got our hands full with the kids."
"But it SHOULD be one of the women," Sloan assured. "They can write the history with earphones on, and can still watch the kids!"
"Are you sure that your place in this history might not be shown in a compromising light, . . . if I write it?" Gretchen answered.
Sloan stared blankly at her, not knowing what to say next.
"She got you there," I said. "But Troy's right, he is a lousy writer. . . . Hey, I,ll volunteer if no one else wants the job."
"Will you do a better job on me than Gretchen threatens, 'ol buddy?" Sloan looked at me with round puppy-like eyes.
"Well, when we're short of rations . . . can I have yours?"
"HERE'S MY WALLET, TAKE EVERYTHING I HAVE, . . . 'cept my woman!"
Seeing that our coming to this new planet was a reaction to the tangle of superstitious doctrine colliding on Earth, a brief narrative of hardly disputable anthropomorphic mental evolution is attempted here: Humans emerged from their Pleistocene condition, burdened with consciousness and a corresponding fear of the unknown. Everything and its source were a mystery and our early awareness craved an explanation. With the advent of linguistics, as guttural as those earliest attempts at communication were, there was always someone in the tribal group whose more smooth, articulated opinions prevailed -- right or wrong. That voice may have been the leader, or in many cases, a subaltern whose specialty was story telling and oral history. Tales were spun that included actual tribe-hero experience with a mix of exaggeration. As time wore on, some of the stories metamorphosed into epics and the heroes became demigods.
Eventually those ancient heroes ascended in lore to become powerful companions to the present-day members of the tribe. Their imagined presence were more and more reckoned to be the cause and effect of so much of daily life. However, some little understanding progressed in figuring the cause of natural phenomena: babies were found to be produce of an earlier physical coupling of man and woman instead of through some spontaneous, miraculous event; meat and vegetables tended to revert to a more base condition if not consumed quickly; etc. But these natural laws would not be categorized and studied for millennia to come.
But much of natural phenomena was explained by the chief's subaltern (later called shaman, or witch doctor) as miracles ordained by one of the gods hovering nearby. Without any competing alternative theory, the shaman's powerful words were sacrosanct. To dispute him or her was to invite dismissal from the tribe, or even death. It was unhealthy to be atheist in Homo sapiens' emerging cultures. Belief in god(s), as abstract and unseen as the spirits remained, were accepted by their antecedents, in toto as later cultures developed -- eventually to be referred to as religion.
The early known history of our species was rife with spirits, almost everywhere we trekked on Planet Earth. Egypt had its 'dead king gods' and Sun god; the Sumerians had their 'fifty names of Marduk'; the Greeks had the gods of Olympus; and the Romans, their pagan gods. Some thinkers were executed for heresy or apostasy, even as they tried to progress religion (Socrates). Others, like Cicero, did not broadcast their agnosticism except to their close friends -- in his case, Atticus.
After Constantine's conversion to Christianity, and the vacuum caused by the declining Roman Empire, the Catholic Church pretty much replaced Rome's secular governance while maintaining its spiritual role during that deteriorating period. The Moslem faith absorbed some of that vacuum when followers of Muhammad erupted in the wake of his 'revelations'. Monotheism of differing theme then pervaded life in Southern Europe, Southwest Asia and the Mediterranean shores. When one reads a history of world civilization it is difficult not to be amazed at the competition between religions then, seemingly, almost arbitrarily, dispersed along the vast shores of the Mediterranean, Black and Caspian seas. Such reading has contributed to my atheism, and has moved me to go so far as to make four assertions, which I include, interspersed throughout the remaining narrative.
An axiom of cultural life then and, to a very large extent, now, is what I call the (1) PRIMORDIAL ASSERTION: Religion ( formal respect for the unknown ) has been the mainstay of the human psyche as an answer for natural phenomena since the dawn of consciousness.
The allure and spread of these monotheist religions through the gentile world was heightened by their promises of salvation -- indeed, a come-on that is easily enough subscribed to in the place of lesser demanding beliefs. Of course, the downside of disdaining such a loving faith is the threat of being immolated for all eternity in a lake of fire. And that loving faith would not tolerate any differing opinion from its established protocol. During the Middle Ages, there were no atheists.
While great strides in government, economics and science took place during the Renaissance, religious doctrine remained static except for the Church's subtle attempt to raise additional money from the laity. The selling of indulgences was a serious mistake by the Universal Church, which raised the ire of a little known priest by the name of Martin Luther. That and other abuses by the indolent clergy led Luther, John Calvin and others to proclaim the Catholic pope to be an agent of the Anti-Christ. This had the revolutionary affect of instigating a whole new religion that would worship Christ in a new light. The new Protestant doctrine afforded the atheist no respite; their lot would still be condemned to eternal hell. The zealot of either faith would just as well hurry the atheist to his final place of torment, even as that pious Christian disdained the real world around himself. There were no atheists (known) in this age, before the advent of the seventeenth century.
(2) MORALITY ASSERTION:
a. Obedience of the law, civil or religious, is a communal requirement. The latter includes code for its preservation, but may lack timely enforcement. Both condemn a citizen's offense against other citizen(s).
b. Religion is about humans' relation with their deity, but morality is a person's relationship with his or her companion human.
Events during the Enlightenment did portray the question of faith in a new light -- a brighter light than the Protestant Reformation allowed. Luther's and Calvin's disgust with the ham-fisted, money-squeezing Catholic Church offered no place at the table for the unbeliever, cinching even tighter the ridiculous limitations of their so-called morals. They even undercut the prime motive of humanists: to serve mankind. That would be a horrible sin in Calvin's eyes, to accomplish merit without acknowledging Christ's existence. But the Enlightenment questioned the veracity that Protestant churches held sacred: belief in the Holy Ghost over and above doing good works. We now know from the above assertion that religion has not a lock on morality. (And the religious of the 21st century like to say: "atheism has never caught on! Everyone demands religion", and, "everyone is seeking God", they clamor. Before the Enlightenment found high ground, that was true. But still, the clergy, the politicians, even the press give little quarter to its constituency, no matter how law-abiding atheists may be.)
Seventeenth century atheists were few, but Deists were lowering the bar of piety with their assertion of a material universe rather than a spiritual one. The scientific method was making advances at a prodigious rate -- mathematics, as great. Darkness was being rolled back. Ephemeral dogma was questioned, this time with teeth! The quality educated citizen/aristocrat, for the first time got the upper hand, mediocrity sloughed off and even politics was raised to the occasion. But there were too many of the population of that era -- as there is in the twenty-first century -- that suffered from not having a classical education. To them, just as now, change was not welcome. "Better the devil you know rather than the one you don't know." Few windows of opportunity avail the common individual another path from their heritage; in most cases conscientious reading and study do the trick. To think outside one's box is a mean task for most, especially when it effects one's eternity, as nebulous and confounding as that may be. Thought is the operative word in any such transposition.
(3) CONSTANCY ASSERTION: A child born into the embrace of any one religion, tends to stay within that embrace.
Religion remains their blanket of security, just like in Neolithic times. The family routine was all-important in the face of the American, then the French Revolution. Those political upheavels placed governance in the hands of intellectuals, producing real separation of church from state, as well as individual rights. The follies of conflicting religious opinion was at last seen by understanding citizenry, through the writings of Paine, Madison, Voltaire, Mill, and Locke. Nations around the world since then have found refreshing guidance in those nations' newly devised Constitutions. Informed citizens said it was 'divine' in its conception and the world turned hopeful, for a more humane place. The individual rights of the period allowed for freedom of conscience; if a person disbelieved in the supernatural, for the first time he or she was free to proclaim it without fearing retribution.
Though America led the western world in this regard with Virginia's Freedom of Religion statute, it was short-lived. In less than eighty years, during its civil war, Jefferson's and Madison's wall of church-state separation was seriously impacted by new coinage containing a supplication to a deity. The war was waged by highly religious factions, each beseeching God to favor their cause. Though deaths and casualties exceeded a million, God received little blame for the relentless maiming and bloodshed. The vast majority of uncritical, unthinking citizenry still clung to the god respecting cradle-to-grave supposition. Samuel Clemens wrote satire lampooning some of the more blatant hypocrisy. And the war produced the fiery atheist orator, Colonel Robert Ingersoll of New York, who toured the nation afterwards, tempting God.
The freedoms afforded by America's Constitution, as challenged and imposed upon by religious cliques, allowed for free discourse of matters of conscience. New secularists flourished in putting forth ideas that countered orthodox ecclesiasticism. Finally, atheists garnered a setting at a small table in the dining room, but were effectively proscribed by the relentless efforts of the clergy to defile them by citing Psalm Fourteen and the First Commandment. Western Europe, having been exposed to the excesses and laziness of the clergy through time (and the Thirty Years War), outstripped America in recognizing the free-thought community. As the last frontier in the disarming of prejudice in America, atheism is still fighting an uphill battle. True, most atheists just shrug off if not smile at the inanity around them, finding solace in the writings of the occasional Paul Kurtz, Richard Dawkins, or Sam Harris.
But the question remained: with so many markers pointing to the multitude of irrational faiths, and each faith apostate to the next one, why does meaningful subscription to superstition prevail -- and at the price of open warfare, yet? There are so many signs pointing to inconsistency and irrationality of thought. Why, for instance, would God make white skinned people and dark skinned people, only to have one subjugate the other, and then allow that disparity to be the cause of one of the bloodiest wars on ever? Gretchen and I, Troy and Cheryl and Beth -- even Richard -- agree that the disparity is evolutionary and not the whim of a god, because that would put our humanity above the so-called omniscient, moral God who, according to His fundamentalist followers, doesn't seem to give a whit.
(4) REPLACEMENT ASSERTION: The advancement of science is in opposite progression to the dissembling and retreat of religion.
As too many disagree, religion and science really are exact opposites, one is replacing the other with exponential rapidity. Though religion's replacement will occur more linearly than logarithmically because of a delay factor of new knowledge not being absorbed by the common people. This is the reason we opted to leave Earth -- there just was not time enough left before the truly ignorant blast themselves to kingdom come (pun intended), or, in the least, soiled their nest beyond all recognition.
Chapter 16
PARTING SHOTS FIRED !
Until the very end of 2008, the Bush-Cheney administration could boast that they have been able to keep terrorists from striking in America. But a parallel of terrible events occurred in the waning days of the 43rd presidency. Racial profiling of Muslim-Americans, long a sore issue, added to the growing rift between the two cultures. The 10 to 15 percent of Muslims who admitted sympathy for Jihad in this and other Western nations in the early part of the new century, were not only growing in numbers but had begun a drift toward defiance. Subtly, unbeknownst to the Department of Homeland Security, cells of discontented Muslims were springing up independently of one another in greater Muslim populated states like Michigan, and large American cities.
On New Years Eve, hardly two months after the election of Stanley Winhauk, instantaneous suicide attacks among revelers took place in three American cities. In Las Vegas, nearly a thousand celebrating tourists were killed by a cadre of coordinated suicide bombers, interspersed throughout the Strip area. Atlantic City gaming parlors suffered similar attacks, within minutes of the Las Vegas explosions, killing another 700. And widely dispersed bombers at New York's Times Square killed nearly fourteen hundred people, and injuring over two thousand. The attacks were obviously meant as parting shots to George Bush's arrogant administration, the message was clear to Stanley Winhauk that a large number of Muslim zealots were smoldering under the radart, within the United States. The new year commenced in chaos as holiday travelers were stranded from coast to coast at airports hog-tied with reaction-measured security screening.
George W. Bush scrambled the few available National Guard forces, declaring martial law nineteen days before the inauguration of the new president, which only added to the confusion of travel and commerce. In the mean time, the director of the Department of Homeland Security was relieved of his post for not recognizing the vulnerability of large concentrations of celebrating tourists across the country. Ironically, politicians and the media of the three struck cities had been just as blind to an attack on their fun-providing turf.
Radical Christian fundamentalists from coast to coast pointed the finger of blame toward the drinking and gambling revelers as the retribution of a very angry God. This time, Pat Robertson did not back down and retract his list of usual suspects: abortion, gay and lesbian behavior, deletion of school prayer, and the ACLU. Osama bin laden made a rare tape, smiling at the destruction of American heretics, and saying that 'Allah is pleased with his followers' coordinated efforts.' George Bush, himself, entered Walter Reed Hospital for observation of a possible nervous breakdown when the news of Dick Cheney's suicide was broke to him. Uninvited, House Speaker Nancy Pelosi, took over the reins of power as the huge nation crawled to a near stop.
Wisely, she lifted the martial law order immediately, relieving the choke-hold on interstate commerce, communication and travel. Her reasoning was clearly simple: all six extremist cells were blasted to kingdom come, and suspected adjoining cells were in custody. She would obviate their goal of bringing the United States to a standstill with her defiant order of 'carrying on as usual'. The nation regained some semblance of normality by inauguration day when a sheepish Stanley Winhauk took the oath of office inside the Capitol Rotunda. His inauguration speech was to be the shortest in American history, in which he thanked Pelosi for her courageous action during the power vacuum and promised Americans that what had happened twenty days before would never happen again.
The committee met in February, following the above events. With all in attendance there was a more than usual buzz of talk.
"So . . . are we crazy, or what?" Troy said for the umpteenth time to whoever was near.
"Yeah, I think we're on the right track, and the rest of the world is moving towards oblivion." His wife said in his support.
"And that oblivion will char us, too, even as we step back from the fray."
"It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure that Times Square and the Vegas Strip were vulnerable targets chock full of dunderheads."
"You'd think dunderheads would understand dunderheads."
The never cheerful Burak asked: "How many cells are remaining, I wonder?"
"We know there are six less than several weeks ago," Gretchen said as she allowed Dustin's hand to intertwine with hers. "Boy, did they do their homework!"
"Homework my ass . . . have you ever been to Vegas on a weekend -- or, for that matter, down town on New Years Eve?" Without waiting for a reply, Sloan continued, "It's crazy! Nuts everywhere celebrating their individual spot in time and place, . . . as relative as it is."
"Everything is relative to you, isn't it Richard?" Cheryl sarcastically needled.
"It is, indeed." Sloan's large eyes scanned the group. "We're nothing but atoms and molecules in a macro form -- evolved to the top of a food chain, having gained self recognizance in the process."
"You're right, of course," Dustin returned in order to deter a more lengthy discourse. But it was too late.
"Dawkins is so eloquent on this point, . . . in 'The God Delusion' -- have you read it yet, Dusty?"
"Just about through with it -- he's so technical."
"He's a scientist for crisakes! You MBA types didn't get to study much science, did you? I've a copy of My Pet Goat I can lend you to get started."
"That's kind of you, but I've already advanced to reading Doctor Science I'll have you know." Clasping his hands together, he swung around in his seat, "But, people, we've got to get on with the reason we're here tonight. . ."
Waiting for no further introduction, Richard Sloan asked with impatience: "I hope you gals have come up with something . . . it seems that time is getting short!."
"Yes, Richard," Gretchen countered his glare. . . . and it's nice to see you again, Beth"
Beth nodded demurely -- her smile was one of disarming softness that radiated from her rather oval face. Some in the group wondered what she saw in the acerbic to arrogant Richard Sloan -- 'opposites attract,' as many say. "I've been sooo busy, . . . nice to see you guys again." Her countenance changed to one of severity, "Because of recent developments --to put it mildly -- I thought it time to get involved."
Gretchen acknowledged Beth's concern, then turned again toward Sloan. "Before we get started, I must say that it appears the attackers were not Middle Easterners for the most part. Two of the cells were white Anglos from California in the Vegas attack. And two cells in Jersey were predominantly Black. That's how they slipped through -- all American Muslims, fairly affluent, converted from various forms of Christianity."
"Ghetto conversions probably -- if not jailhouse." Burak remarked.
"Not really," Gretchen answered. "Like often we've seen, they were fairly well off, semi-professional and technical types."
"Gone to see Allah and the 72 virgins." Sloan quipped. "Christian preachers are going to have to rev up the PR for their heaven's attributes, . . . maybe introduce beer and sex."
"That reminds me," Troy spoke up. "I've an innovative idea for a new religion!"
Gasps could be heard in the room. "That's all the world needs, . . . another religion!" Cheryl blurted in disgust.
Dustin interrupted Troy's anxious anticipation of telling a funny: "Maybe later --we've got to get to Cheryl's and Gretchen's report on going underground."
Gretchen began their presentation with the reports of the History Channel's Underground Cities series. Boston, Atlanta, Istanbul, Rome, Paris, etc. were covered in travelogue description, with much attention to their charms. Cheryl followed with more strategic intentions such as the Catacombs, Strategic Air Command cavern headquarters, and the West Virginia Mountain fortress built to essentially house Federal government.
"Of course, not far to the west of here are the abandoned shafts of the anthracite region." Cheryl added. If we ever have to move fast, that may be the option best available. Nobody wants them -- Pennsylvania is trying to eradicate them -- we could purchase something there, and the surface above, for peanuts compared to real estate values elsewhere."
"It's kind of like, asking for the shaft." Troy volunteered, milking a few chuckles.
Sloan spoke his concern during the Q and A session: "That's all well and good, but going underground in any of these locations isn't exactly disappearing. Some of the local yokels will have to be made nice to, and they might have a problem with us strangers, heretics to be sure, camping out beneath them. In the very least, they'll probably ask Dave here, what church he attends."
"Richard's right," Dustin had to say. "Any underground sanctuary will have to be developed on the sly, and kept secret. Anyway, that was a most interesting presentation, though I don't think much of that option." Dustin looked from face to face, "Now, if anyone's still interested in hearing Troy's idea for promoting some new religion, I'm sure he'd buy us a round at Tony's. We've got to get out of here -- it's just about ten."
The group reconvened at Tony's Bar and Grill two blocks away, to take advantage of the free drink offer, to more or less suffer Troy's theistic wisdom. They sat at the large round table in the most distant corner from the entrance.
"This better be good," Sloan intoned to Troy as he took up his manhattan.
"Lighten up, Richard -- you're such a wet blanket."
"So what's your innovative, mind-snatching thought, Troy?" Dave Burak pressed.
"You know, the promise of eternal life has supposedly neutralized the fear of death in many religions, especially the monotheistic ones in play today."
"So they say, . . . but go on," someone mumbled.
"You speak to anyone of these 'good' people and they say they're going to heaven. Of course, if there is a God, only a tiny fraction of these assholes would be acceptable to Him to share Heaven with." He sipped his drink. "Lots of money are contributed by these 'good' people that really aren't all that good . . ."
"That's okay 'cause they know they are sinners, and have been saved." Sloan interrupted. What a gimmick. . . Talk about having your cake and eating it too."
"Well, I propose a new twist on the question of Eternity. Why end there. . ."
"It doesn't. It never ends!" Burak piped up.
"Let me finish . . . sorry, wrong choice of words. . . eternity never ends. But, imagine position 'A' is our location on a graph, and way out to the right is an arrow pointing to 'E', which is never ending eternity. What religion extant today is covering the field of the graph in the opposite direction, out to the left, . . . the beginning of time?"
"Mormons." Beth spoke up. "The Church of the Latter Day Saints have a policy of praying for long dead souls to make their path into heaven easier."
"Eeeh." Troy pinched his expression and waved his hand. "That's not what I had in mind."
"How about reincarnation?"
"That's more like it, . . . and that's practiced by Hindus and Buddhists -- but I don't think they anticipate a Heaven. However, you're right, it is a continuum through point 'A'."
"More like nirvana, . . . or karma, instead of a heaven" Beth contributed.
"So I propose a religion that not only guarantees happiness in the future, but provides a view back in time to as far as possible, in the subject's personal experience. They would have to pay more --lots more -- if they wanted to experience someone else's past."
"Interesting concept." Sloan allowed. "A mental time machine."
"Exactly, . . . and of course we could be the priests who would prepare the descriptions for the requested points in time --at a price that would be exempt from scrutiny, and taxation!"
"Are you saying, we'd have to vote Republican all the time to ensure this temporal satisfaction? That would be entirely bogus!" Dustin laughed.
"So what's so different from other religions? Anyway, Look at the potential for profit. Costs would be only for some black robes and fancy robe cinches . . ."
"Nah, . . . use rope; the humbler the better."
Troy nodded to Burak and continued: collection plates, crystal balls, some old upright mainframe computers from the sixtys, religious books on Eastern religions or crumpled up manuscripts written in Sanskrit, morphed photographs showing dinosaurs with people. . ."
"You're sick, Troy, really sick," Gretchen feigned seriousness.
"If you can't lick 'em, join 'em -- I've been told by the best," Troy said gleefully. "Anyway, the Mormon religion was founded by a flim-flam man and is now the fastest growing church in America. So how could we go wrong? The American public will go for just about anything. Jeeze. 25% of 'em don't know that the earth orbits the sun! Imagine joining a religion whose name has one letter too many from spelling moron; whose chief angel is, if one letter is removed, spells moron. He turned around to yell to the barkeep. "Bring us another round, . . . Dusty's buying!"
________________________________
Chapter 15
SUMMER OF 2008
Dustin awoke to startling news from the Middle East. The president of Pakistan had been assassinated and the nation, so strategically situated between India, Afghanistan, and Iran, was in turmoil. Al Qaeda, and the Iranian Shiites both claimed responsibility for the former General's death, but the Taliban could not be ruled out. At any rate, the country's nuclear arsenal was in danger of falling into radical Islamist hands. Though he was scheduled to appeal his policies to the newly
elected parliament within a month, his assassination was seen as reaction to fear that he would continue to control the government with an iron hand.
Later in the same day, another news bombshell was broadcast from the Republican National Convention: the darkhorse candidate, and representative from South Dakota -- Stanley Winhauk -- had emerged as their nominee for president. It was clear that, again, the message of fear, controlled the hearts and minds of most Republicans. For months, Rudolph Gulianni led the pack of at least a dozen candidates, trumpeting the premise that he, alone, could protect America from terrorist attacks. But his morality, manifested in his inconsiderate treatment of his previous marriage partners, brought him down along with his Northeastern liberal stances on women's choice and gun control. Other headliners such as Newt Gingrich, and Mitt Romney fell out of grace for similar reasons. John McCain was squeaky clean to most everybody but the Religious Right who just would not forgive him for calling them 'religiously intolerant' in 2000.
Emboldened by the over night news of Pakistan's falling to Islamic radicals, the Convention's fifteenth ballot pushed Winhauk over the top mainly because of his promulgation of fear -- and his near 100% voting record consistent with 'conservative values'. It now appeared that a ground swell for Bush -- Cheney look-alikes was gaining momentum, to take the war to the Muslims. Indeed, Winhauk campaigned to bring the Islamic world to its knees -- invoking, if need be, America's nuclear capabilities of possibly taking out a religious city or two.
The following week, the Committee met at their regular time -- the third Wednesday of the month -- and chatted, as usual, about the developments of the day:
"It's unfolding pretty much the way we expected," said David Burak.
"Scary, isn't it."
"To say the least . . . and prophecy isn't supposed to be one of our strong points."
Richard Sloan looked directly into the eyes of Dustin Irwin, "Didn't you once say that Mecca or Medina should be taken out with a nuclear strike?"
"I did." Dustin answered, sounding a bit defensive. "But, if you remember -- that Web site I referenced -- it was defensive punishment for an attack perpetrated on our own soil. . . . and, in light of pulling in all our horns to shore up and reinforce our borders."
"What's the difference . . . a retaliatory strike is an outward attack?"
"Yes, but it would be a forewarned condition that would occur only if we were attacked on our own soil -- as we bring our troops home from Iraq."
"Sounds isolationist to me."
"Perhaps isolationism is appropriate at this time. Besides, if these nitwits are so bound and determined to bring hell to this planet, lets' allow them to experience it first hand --while they're praying for us to experience it!"
"But Winhauk, as the Republican candidate . . ." Troy whistled through his teeth instead of completing the obvious sentence ending.
"Yeah," Burak added. "Here we go again . . . shades of 2004."
"It's looking more and more like the Republicans are going to play the fear card again -- 'fight them anywhere but here'."
"How could they have picked him?"
"Probably 'cause he now pronounces his last name Winhawk," Dustin offered.
"Whad'ya mean now?"
"Because when he was elected to the House of Representatives he pronounced it the dutch way, Winhowck, remember?"
"Isn't that . . . sort of, being obvious.?"
"It works all the time with their troglodyte constituency, honey." Troy opined.
Richard Sloan uncharacteristically agreed, "Joe Theisman, the football player, changed the pronunciation of his name to rhyme with Heisman . . . so he could super-impose semantic psychology to his campaign for the Heisman Trophy."
"I didn't know you were into sports, Richard?" Dustin needled.
"I'm not. But my dad hated Theisman, and Notre Dame, and bitched about him repeatedly if he was on the field of the game he was watching."
The thought of a little Richard Sloan playing with toys on the living room floor in the presence of his dad watching a ballgame went through Dustin's mind, and he suppressed a smile.
Sloan's piercing dark eyes canvassed the quiet faces of the other members of the committee, "What, you don't believe me?"
"Well, it's just that . . . no, never mind,"Gretchen started to giggle.
Unperturbed, Sloan reasserted his didactic self. "I may as well tell you . . . I'm not satisfied with the progress of this committee." He sensed that some of his exterior shell of intensity had been compromised and he was going to reinstate it. "Aren't we to have some sort of report on the possibility of going underground?"
Gretchen regained her poise and countered, "So when are we -- or aren't we -- going to see Beth join us?"
"Beth's preoccupied with her business." He mellowed with the mention of his long time girl friend. "She's in almost complete agreement with our concerns and I expect she'll come aboard as soon as she's able."
'"That's great!" Cheryl's words drowned out several other positive utterances. As much as the group suffered Sloan's overbearingness, they loved Beth's demure but confident charm -- and her warm smile. "We'd love to have her help in our research."
"You've nothing to report? Sloan's glare was unforgiving.
"Well, we're in the midst of watching the History Channel's report on Underground Cities. . ."
"What about the SAC under ground headquarters in the Rockies . . . or the studies about the possibility of moving the government to emergency underground quarters in the mountains of West Virginia?"
"We're working on that," Sheila lied, mentally noting Richard's leads.
Satisfied that he had re-established his uncompromising image, he let her lame response go with a hardly audible "humph" and settled back in his chair.
"Any body else have anything to report?"Dustin looked around, fearful to engage Sloan's eyes more than momentarily.
David Burak spoke up, "How're you progressing with Gregory Hovan? . . .I understand he hand picked you as a protog￩."
"You've been reading the Journal, haven't you?"
"You're a star, Dusty! Fill us in." Sloan was eager to spotlight the leader of the group he thought he should be leading.
"Well, . . . he's been giving me lessons on civics every time we get together for more than one martini."
"And how often's that?"
"Once a week."
"Obviously, he's satisfied with your account management."
"I'm working my fuckin' butt off!"
"But he doesn't have to travel so far, from his new apartment," Troy mischievously informed. "He shaves in the back of his chauffered limo -- going to work."
"That's nice . . . but when's he going to ask the Icon for money?"
"It's not time . . . I've just initiated a contact; it's progressing . . . looking very good. I'm not going to queer a budding, long term friendship with a tacky request for money!"
"Spoken like a good Philadelphia Quaker." Sloan said with a sly smile. "You're right, of course. I give you credit, . . . much credit, for how far you've come." He bit his lip to say, "Keep up the good work."
"Thanks, Richard." Dustin knew it was hard for Sloan to give a compliment. "Anyway, we haven't an objective -- or anywhere near an estimate of a budget . . . everything's so fluid at this time."
"And how many will want to join us . . . is another consideration." Burak added.
"It's all surreal . . . this whole thing of trying to survive something that so many don't envision." Dustin enjoined. "I often lay awake nights thinking of the futility of our efforts -- and even what efforts to make." He looked in Sloan's direction, soliciting input from the devil's advocate.
"Yeah, we're all loony. . . It's like being caught up in a conspiracy theory that knows no limits. Beth questions me all the time about my, . . . our paranoia."
"Surely, she sees what's going on."
"But like everyone else, the slow de-evolution of events isn't shocking her. It's like the rise of the Third Reich: 'what's the big deal with rendition or the suspending of habeas corpus -- it doesn't affect me?'"
"You usually laugh at conspiracy theories, Richard. I'm rather surprised to see you barking at the moon like the rest of us." The others smiled, in varying degrees to the affirmative.
"I've always said that I'd never get off this planet alive. But now there may be good reason. You guys struck a chord in me . . .and my sense of adventure. I've got to at least give it a hearing."
Dustin choked a little as he said: "We do appreciate your giving us that hearing. . . We know you'll keep us on the straight and narrow."
"You bet your sweet ass! I'm not about to let you bunch of liberals go skylarking when there's important work to be done." He said with his impenetrable smile. "And, if we're done here, I'm returning to my sweet Beth to watch the remainder of tonight's Democratic Convention."
-------------------------------
Two days later Barack Obama emerged as the Democratic hopeful, and the 2008 presidential race commenced in earnest. Obama, in his confident, disarming style exuded hope while Winhauk continually pushed the fear scenarios. Just ten years before, Franklin Delano Roosevelt's famous statement in his first inaugural speech, 'The only thing we have to fear is fear itself', would have shamed G. W. Bush's and Stanley Winhauk's campaign cries, but it seemed the American audience had lowered the bar concerning its courage. Hillary Clinton, who carried too much spousal baggage, was also guilty of being a woman. Richardson, Kicinich and Edwards faded in the second ballot.
Within days, Winhauk's camp was alluding to Obama's Muslim heritage of his estranged father's side of the family -- and the fact that his middle name was Hussein. Not above being able to deliver a hit below the belt, the conservative's darling commentator, Rash Limpball, suggested the 'more than just coincidence' the rhyme 'Obama' with 'Osama' was indicative of the way things might become. It was as if FDR never delivered his 1933 warning. It was as if history never happened -- had been turned off, like it was for the previous eight years.
Obama, well aware of Senator Kerry's procrastination in rebutting the swift boat ads that colored him as a prima donna commander, during the 2004 presidential campaign, countered by oft repeating his dedication to Christianity of which persuasion he truly was, through his mother's influence. He cried foul, re-playing John Fitzgerald Kennedy's speech to the Greater Houston Ministerial Association in his 1960 campaign. Kennedy having said, in part: "I believe in an America where the separation of church and state is absolute; where no Catholic prelate would tell the President -- should he be Catholic -- how to act, and no Protestant minister would tell his parishioners for whom to vote. . . While this year it may be a Catholic against whom the finger of suspicion is pointed, . . . in other years it has been -- and may be someday again -- a Jew or a Quaker or a Unitarian or a Baptist . . . Today I may be the victim, but tomorrow it may be you -- until the whole fabric of our harmonious society is ripped apart."
-----------------------------------------------------------
Chapter 14
GOING AWAY PARTY
"I knew it, . . . I just knew that Gregory Hovan was going to get his hooks into you." Alex had developed a heel spur so he did his hand-wringing at his desk. "So we can't match his offer?"
"I'm afraid not." Dustin left off the usual "sir". "We are synonymous in philosophy."
"Whatever that means."
Dustin knew it would be futile to try and explain that living a meaningful life was more than just making money. "I want you to know I appreciate the opportunity you guys have given me."
Alex Slaughter nodded. He did not bring up the fact he had been responsible for apprising Dustin of the Hovan breakfast months ago. "So, Hovan's an atheist too?"
"I don't think he pays much mind to religion of any kind. Most Europeans don't."
"Then he's an atheist." Alex insisted.
"More like a lapsed Eastern Orthodox, I think."
"Not religious is atheism, pure and simple."
"Perhaps." But if he was pressed by his folks on his death bed, he'd probably defer to the incantations of the priest, I suspect."
"And you, . . . would you press him the other way?"
Dustin was surprised by Alex's line of questioning. The only philosophical discussions he ever had within Peyton, Pierce and Slaughter had been with Troy. He would have welcomed an exchange of life defining ideas and questions back in the early days of his employment, but the emphasis was on trade, accounts, leverages -- all in support of squeezing money out of growing portfolios. "Why on Earth would I do that?"
"You tell me."
"Do you think, because I'm an atheist, that I'm some way in cahoots with the Devil?"
"I guess you don't believe there's a Devil, either."
"C'mon, Alex, you know better than that."
Alex blushed at his naive slip. "I don't know much about those things, I s'pose."
"Too much reading that religious column in the Journal."
"Life is so mysterious."
Dustin was overcome by Alex's blather. He wanted to leave before his boss exposed his soul to him. He felt the urge to say; 'Now, now . . . everything will be all right.' "I'd better let you get on with your schedule, sir." He put the sir back in to somehow placate the emptiness the old man was exhibiting.
"Thank you, Dusty. You've always been a polite kid."
"I appreciate that."
The old man rose from his desk and offered his hand, "Good luck, young man -- I know we'll be seeing you around the District."
"Thank you, sir," he said, shaking his hand. Then he turned and left.
Arriving at his cubicle, he felt a twinge of sympathy for Alex. Though it wasn't his fault that Alex never much questioned his own psyche, he felt a twinge of guilt for chiding the old man to be more aware of his responsibility to himself. It was pretty late in life for him, a Catholic, to start questioning the importance of spiritual destiny;
those are questions better handled at a mature but earlier age. But then, matters of conscience and destiny were matters best taken care of by the parish priest. All matters of importance were best placed in the hands of professionals.
---------------------
The floor his cubicle was situated on never let go an excuse for having a party escape them. His leaving was no exception, though he was hardly the party animal type personality. The party would be had, and he would be roasted, whether he liked it or not --whether he was there or not. But he was in such high spirits, he was ready to party.
At the office party given for Dustin's departure from the Wall Street firm of Peyton, Pierce and Slaughter, there were well wishers that he had hardly ever met.
Brady, who had rarely given him the time of day, said: "So you're joining up with one of those two weird old birds who mysteriously turn everything they touch into gold, . . . while they wreck America"
"That's right, . . . my ship has come in."
"Flying foriegn colors. Hovan and Soros are un-American, you know."
"No, I didn't know."
"Eastern Europe . . . , behind the iron curtain and all that."
"Both, I understand, are naturalized legal citizens, . . . like Governor Schwartzenegger."
"Yes, but these guys are mysterious!" Just watch your every step."
Instead of challenging Brady's assertion, he politely excused himself, reflecting that most of his colleagues in the firm feared what they did not know. He had seen it too many times before: suspicion; conclusion; indictment; exclusion. The world was coming together electronically, economically, and in many ways, politically. But the mental software was still affected by primal screams of fear of the unknown. Consciousness was one thing, influencing and controlling consciousness was another. Consciousness, undisciplined, was latent mental chaos. The early church knew that and had taken steps to channel its direction. The progressive philosophers of the Enlightenment recognized that the pious channeling was limiting progress, and promulgated other ideas such as Thomas Paine's The Age of Reason, which ran counter to established church doctrine. Dustin thought of his consciousness discipline as similar to Paine's.
A slap on the back woke him from his reverie. Another glad handler, wishing him luck and presenting him his card. It was Jason of three semi-cubicles down the main corridor. Cubicle walls had been modified to allow sharing of several computer monitors, side-by-side, spewing forth numbers and graphs endlessly.
"So, onto the Big Time, eh?"
"It would seem to appear . . . for better, or for worse."
"Well, don't forget your buddies here."
'What buddies?', Dustin asked himself. Troy was his only buddy -- where was Troy, anyhow? He scanned the lively crowd.
"Have you seen Troy?"
"Nah . . . Hey, I gotta go. Good luck!"
"Thanks." 'That's got to be the most words Jason's ever spoken to me,' he muttered to himself. He crossed to the south side of the operations floor and glanced out past the high rise buildings adjacent to the battery. It was kind of a murky day with low hanging clouds and rain threatening. He could just make out Miss Liberty in the smog. 'The one symbol of America standing there for all to be reminded what this land was supposed to be about,' he thought. '. . . And who gives a shit? Not one on this floor, besides Troy. Yet, if a poll on patriotism were taken of everyone here, nine out of ten would answer that they were more patriotic than any atheist could ever be.' It sickened him that no one seemed to realize that the United States of America was for everybody! He, as an atheist, had more reason to defend its Constitution than all the Christians, Jews and Muslims who put the United States second -- after their god. Some god that no one has ever seen, yet they talk to him and he talks back to them. To him, the United States and its Constitution were the ultimate protection, not only for him, but for the god worshippers also.
He felt the presence of someone at his side and he discreetly wiped away a tear.
"Hey, old buddy . . . you short timer, you."
He was relieved that it was Troy. "God, I hate parties." He smiled, "Where the hell've you been?"
"Up town . . . to stroke a nervous client." He reached for a glass of bubbly. "Is this the good stuff?"
"It's not bad."
"How's it feel to have won the confidence of the leverage gods."
"Just one of them, Troy. Soros and Buffet aren't in the mix."
"Just a matter of semantics."
"As you wish."
"A corner office to boot . . .you've come along way, mah friend".
"I couldn't have done it without the confidence and mission of the Committee -- includin' you."
"Yeah . . . you were driven. But it was all your idea -- remember, Harry Selden."
"And the Encyclopedia Galactica," Dustin laughed.
"Too bad there aren't more of us that appreciate this world -- even this country." Troy said, staring out toward Miss Liberty's head just visible in the mist.
"I was just thinking the same -- before you arrived."
"I knew I'd find you here, staring out there at her . . . like you do almost everyday, when you take your break."
"I'm an open book."
"To me, you are. But to the rest in here, you're an enigma. You've got everyone baffled. They don't see how you managed to get out of the box, and so quickly."
"I'll introduce you to Hovan . . .first chance I get."
"I'd appreciate that."
"I've already brought you up in conversation . . . it's just a matter of time."
Troy was silent. He wasn't the introvert that Dustin was, and he mixed better with the other traders. "I'll be all right here." He then added: "Don't jeopardize anything by pushing too hard just yet. Keep your eye on the ball!"
"I will, . . . though there are times . . ." Dustin was interrupted by Troy's elbow in his ribs.
"Uh oh, here comes trouble. . . Don't look now but your conversion kit is closing fast."
"Charlie?"
"Yeah, . . . with that gushy intern."
"If he starts prayin' on me, you can push him out the window . . . I'm authorized to direct you to do that."
"These windows don't open."
"Through the window! Through is the operative word."
A skinny, freckled colleague and a chubby girl in a bilious green dress materialized at their side. "Hi Dusty,. . . Troy; . . . Lookin' at the Statue of Liberty?"
"How'd you guess?" Troy winked at Dustin, before he gave Charlie his Chicago street-smart glare.
"Oh, a little birdie told me," and he laughed in the direction of the intern. Sheila was her name, and the cross she wore was double the proportion usually seen as pendant jewelry. She chorused Charlie's guffaw with a high pitched giggle, and uncomfortably shifted her weight to the other foot.
The absurdity of the moment was surreal. Charlie Josephson was the court jester of the office. He was a buffoon by nature, and loved to tweak the idiosyncrasies of his colleagues. He was a former Jew, now, for Jesus, and Sheila was responsible for his transformation. Somehow, they had gotten wind of Dusty's disdain for religion, marking him as a fair target. Even when he was a Jew, Dustin avoided Charlie because of his pathetic bumbling. How he made serious trades was beyond him.
"You're not here to lecture us on the evils of drink, are you?" Dustin asked, trying to dissemble the awkwardness.
"Goodness, no!" Charlie answered. "We're here to wish you good luck and cheer."
"And to be careful of that Gregory Hovan!" Sheila added.
"You think I've sold my soul to the Devil, don't you?" Dustin asked half seriously.
"Oh, Hovan's evil alright," Charlie interjected. "But then, you're an atheist who should be really comfortable with him."
"Are there any other 'good luck' messages you wish to shower on me before you go away?"
"Charlie and I really do fear for your soul, Dusty." Sheila was not faking her concern. "You are in our prayers . . . that you will someday see the light and the truth." Again the scene was surreal. Dustin found it difficult not to be moved by their sincerity. Religion had more heads than a hydra, some chomping and spitting 'false' beliefs into pieces, while others like these two uttered platitudes of forgiveness. It was so confusing, so complicated, he thought. Would a God purposefully design such a conundrum? No, he decided; it was another reason not to believe such poppycock!
Troy looked around as if for a barf bag, but, not finding one, took another cocktail from a passing waiter, not asking what it was.
Out of character, Dustin spoke his mind, "The truth of the matter is, both of you are twits -- expecting me to buy into your delusion. It hurts me to say that, but isn't that part of the cross-bearing routine you invoke to be a martyr?"
Like Richard Sloan, but in a different sort of way, Charlie and Sheila would not be offended. They knew they were right, and their Dustin was going down the Street to be with the Devil.
Even Charlie blushed a little when Sheila said: "I'd die a martyr any day for my sweet Jesus!"
"Then, all you care about is making points with your Jesus -- not saving my soul -- to keep your bacon from fryin' in Hell's fire!"
"I don't want to see you burn for eternity in Hell -- you're the twit!"
Dustin noticed a few heads had turned their way. He knew the conversation was going nowhere. Troy tugged at his shoulder and he followed, forming a smile on his face for his antagonist. "Sheila, . . . plain and simple, there is no Hell," he said softly but with conviction.
"That's what you think, buddy boy."
"Let her have the last word," Troy advised. "She's trying to make a scene," he said as he guided his friend toward the food spread.
Dustin reflected on the exchange, thinking that no argument with a fundamentalist was ever won. Somehow, he could never get them to admit that their beliefs were all about fear and self-preservation -- at the exclusion of other groups of fundamentalists on the opposite side of the planet even more loony than they were. Sheila's 'One True' religion would not allow for other, foreign, believers to affirm their 'One True' Religion. They really chaffed when he labeled them atheist to all other religions, and that he was merely just atheist to one more religion than they were. He had seen all their claims, experienced all their hypocrisy, endured all their inanity and abuse. Love was not in their spirit, but only as rhetoric -- platitudes to soothe and placate the child-like. Intolerance and righteous condemnation was more to their bidding -- what they fed on. A holier-than-thou pecking order, all short of possessing enough Faith; that was their lot. Sheila was no more interested in saving his soul than she was convincing herself of her goodness of duty, ensuring her place in the Great Hereafter.
It -- religion -- just didn't make sense to him anymore. He saw no need of it other than as a fuzzy soft blanket that was so aptly portrayed in Charley Brown's Linus. Of course, its clergy define it as 'good'. They have convinced themselves that it is so good, that other religions are inferior and should be eradicated -- such is the contradiction of Faith. The gift of life is being squandered by those who find the gift so pious as to deny themselves of many of its wonderful pleasures. But that is their problem. The rub is: they want to ensure that their self-imposed limitations are imposed on everyone else! In proscribing the pleasures condemned by their Faith, they set for themselves less freedom. The fundamentalists in this country, rather than celebrating this 'land of the free, home of the brave' as they claim, are fearfully allowing their freedoms, guaranteed by the Constitution, to atrophy. He remembered Gregory Hovan mentioning that the first, fourth, fifth and tenth amendments of the Bill of Rights are being chipped away under the premise that our safety is in danger.
He remembered the letter from a Harvey Dull that had appeared in the New York Post blasting Hovan's beloved ACLU, itemizing all the evil things that are happening in our society because of prayer taken out of public school: women's right to choose, Title IX of the Equal Opportunity in Education Act, and the push for Gay and lesbian marriage rights. Hovan had shown him his answer to that letter:
'If Mr. Dull is correct (he is not) in all of his claims of negative influence by the ACLU in their defense of minorities using laws provided in our Constitution's Bill of Rights, why is he, as a good Christian, so judgmental -- and unforgiving? Even if the ACLU defended everyone accused of a crime, what difference is that from God forgiving every Christian, regardless of the crime, so long as he or she believed in His Son?
'Of course the ACLU is not God, nor can Mr. Dull prove in a court of law that his personal God exists. That's why we each should go about doing the best we can with the tools America's founding fathers provided us: our Constitution, which protects him and me (and everyone) as diverse as our philosophies are.'
It became obvious to Dustin that Gregory Hovan was one of them.
__________________________________
Chapter 13
CHANGES, NICE CHANGES!
The meeting had gone well enough. Richard Sloan was moving the ball down the court whether anybody liked it or not. He's a brilliant man, Dustin reflected, tactless but, nevertheless, brilliant. Perhaps his friends, if he had any, existed on a higher plane or intelligence quotient. He knew him to be a member of Mensa, because of that group's magazine he saw in his possession occasionally. He was unaware of any other Mensa members in CSHNYC, although the Council'smembership consisted of some of the City's brightest citizens.
But what bothered him most was Gretchen's teary-eyed statement about the religionists taking over and tearing up the planet. She was right, of course; those childish loons and overgrown goons have taken our beautiful world for granted and now endanger its existence-- indeed all of humanity's existence, because of an idea that God speaks to them saying: 'Kill the idolater, and the heretic'. His anger welled up in him and he wanted to fight. He wanted to kick ass, but where would he start -- there were so many of them. They were everywhere! He did his part: writing letters to the editors of newspapers and magazines; picketing violations of church/state separation; crossing out 'In God We Trust' on the paper currency. Now he was a member of the American Civil Liberties Union, the venerable and intrepid watchdog organization that kept on the lookout for violations of the Constitution's Bill of Rights.
Giving up Planet Earth was not his cup of tea, though he was not above exploring radical ideas to escape the coming conflagration. Maybe it would be better, going down with the planet -- fighting all the way -- than to be cooped up with the acerbic likes of know-it-all Richard Sloan on a god-only-knows how long journey to, where? With Gretchen by his side, he knew could go any place, take anything, even Sloan's brand of Guff -- but for the rest of his life in a tight-knit colony some where out there; that might be too much. Now, besides his anger at the stupid children who called themselves moral, he felt sorry that he had wasted so much time trying to ignore the growing social problem.
They returned to Gretchen's apartment they now shared since becoming engaged.
"It frightens me so to think of leaving this world."
"I know. I feel the same way," he said, consoling her shaking body in his arms.
"I don't think I can do it," she sobbed.
"We won't go, if you don't want to."
"You'd do that . . . you'd stay here for me?"
"You're my everything."
"Oh Dusty, hold me . . . tight."
"You know, it's time you women came up with an alternative plan to stay here."
"The underground thing?"
"Yeah. Burak's s'posed to be looking into it but he's dismally slow."
"Cheryl and I'll get on his case -- see what his problem is."
They went to bed together clutching tightly to each other, finally making love before dropping into deep slumber.
--------
"Dusty, you don't seem yourself tonight." Gregory Hovan said.
"My fiance and I are considering relocating," Dustin said.
"You're leaving town?" Hovan said in a high pitched voice.
"No sir, just considering a move to another apartment closer to our work."
"Manhattan?"
"Probably . . . We don't know yet." He and Gretchen had agreed that his increased commissions could allow an upscale move closer to where the action was.
"You're still lovers . . . pick a place special."
"Thanks, we will." Dustin put on a smile now that the martini was kicking in.
"Most of your age enjoy relocating," Hovan fished. "Now, at my age, moving is a burden."
"Oh, I'm looking forward to it, but . . . she has reservations."
"She likes it over in Queens, Eh?"
"She's kind of old fashion."
"You have a wonderful girl, there."
"She keeps me from coming apart at the seams."
"Too much pressure, you bouncing between here and PP&S?"
"I think it's about all I can handle."
"Maybe you should quit the one and go full time with me?"
The tendered offer came like a lightening bolt out of nowhere. "Are you making me an offer, sir?"
"Please, Dusty, call me Greg. Yeah, I'm making you an offer. Why don't you come work with me? I like your style and your conscientiousness"
"I'm flattered, sir."
"And, you can dispense with the sir -- even though you are from Philadelphia."
"Alex Slaughter will be so upset."
"He should be upset . . . he's not paying you enough!" Hovan smiled. "So, what do you say?"
"I'm speechless, s . . . ; when do you want me to start?"
"Whenever you can get clear of PP&S . . . I have a corner office waiting for you, son."
"Wow!" was all Dustin could say.
"You've earned it . . . you've won out over half a dozen ass kissing, snotty nosed candidates."
Dustin beamed in appreciation, afraid to say anything more.
"You're the only one who joined the ACLU."
"That was the test?"
"One of them. I don't need some xenophobic, long nosed, drape-mouthed, self-righteous, ratchet jawed, hammer headed, conservative trying to save my soul instead of keeping his eye on the ball that's up and down all over the place." Hovan leaned forward, holding his drink with both hands. "I don't understand Americans. So many, including Wall Street and its sanctimonius Journal, deride the ACLU as being dangerous to our society when in fact its sole purpose is to preserve the Bill of Rights. Where I came from there was no Bill of Rights -- that's part of the reason I left." He took another swig of his martini and, with a fierce gaze, continued: ask any American -- any American -- and they will tell you that our constitution has been ordained by God, himself, yet, in the same breath they disdain the one organization that fights to defend its first ten amendments."
The remainder of Dustin's martini was doubly intoxicating to him that afternoon.
------------
"Sweetheart, . . . a corner office! Imagine that!"
"I'm trying, . . . you know you deserve it!"
"We should celebrate."
"I was thinking, . . . now we can really afford to move into Manhattan."
"It would put both of us closer to our work."
"And knock the socks off our friends --especially Richard Sloan."
She gave him that look that seemed to say 'keeping up with the Jones was no big deal'.
Dustin re-phrased his out-of-character remark: "He needs his occasional comeuppance, to keep him from exceeding his orbit."
"You know you love to joust with him."
"Yeah, well there's a few things about him that sticks in my craw."
"Is one of them the way he lords it over everybody -- at least at SCH?"
"You've noticed that, too?"
"Of course, silly." Then Gretchen put on that look of 'Let's change the subject'. "I've got some good news, too."
Dustin girded himself, hoping that she wasn't in the family way.
"Cheryl and I discovered tapes of the History Channel programs on Underground Cities," she said while touching his forehead. "What's the matter, honey . . . you like white as ghost?"
"A touch of vertigo . . . but I'm okay now."
"Oh," she laughed. "You thought I was going to say I'm pregnant?"
"The thought had crossed my mind." He took her into his arms.
"We have been trying awfully hard . . . not to do that," she purred. "I'm still on the pill."
"With things the way they are . . . maybe we should get hitched ,now."
"Oh Dustin . . . Let's," and she squeezed him tightly."
They went to bed and practiced for their wedding night.
_____________________________________
Chapter 12
GETTING CLOSER
"He wants you to get him a calendar?"
"Yeah, sweetheart." Dustin answered his soulmate. "Should find what I'm looking for on e-Bay."
"Why can't he get it himself?"
"Maybe he's too busy. Maybe he's computer illiterate . . . I don't know."
"So, what exactly are you looking for?"
"Picture of a passenger train highballing through Pittsburgh's steel district in the middle of the night. I think it's the PRR's 1927 calendar entitled: The Broadway of Commerce, . . . at least that's what this Internet site lists."
"You sure are licking his boots."
"Darling, he's a sweet old fellow. Besides, I have an ulterior motive -- and I don't have to remind you what that is."
"I'm engaged to a confidence man."
"That's an ironic way of putting it," he feigned being hurt. "It's for a worthy cause."
"Do you really think he'll play ball, . . . I mean, join us?"
"It's still a long shot, but the longer I stroke him, the better chance we have of him coming in with us."
"Yeah . . . I just hope it's more than just a shot in the dark."
"That about sums it up -- trusting to the fates such as we do." He reached to take her into his arms, then kissed her.
"Ooh, you've been drinking, haven't you.?"
"Sorry, I should have put in some gum. He's been plying me with martinis."
"Some confidence man you are. Just who is the mark, any way?"
"Well, so far he's gotten me to join the ACLU . . . and he's been bending my ear about global warming and the war on drugs."
"And you haven't got squat from him."
"Gretchen, you've been hangin' out too much with Cheryl and that Village gang. Besides, I'm being paid no small commissions for my efforts -- just ask Alex Slaughter if he's satisfied with my work."
"You're right . . . it's my turn to apologize, for being so unthoughtful. Will you forgive me?" This time she puckered up for him.
"Dusty, the word's out on the Street that you're one of several salesmen being groomed by Hovan."
Alex Slaughter's circular pace was that of a worrier. Dustin thought back to what Hovan said to him early on: 'one in a hundred responded positively to my questionnaire' -- and there had been several hundred queries put out. He knew he had competition.
"Is he going to snatch you away from us?" His stare was intense.
"Sir, I've been offered nothing."
"Nevertheless, I don't blame you for his intentions." The hand wringing continued. "Just let me know if he does, so we can counter his offer -- if that's possible."
"I will sir," Dustin lied.
"God knows why your level of performance skyrocketed to gain his attention. What is it, Dusty . . . why haven't you put out like that for us -- 'til now?"
He couldn't explain his motivation -- Alex wouldn't believe him if had; it was so incredible. He took the fifth: "I don't know what you're talking about."
"He's not offered you a position?"
"No sir, he truthfully answered"
"Well, rumors have a way of turning into reality in this business."
"I'll let you know immediately, if he does." Dustin felt sorry for his boss's apparent genuine concern. He had been treated fairly by the firm for the relatively short period of time since the summer preceding Nine-Eleven. He felt he owed it to Alex and the other two partners to be straight with them. But to tell them that Gregory Hovan was his unsuspecting target to fund the development of an escape pod to another world was more than most people in their right mind would believe.
"I don't want you to think we're ungrateful . . . and you wiil be rewarded at the end of the quarter for your outstanding achievements. . . "
Dustin lost track of what Alex was saying, dreaming of his fantastic coup of becoming the Icon's protoge. Or, was this just a flash . . . to be stamped out by some other young competitor that Hovan was grooming. 'Don't count your chickens before they're hatched' he caught himself saying nearly aloud.
"What was that you said?"
"Sorry, sir. I was just thinking out loud of another account."
"Well, we're finished here for today." The old man stopped pacing and fidgeting. "Dusty, dammit, . . . from mediocrity to star in five weeks . . . you got us all stumped."
Besides Gretchen,Troy, Cheryl and the CSHNYC, Dustin found little solace in perceived aloofness noted by his professional colleagues. Because of his budding relationship with Gregory Hovan, he was now 'conceited' and a 'prima donna'. His image was further enhanced when he was ceremonially removed from the drudgery of his cubicle to a private office.
His fellow workers' jealousy manifested itself in their concocting rumors ranging from unethical behavior, to providing unsavory sexual favors. Of course it was sour grapes, but there were no more high-fives or exchanges of anecdotes like in the past. Was he losing touch with the real world -- something he accused most fundamentalists of?
But the world was rapidly growing more unreal with every passing day, he thought to himself. There was the opening of the first ever creationist museum in the Cincinnati suburbs of northern Kentucky. Among the exhibits was one featuring humans living along side dinosaurs. Since dinosaur fossils could not be denied, and the young age of the Earth (6,000 years as calculated by biblical literalists), claimed by the fundamentalists, begged the question: were all the dinosaurs drowned in the Great Flood?
The creationist museum had been protested by CSH's ally in reason, American Atheists, headquartered across the Hudson River in New Jersey, whom produced a turnout, on that rainy Memorial Day, of several hundred atheists and freethinkers. What was so disconcerting, though, was that there had been few scientists among the protesters. It was true that scientists, for the most part, are skeptical of religion, but they usually ignore the threat of the superstitious religionists as a movement without foundation. Their truth continues to reveal itself in their remote laboratories, confident as time marches on that the spooky unknown will eventually unravel. But entrenched atheists rue the slow process where each scientific advance is met with disavowal and hand wringing by mindless preachers who have had to be dragged, kicking and screaming, into the twenty-first century.
And time was the big factor. With World War III seemingly imminent, if not already in motion, It would be a war like no other; the Geneva Convention had already been scrapped, and civilian populations were considered fair targets. Fear of dying was being replaced by fanciful visions of eternal life among a multitude of attending virgins -- for the male Muslim warriors, that is. For Christian warriors, eternal life presumably would be more 'wholesome', considering that they had already indulged in and met their quota of sinning on Earth. To them, death was less attractive, for their heaven was much less profane in its promise, what with harp playing, hymnal sing-a-longs, cloud skipping, and the like.
The war would be the final Crusade, Dustin thought, probably eliminating the Muslim culture. That surety would take place when President Musharraf was deposed and Pakistan fell into the hands of Muslim extremists. Pakistan's nuclear arsenal would then certainly ensure nuclear instability, especially with American allies, namely: Israel, Turkey and Saudi Arabia, cinching the resultant of George Bush's nonexistent efforts at diplomacy. If war did come, the almost certain annihilation of recalcitrant Arab countries would mean that western nations would then struggle for supremacy in that oil rich area, to secure the underground treasure. Who knows how that struggle would play out -- but it would not be pretty; diplomatic relations between America and other Western nations were also strained .
"So what have you guys come up with?" Andrew asked. His presence was a surprise to the Committee.
"Stick around and find out." Dustin invited.
"You know, George's number are on the rise again." Andrew interjected as David Burak made his entrance through the door.
"Sorry I'm late," he muttered, as he settled into a chair.
Dustin smiled to himself about the late comer, thinking that attendance within their group was very conscientious and punctual. Looking toward Andrew, he elaborated: "Bush and Cheney certainly know how to tweak the public. Going into Iraq in the first place was motivated in part by the realization that a sitting president was a shoe-in for re-election during a time of war. Now the saber rattling has been ratcheted up with the Iran situation and the re-institution of the draft. He's not done yet and has his sights set on Republicans capturing Congress and White House in the 2008 election. I wouldn't be surprised if he initiates legislation to stay in office indefinitely as a war time necessity."
"Sorry I asked," Andrew said, sucking air through his teeth. "I would hate to ask you if there were any bad news."
"He's like this all the time," Sloan exaggerated. "But I do have some good news," he said with his mischievous smile.
"Richard, you're hardly the one to elicit good news." Andrew laughed -- followed by the others.
Sloan self confidently ignored the put down and retorted: "What I'm about to say is going to save your collective asses!" His penetrating gaze looked from face to face.
The room grew silent.
Dustin, realizing that Sloan often overplayed his hand, threw him a fish: "Excuse the inadequacy of us twits."
In the ensuing quiet, a lesser man would have picked up his ball and gone home, but Sloan, immune to ridicule, silently demanded respect as he rattled off facts and statistics. "These are NASA's figures."
"How'd you get them?"
"Through a friend of mine."
Sloan has friends? Dustin thought to himself. Again it was quiet as everyone was probably thinking the same thing.
Richard Sloan pressed on with amazing composure: "Though it's not confidential -- keep this under your hat."
"Sure," everyone chorused.
"You may have heard the news reporting a solar system similar to ours only thirty light-years away." Again he gazed at each face with his penetrating eyes, seeing nods to the affirmative. "What was not reported was the possibility of two, maybe three, planets in the near comfort zone distance from the parent star -- hopefully similar to our planet."
"only thirty light-years away?" Cheryl exclaimed. Others intoned a wow, some genuine, some in sarcasm.
"Look, you needle headed liberals, you remind me of how Isabella's court probably reacted to Columbus's mentioning the world was round."
"I'm 23 now -- so you say, if we leave tomorrow, I'll be 53 when we arrive at a George Bush-less planet?" Gretchen asked.
"And you'll probably be bush-less too, after 30 years of inter-galactic flight."
"Very funny, Troy! Remember, you've got more to lose than us girls."
"Hold on a minute. . . it's not just that easy."
"I knew there was a catch," Burak broke in.
Someone chuckled at his Brooklynese vernacular.
"My NASA friend is working on a virtual trans-galactic project that might conceivably bridge that distance . . ." Again with his gaze, savoring every moment of the suspense hanging on him finishing the sentence.
"C'mon Rich, we're all ears," Dustin pleaded.
". . . in four years." His gaze was now registering different forms of facial expression in reaction to his bombshell.
"Wow!" Dustin said, blowing air through his folded hands. "You've been doing your homework!"
Sloan continued: "The operative word in such a scenario is virtual."
"You're saying that it's unreal?"
"It's a hypothesis! It needs to be tested! No one has actually traveled a 'worm hole' before, let alone found one to enter."
"Then, you're saying that we could be guinea pigs in such a test?"
"Probably. But they have test pilots paid to do that. It's just that . . . NASA is no where near such a test."
"How long will it take to develop their theory?" Dustin probed.
"I think he said it's a twelve year project. . . . It doesn't have much of a priority."
"But we may need it a lot sooner." Gretchen shuddered at her words.
"Hey guys, there's a lot of ifs involved here. What makes you think that we'll get first crack at seeing if this'll work?"
The room was quiet as each contemplated giving up living on Mother Earth, escaping through an empty, radiation bombarded abyss, to a world totally alien to them.
Gretchen spoke first, "It's just not fair that we have to flee our home planet because of those religious nitwits making a hell amidst our perfectly comfortable nest." Tears were welled up in her eyes.
"More money would help prioritize the project . . . what is the name of this project, if you don't mind my asking?" Dustin wanted to know.
An unholy grin formed on Sloan's face. "Exodus."
"Damn those people . . . always with the biblical references!"
"That's what carried us through the Dark Age."
"Yeah, and all we're trying to do is avoid the next dark age."
"What would be really good is if a private sector sponsor could jump start the program with infusions of cash from time to time. NASA could conceivably do a test within three years."
"How much money?"
"Half-a-Bil for the jump start, maybe."
"Five hundred million!" Troy blurted. "Wouldn't it be easier to go under ground . . . take our chances this planet might survive?"
"Good question." Dustin considered, then he looked at Sloan, "So how does one go about finding a worm hole?"
"I just knew, you of all people, were going to ask that question." Sloan smiled again, "It's all mathematics on paper -- String Theory pointing to multi-dimensional space. The concept of a tear in the fabric of the Universe is still a concept supported only by sets of differential equations." The grin got wider, "How good is your calculus?"
Dustin ignored the wink, "You're such a smart-ass, Richard," he quipped.
"Anyway, I hear you're making great progress with Mr. money bags, Gregory Hovan."
"Yeah, but I'm half a parsec shy of hitting him up for half-a-Bil."
"Maybe we should go the 'underground' route, or . . . just say the hell with it and let the pious fish eat us alive."
"That wouldn't be so bad -- if they wouldn't say grace before hand -- and then make fun of us afterwards." Troy offered in a sea of quiet.
___________________________________
Chapter 11
WORKING WITH THE ICON
Gregory Hovan constantly e-mailed Dustin, questioning his progress. And Dustin worked diligently to analyze companies dealing in solar collection systems, as well as hydrogen and wind turbine research and development. It looked as if clean air alternative energy was finally being looked upon as the way of the future. Investments in these companies were increasing exponentially, and it was Dustin's mission to make sure Hovan's accounts were leading the buyers.
Hovan appreciated Dustin's unhesitating vigor, not aware that the young man was working his butt off so as to accumulate some markers toward the day when he would approach Hovan for his ultimate request. He knew that day must have 'crisis' emblazoned across the sky before he could broach the subject with his new client. What would it take -- that he and his group of Cyphers could cash in on the rapport he was building with the Icon? Musharraf's assassination, and the falling of Pakistan into the hands of the fundamentalist Shi'a? Or would it be Iran answering Israel's pre-emptive strikes with nuclear retaliation? How would Putin's Russia respond to the escalating violence in the Middle East? Indeed, could that violence be contained within the arid boundaries of Asia Minor? These were questions that reverberated within Dustin's mind as he fell asleep each night he wasn't with Gretchen. He was living a driven existence: hard at work making money for Hovan, constantly on edge of where Bush's inanities were leading his nation, and losing himself in the solace of Gretchen's arms.
His weekly meetings with Hovan often loosened up after a few Martinis late on Friday afternoons. He itched to lead Hovan into the other world of cultural events, but felt obliged to wait for a better opening. Hovan often expounded on the war on drugs, which Dustin found himself to be in complete agreement with -- but that wasn't the consuming battle he felt was developing on the horizon.
"Dusty . . . you seem preoccupied about something. What's eating you, lad?" the Icon looked on with furrowed brows showing his sincere concern.
"It's just that . . . you know, sir . . . I think there's too many people in the world."
"Really? And what makes you say that?"
"Idiocy is proliferating . . . while staid values are on the decline."
"Hasn't that always been the case?"
"Yes, but population has always been on the increase."
"So it seems." Hovan brought his hands together under his chin, pondering how to answer.
"We have genocide in Darfur and the Caucasians; we have Mexicans and Central Americans spilling onto the American desert; we have population out of control in South America, the Sub-Sahara, and Muslim nations."
"So why is that bothering you, here, sipping a martini in the catbird seat of my penthouse?"
"I mean no disrespect, sir." Dustin's grimace highlighted his embarrassment. "I guess I do sound rather ungrateful about my good station in life."
"you're a bleeding heart liberal, aren't you?"
"I s'pose, sir."
"Think nothing of it . . . New York's full of 'em."
"But not Wall Street."
"Wall Street is a state of mind . . . a place to trade, and make money -- nothing more, nothing less. The fact is, social values have no place here." Hovan sat upright, crossing his legs. "What does it matter to you? Are you studying to be a priest or something?"
Dustin chuckled aloud at that thought. "Nah, . . . I'm an atheist that likes to make money."
"Seems you are more than just a casual moneymaking trader . . . if I may be so bold to venture an opinion."
"Please do."
"Well, your atheism won't get you far on the Street . . . but something's driving you to succeed -- that's for sure."
"I'm doing my very best with your holdings, sir."
"I know, I know . . . I'm not complaining." Hovan smiled, lifting his glass of tart, clear liquid to his lips. "You're just . . . all the time bending over backwards to get things done. I worry about you having a life."
"You've met Gretchen. She is my life."
"Sweet, gorgeous girl. . ." he tilted his head for emphasis. "Still, . . . with your interest toward philosophy . . . I find your energy astounding. Wouldn't you rather be doing something else -- like teaching or writing or, maybe, both?"
Dustin could see that Hovan was probing. Of course he knew the Icon wasn't onto him -- that he was setting him up for the Big Touch. "I've got some ideas that I would like to develop someday."
"See! I knew you were a philosopher."
"Well, I think you are too, sir."
"Yeah, but it's lonely here in high finance." The martinis were starting to act like a truth serum. "George Soros is one of very few of us who seems to care about other things besides money."
Dustin nodded in the affirmative, knowing very well the philanthropy of both giants. "I'm overwhelmed with your interest in progressive ventures like investing in green technology."
"For Chrisakes, Dustin, that's where the new money is going to be made! It's a no-brainer -- I'm surprised that this sector wasn't ripped open long ago."
"There's a lot of ostriches out there, with their heads in the sand."
"Not only that, but in denial also."
"That's for sure."
Hovan ignored the easy affirmative. "You know, lad, this nation is made up of mostly ninnies -- it didn't used to be that way."
Dustin was all ears, afraid to say anything else. He knew he would be Hovan's captive audience, as mentor to protoge. He luxuriated in his buzz and took another pull on his martini in anticipation of the the speech
"There was a time when the United States Constitution meant something . . . I don't mean not only to Joe Blow -- but to the leaders of this country. Without going way back, the two Roosevelts -- I only remember FDR -- but they were courageous giants who were unequivocal stewards . . . leaders that the nation listened to. Then came Truman, Eisenhower, and Kennedy . . . men of decision, and reputation. Since then -- it seems -- we've gone down hill . . . for whatever reason. Those religious nuts, Falwell and Robertson said it was because of licentiousness, . . . the promiscuity of the late sixties, and of course, giving women control over their own bodies. Dusty, I tell you, this nation is coming apart at the seams over the inane issue of legality of the unborn fetus -- of all things. It's as if the fetus has higher priority than people already alive and trying to survive.
"Today, we have a man in the White House who has no idea of what courage is. He has no idea of the history that has come down from our founding fathers, let alone the Magna Charta and English Law. He thinks it courageous to speak down to Saddam Hussein, knowing that he has the planet's most powerful army behind him. He's like a child full of sweet ideas, but clueless as to how to implement them, even if they could be implemented. So he goes it alone, with a handful of cronies telling him what to do -- playing with fire -- and everything he touches catches fire. Iraq's a disaster, now in the throes of religious civil war; our nation is in chaos with under-funded programs and misguided policies that hardly measure up to Constitutional muster. And, of course, his war on drugs is so naive. This nation spends more on that fight than all the rest of the world does put together, yet his constituency -- more than in any other country, mind you -- continually demands access to recreational drugs . . . like he did when he was a young man.
"We're building prisons faster than schools in this 'Home of the free and the land of the brave'; it doesn't sound brave to me -- Elvis killing himself with a drug overdose. At least, your atheist, John Lennon, died, assassinated, with his boots on! Corporate warmongers like Halliburton racking up obscene profits in no-bid contracts. Exxon-Mobile making unreal earnings yet stonewalling their responsibility to pay for the Exxon-Valdez ship wreck and its environmental consequences. We are in a free fall, my boy, and the rest of the world is starting to look beyond us for leadership and progress." Hovan knocked back the last of his martini and chewed on the olive.
Dustin wanted to stand up and cheer, but dutifully restrained himself. Was this the time to hit him up with his pitch? No, he decided, it was not yet time. Keep slaving away, listening to his stories, his gripes, hoping that some day he presses him to reveal his philosophic wishful ideas. "Sir, you once asked me to consider joining the ACLU."
"Did you join?"
"Yeah, I did."
"Good for you. Good for us! We need good new young blood."
"Could I ask you a personal question?"
"You can ask." A sly smile spread over his face.
"Of what faith are you?"
"You mean of what religious faith am I?"
"Yes sir."
"Eastern Orthodox by heritage . . . but I'm afraid I dropped that baggage." Hovan looked at him with a distant look in his eyes. I'm probably an atheist but afraid to admit it."
"Oh, you're an atheist . . . from what I've heard you say. You're a philosopher, like Ayn Rand, who was in love with Capitalism."
"Yes, she was an atheist," he confirmed. "One hell of a writer . . . she knew a thing or two about courage -- and she wrote during its heyday."
"Who is John Galt?"
"Ha, ha," the old man guffawed. "Those were the years of good old Yankee entrepreneurship. I can still see the passenger trains flying across Rearden steel rails and bridges -- much like the Pennsy's Broadway Limited flew by nocturnal Pittsburgh's brightly lit steel mills during the war years."
"I've seen those old Pennsy calendars."
"I'd give a good penny to get my hands on one."
"I'll see what I can do . . . after all, I was raised just a few blocks off what used to be the PRR main line in Philly."
"You do that."
_____________________________________
Chapter 10
FOCUSING ON DETAIL
Under the direction of Alex Slaughter, Dustin set out to put together portfolios on new firms emerging in the 'Green' sector -- that is to say, companies and industries charting new courses into using alternative energy sources rather than atmosphere contaminating fossil fuels. Recent e-mails from Gregory Hovan confirmed his bent on gaining early advantage on technology stocks that were rising to meet the needs of the war against global warming. This was a battle-front he could deal with -- and leverage -- unlike the war that disgusted him most but he could do little about: Bush's quiet war, the war on drugs.
In Dustin's mind there were four theatres of battle: three of them winnable while the forth, the Cultural War, was out of control and would be the undoing of humanity; he and his friends, through their committee, were striving to design a series of sidestepping maneuvers to survive that eventuality. Though the Cultural War was uppermost in his mind, it was perhaps the least thought provoking of threats among the populace.
The analyzing of battle fronts gelled in his mind after his luncheon with Gregory Hovan. The Icon's pet peeve was the war on drugs -- a silly war that he saw as another prohibition era. Harry Truman once said that the only new history is the one we don't know, and, boy, there are many in America that don't know the history of Prohibition. Dustin was of the opinion the war on drugs to be the easier of the frays to solve because a simple change in government policy would bring it to an end immediately.
The battle against global warming was brought smartly to his attention by Gregory Hovan at that singularly pivotal noon meeting. This was a battle that could be won through conservation and technological innovation, as well as prudent government policy. But it would take years of changing habits and attitudes of all the players. Hovan could make big money, being the progressive he was, in this fledgling market. By working with Hovan to bring the fruits of Capitalism to his ideal of a greener world, Dustin hoped to win his confidence, hence his resources to fund some kind of intelligent escape to literally a better, more tolerant world -- be it underground or extraterrestrial. He felt that the death throes of the Cultural War, played out, would require no less.
Bush's war in Iraq and Iran was the tough one. The president's naive flailing about trying to seed Democracy in an area of the world that even democratic elections confirmed their constituents' love for theocracy. That Middle Eastern action, turned into a world conflagration -- Christians versus Muslims --was draining America's treasury and youth in a war with no end in sight. Presidential hopefuls preparing for the 2008 election were of mixed opinion as to how to extricate America from the quagmire, but all the scenarios showed only an insidious capitulation to a growing international Al-Qaeda menace. Bush's war was a symptom of the bigger conflict of religion versus secularism -- explained above as the 'Cultural War'. (That war of minds and consciences will find no middle ground, no common ground to preserve the milleniums of effort toward civilization, and will bring mankind's softest of matter directly to bear on the hardest of attitudes, erasing civility without compromise -- all for a nebulous dream of life forever, in a hereafter that no one has ever seen. It is the rant of the religiously orthodox who would cast out their family and children to follow an ancient, supposed prophet, toward armageddon, for what?).
At their next committee meeting --now jokingly dubbed as the Committee of the Cyphers by other members of CSHNYC -- Dustin brought the informal gathering of the six members up to date on his successful meeting with Gregory Hovan.
"Well done, MBA!" Richard Sloan was effusive with his praise, though diluting it with stereotypical disdain. Cheryl rolled her eyes as Sloan continued: "I bet that brought some greedy smiles at your brokerage firm."
Cheryl's disgust for Sloan erupted: "So what have you done to advance the cause, Mr. Clean?"
Richard smiled like he always did, knowing he had pressed the edge of courtesy. "I've been making some inquiries."
"Like what?" she pursued, determined to pin him in a corner.
"Well, now . . . I haven't made a landmark advance like Dusty," he admitted, the smile disappearing. "But I've been in touch with friends at NSF and NASA." He leaned forward in his chair. "They think we're crazy." He took a breath, then smiled again. "Also, for your information, Beth has decided to join us," he added, attempting to diffuse Cheryl's vitriol.
"Are they . . . " Gretchen was cut off by Sloan's anticipation.
"Yeah, . . . They're materialist thinking secular types . . . like most scientists."
"What is the ratio of secularity among scientists?" Burak asked.
"Generally, the last figures I heard were 40% secular like I mentioned, 20% church-going, 40% indifferent. It's growing slowly to our favor." He sniffed, "Scientists deal too much with what is real . . . and that's not going to change."
Dustin was relieved that Cheryl was sitting a little more at ease in her chair.
"Thanks Rich. Keep us posted on your progress . . . as I will you on my relationship with Mr. Hovan." He shifted in his chair, re-crossing his legs. "How about you, David . . . anything to report?"
"Nothin' more than there was a special on PBS about underground cities. I'm following that up."
Gretchen spoke up, "Yeah, that was interesting about Atlanta and Boston;
. . . gives credence to the age old Christy Minstrels song about Boston's MTA."
"Okay, what about you teachers?" Dustin glanced first at Gretchen, then Cheryl.
"Christopher Hitchens has a new book out called GOD IS NOT GREAT And he says in it that Richard Dawkins is too impolite to Christians." Cheryl reported.
"That's good . . . about the book that is. I heard it's selling like hot cakes."
"Coming on the heels of Dawkins 'and Harris' best sellers, it's great!
Even the news magazines are giving more space to our point of view, I've noticed."
"Could things be turning around?"
"My brother-in-law heard Bill O'Reilly complaining . . . something about four or five more percent of people are atheist, in a recent poll." Troy offered.
"Yeah, he's such a right-wing-radio freak." Cheryl added. "I've never ceased being amused by their talk-show babble."
"Gretchen, how about you?" he asked softly of his soul mate.
"I've registered us on the Richard Dawkins Web site . . . giving them a blurb of what we're trying to do. Nothing's come back yet."
"I'm not surprised." Cheryl added. "My efforts with the Bill and Melinda Gates foundation was frustrating, probably because of volunteer bureaucrats running interference -- screening all applications asking for help. I'm sure that's the way it is with Dawkins' underlings too."
"He's that big?"
"They solicited funds for birthday presents for him on his Web site . . . that's a bit much!"
"Have you read any of his books?"
"Not really."
"If you had, you'd throw a birthday party for him too."
"Sam Harris is my hero."
"He's great . . . but, really, Dusty, you haven't read Dawkins?"
"I've been meaning to . . . just haven't had any time."
"Tsk, tsk, tsk" Troy joined in. "Even I've read The God Delusion."
"Not to interrupt," David Burak spoke. "but if you think the news magazines are coming around to our point of view . . . what about last spring's mega-articles gushing about Pope Benedict's new book JESUS OF NAZARETH? I'm still trying to get over that."
"Yeah . . . that was bad."
"I mean . . . page after page of fluff -- pablum meant for the childish, fearful, unthinking mind." The normally placid Brooklyn Jew bristled, "I wrote a short, sweet letter to Newsweek just quoting Anatole France's one sentence zinger."
"Oh, yes. How's that go . . . something about the science of the unknowable?"
Burak's face lit with animation: "That science which treats of the unknowable with infinitesimal exactitude! So much malarkey about, nuthin'."
"Did they print it?" Cheryl wanted to know.
"No."
Sloan broke his long period of silence. "You know you can't squash religious sentiment" He smiled.
The group remained uneasily quiet, waiting for Sloan to drop the other shoe.
He wasn't quiet for long. "The sooner we do an end run around these Christians, the better."
Dustin breathed a sigh of relief that Richard didn't play his usual devil's advocate role.
Contented with letting Sloan have his usual last word, the meeting broke up among yawns and grumbling of the next day's pressures.
___________________________________
Chapter 9
AFTERGLOW
He was all aglow as driver Johnson returned him to the rather austere facade of Peyton, Pierce and Slaughter. With unbounded enthusiasm, he reported directly to Alex Slaughter who was, at the time, in a meeting with Josh Peyton. Slaughter's receptionist had instructions to interrupt him on the event of Dustin's return. "He'll see you now," she smiled.
Alex looked up to see his beaming junior account executive enter the room. "Excuse me for this interruption, Josh, but Mr. Irwin has just returned from an important mission across town."
"How's that?" said the balding senior partner, looking up and over his reading spectacles, perched low on the bridge of his nose.
"He's just returning from lunch with . . . you'd never guess." Alex, judging from Dustin's exuberant smile, projected a positive aura.
"Oh yeah, . . . I haven't a clue. Whadi'ya guys . . . holding out on me?"
Dustin filled Alex and the senior partner in on the good news.
"How the hell did'ya pull off a coup like that . . . meeting one of the Big guys?"
"It's a philosophical thing."
"Oh yeah . . . I didn't know you could make any money doin' that. For chrisakes, that's like bein' religious, isn't it?"
"Stop with the dumbness already, Josh. Philosophy was part of the curriculum we took when we were in college. We didn't take any religion courses -- at least I know I didn't."
"It's best we didn't, I s'pose."
Later, Dustin met up with Troy and Gretchen at a restaurant in Chinatown, to tell them the good news. "Awesome, bro. You got most of your leg through what appears to be an opening door."
Gretchen sat quietly, but her smile radiated hundreds of words. Gretchen Vondersmith was a tall five-ten, having a boyish figure pronounced by close-cropped red hair and freckled skin. Similar to Dustin, she was a quiet academic that disdained crowds and parties other than that related to school, where she taught. She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. He took her hands. "I bet old Alex's eyes popped out of his head."
"Yeah, that and Peyton's mustache fell off -- I had to retrieve it for him."
"So whadi'ya make of the Icon wanting to meet ya?" Troy probed.
"I think he's looking for a protege', . . . to mentor."
"You're kidding . . . little ol' you?"
"I could be wrong . . . probably am -- being too presumptuous I s'pose. But I can't come with any other reason."
"He must've gotten personal, . . . if you think that."
"He wants me to join the ACLU -- of all things."
"Wow! He's more than a kook than I thought."
"He sure has a kooky way of making big money," Gretchen chimed in, squeezing Dustin's hand.
"I've never heard a good thing about the ACLU," Troy glared at her.
"What's kooky about sticking up for the Bill of Rights?" she asked.
"I forgot, you teach Civics don't you?" he gave ground.
"Yeah, Troy, I do," She admonished. "The founding fathers added those Rights as the first ten amendments to the Constitution -- to protect law abiding minorities from possible tyranny of the majority's actions. That's why the ACLU is so unpopular --they're always sticking up for those in the minority, not so much the common majority."
"But America's a democracy. The majority opinion should rule . . . like in our elections, or even how the Supreme Court votes."
' Gretchen was unequivecal. "Dont you see the potential for abuse there?" A majority could vote to take a man's wife -- or life, for that matter -- to have their way with her -- or him."
"But they would be breaking the law, . . . doing that."
"Okay, How about the way many preachers condemn Jews or atheists. For the most part, Christians are in the majority and might come to think the heretics should be stoned to death because of their disbelief in Jesus or God . . . they might insist biblical law trumps Civil law!"
Troy quietly pondered her argument.
"You know there are more fundamentalists than out-of-the closet atheists," she hammered her point.
Dustin saw that familiar, forlorn expression on his friend's face when he knew he was defeated. "I guess that's pretty much why many of our people are reluctant to step forward, . . . to announce their disbelief."
"Yeah, they are avoiding the possibility of being snuffed . . . so many real kooks out there! Gretchen looked Dustin's way, then added: "I've been thinking of joining the organization myself."
Dustin deferred to his soul mate's position. "Two of the most influential people in my life, as of yesterday, have announced for the ACLU . . . I'd better give it serious consideration."
"The key thing here is neutrality." Gretchen pushed on. "The ACLU membership does what the government is supposed to do."
"And, what's that?"
"To remain neutral, especially in the realm of influencing people's minds. Priests and rabbis and imams are always with the preaching, but the Constitution, though allowing for what they preach, also defends the rights of anyone else who wishes to counter their claims."
The two young men nodded, deferring to her lesson on problems-of- democracy. "You're preaching to the choir, for godsake!" Dustin said. "Those fundamentalists just can't seem to grasp the fact that public land and public buildings, bought and paid for by our tax money, are really supposed to be neutral reservations and not a venue for permanent display of a certain way of thinking . . . like the Ten Commandment plaques you see in and around some courthouses. Though the Judeo-Christian Bible is predominant in America, their overwhelming majority and opinions should be trumpeted from their homes and houses of worship, not on the neutral turf reserved for the governing and regulating of the Civil mix of all our diverse cultures."
"Well said, lover. That's another good example of the need to protect the minority from potential tyranny of the majority, though many would say that both sides were made up of good God-fearing people . . . they should instead post the Bill of Rights or highlights of the community's code of law. Too many wars have been fought in the past over religious differences . . . it's insane the amount of blood that has been shed over internecine bickering, before Madison and Jefferson innovated the concept of religious Freedom, first in Virginia, then in our Constitution of 1787."
"Our Constitution's First Amendment pretty much renders moot the first three or four Commandments as purely religious dictates. Can't they see the conundrum -- with all the religions out there -- who can say which religion is the true one?"
"None of them are true." Troy lost patience. "It's all bullshit. The Constitution protects us from all of them . . . and them, from each other."
"Right on! Now you got it, brother."
"And that's what we're up against, guys -- creationist chaos."
____________________________________
Chapter 8
GREGORY HOVAN
Two weeks had passed when he received a call from the HOVAN FOUNDATION. ". . . Mr. Hovan would like to meet with you, Mr. Irwin. Would you be available next Monday, for a noon luncheon?"
"Yes . . . I think so. Let me check my calendar." Of course he was available, but he didn't want to sound as if he was swept off his feet. "Yes, . . . I'm free Monday."
"Wonderful. We'll have a limousine pick you up at Peyton, Pierce and Slaughter building at twelve noon; will that be okay?"
"Absolutely."
He met with Troy and Gretchen to inform them of his coup. Their enthusiasm nearly matched his.
"You did it, honey!" Gretchen chirped.
"That was only the first step of a long journey, darling."
"Yeah, but that first step is often a doozie," said Troy. "So what d'ya think you're going to do?"
"I guess I should talk to Slaughter about it. . . I know he'll be pleased about me getting my foot in the door."
"It can't hurt . . . prob'ly help your standing in House."
"Lots of possibilities here . . . but I must keep focused. It's probably too easy to stray from such an abstract goal."
"You're right there; your goal of the committee from what I hear, is considered by most in CSHNYC, just too off the wall . . . too farfetched."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Troy. You're always there when I need you." He rolled his toward Gretchen. I'll let him turn his cards up first. . . after all, he's got something up his sleeve. . . with that questionnaire an' all."
"Yeah, Dusty, keep your mouth shut and see what his agenda with you is." Gretchen pressed his hand.
"He's a shrewd one."
"You're up to it, lover."
"You guys are my number one fan club. . . as I'm not mister popularity out there." Dustin said, forgetting his friend's earlier criticism.
"You don't have many enemies, if you don't count all the religionists."
"Yeah, and that includes God. . . against little ol' me."
"That's why we love ya!"
The limousine pulled into the reserved parking area in front of 125 Broad Street. "Take the express elevator to the 35th floor. . . door opens directly into the foundation offices," the driver said after opening the door for him.
"Thanks." Dustin tried to remember what Alex Slaughter told him about his encounter with Hovan, which really wasn't much: an imposing figure who kept quiet and to himself -- figuring there were enough fools in the room that he could learn from. Alex had given Dustin the entire afternoon, if his meeting with the Icon warranted it.
The receptionist ushered him into a wide room with an expansive view of the lower East River, the Battery, and Brooklyn. He stood near the window taking in the view to the southeast on such a beautiful, cloudless day.
"Nice view, isn't it?" a deep voice from behind him rumbled.
"Certainly is, sir," Dustin said upon turning in the direction of the voice.
"You should be able to see Montauk Light, today," Hovan said, joining him at the window. "Care for a drink before lunch?"
"No thank you," Dustin answered, not wanting to be so presumptuous.
"Don't be so afraid, young man. . . I am having a martini. Care to join me, or are you a teetotaler?"
"No sir, I drink on occasion. . . and I'll take you up on your offer of a martini . . vermouth, straight up, please."
Dustin said, not wanting to appear too devoid of the ways of the world.
"Good choice," and he ordered over the intercom. "You're probably wondering what precipitated this invitation?"
"Yes sir, I'm overwhelmed . . . to meet you in person. They call you 'The Icon' on the Street."
"Yes -- yes, I have heard . . . and I suppose I am proud to be called that."
Dustin noticed that he spoke with little accent, but avoided contractions. "You answered my questionnaire at my breakfast talk a fortnight ago -- not very many did."
"Oh?"
"That is beside the point, . . ." They were interrupted by an attendant bringing the drinks in. "I was rather impressed with several of your answers. . . answers that I was looking for in someone -- anyone, in the employ of a Wall Street firm."
Dustin absorbed this compliment thinking that the 'philosophical' element of their individual psyches had perhaps met.
"Are you a member of the American Civil Liberties Union. . . or, er, any other subversive organizations?" he asked, almost sheepishly.
"Why. . . no sir," Dustin said, feeling that he had answered honestly and safely.
"I ask you that question, Dustin, because some of your answers would have been in concert with the views of that organization."
"Really?"
"And, do you know that there are many on Wall Street, including the 'Journal', that feel that the ACLU is a communistic, subversive organization?"
"Yes, I've heard that," Dustin said, not knowing when or where he heard it.
"your answer concerning the war on drugs would be considered subversive if this Administration had its way with you in the courts."
"I'm not trying to subvert our country, sir."
"Of course you are not." He took a long, appreciative pull of his martini. "Have you ever heard of the American Civil Liberties Union -- the ACLU?"
"Yes sir." Dustin had very little information on the organization, except that most people in his small circle of existence didn't care much for it. He was aware that a few of the Council for Secular Humanism looked favorably on it, though they criticized that it did little for atheist rights.
He gestured for Dustin to have a seat in the plush leather armchair nearby, and he took a seat in the companion. "I am a member . . . have been one for twentysome years. Since 1985, I think." He stared point blank into Dustin's eyes for some sort of reaction.
Dustin did not know what to say.
"In effect, you answered my query that America has lost the war on drugs."
"Yes . . . I believe that." He felt safe enough to push on. "It's such a waste of effort . . . another prohibition of sorts. It doesn't seem that our politicians can learn from history."
"Exactly, my boy. Politicians, lawyers, engineers, investment bankers . . . for the most part, they fall in rote step to the unimaginative loony tune of George Bush and Dick Cheney -- to mention the top few."
Dustin felt safe to take a long sip of his martini. "And the ACLU doesn't? I'm not real familiar with the organization."
"Yes, Dustin . . . is that is what your friends call you?"
"My friends call me Dusty. Please call me Dusty."
"Very well, Dusty, the ACLU is neutral. . .it takes no sides, except in its defense of the Constitution's Bill of Rights. . . You know what the Bill of Rights is, of course?
"The first ten amendments to our Constitution." He would be hard pressed to list them if asked, but would certainly apprise himself of their content if he survived this elementary problems-of-democracy session. Surely the Icon is not wasting his precious time educating me on civics, he thought.
"Forgive me, Dusty. Pick something to eat from the menu."
They ordered salad and sandwiches, giving Dustin some time to think where this conversation was going. After ordering, the Icon pressed on while savoring the olive he just removed from the pick: "I'm tired of dealing with kids with sweaty palms and limp handshakes . . . nitwits that have nothing but BMWs in their heads. One in a hundred answered the way you answered my query -- and I've now tested three or four hundred." Another sip, and he said: "Congratulations on winning the prize."
Dustin smiled sheepishly, afraid to ask what the prize might be.
"You're clueless, aren't you?"
Hovan looked at the young man who had a facial expression like some deer caught in the headlights of a car.
In his confusion, he noticed that the old man wasn't deferring to the use of contractions -- was it the martini? Finally he answered: "I have no idea."
"Ah, here comes our lunch. We'll chit-chat while we eat, then I'll tell you. "I'm diversifying some of my holdings into the upcoming 'green' sector -- that's kind of a hint."
Wow, Dustin thought, what a break -- maybe an account in the offering.
Through lunch, Hovan led him from one topic of current events to another, seemingly testing his grasp of what was occurring in the world. He and Gretchen were avid readers of the New York Times, Newsweek and the U. S. News and World Report. Of course, in addition, Dustin had to devour the Wall Street Journal and Financial Times every morning.
" . . which leads of course to Global Warming . . . the Administration likes to say Climate Change. They're notorious for concocting 'defining' labels for the more insidious elements of their agenda, like the 'Death Tax' or the 'Patriot Act'." The Icon wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin. "Saves on paper . . . we must learn to conserve energy."
"It all makes sense, Mr. Hovan." Dustin felt tongue-tied, afraid to open his mouth and show his ignorance.
"You're a quiet, polite kid . . . that's smart. You know a little about me and I know a fair amount about you." The attendant came for the dishes. "Let's just leave it at that." The chit-chat had come to an end.
The Icon got up from his chair and walked toward the window. "Dustin, I would like to allow you, through your firm, to handle a new account I am putting together. Let's see how well you do with it, and Peyton, Pierce and Slaughter will probably see you well rewarded -- unless I miss my guess."
So that's the prize, Dustin said to himself. Will Alex be ecstatic about this.
"I am flattered, sir, . . . to have the opportunity to serve your foundation," and he got up to grip the Icon's offered hand.
"Thanks for indulging me today." Like earlier, It was a firm handshake. "Johnson will return you to your House, now," and he smiled almost fatherly.
"Thank you, sir."
Hovan escorted him to the elevator and said as the doors opened: "And don't forget to consider joining the ACLU . . .they need a few good young men."
"I will, Mr. Hovan." Dustin promised. And the doors closed amidst his thinking of that organization's neutrality. It used to be that the Press was the eyes looking over the government's shoulder. But, to him, the Press now was compromised by the mostly conservative, corporate moguls who were buying up and consolidating the smaller, independent papers.
____________________________________
CHAPTER 7
INTERESTS OTHER THAN MONEY?
Dustin knew of Soros' and Hovan's long history of philanthropy. He also was keenly aware of their first love, Philosophy. But as of yet he was unable to gain an audience with any of the icons of hedge investments, Soros, the man who finessed the breaking of the Bank of England -- pocketing 1.1 billion dollars in one day. The man was 76 years of age and seemed to be everywhere in the pursuit of progress. Conservatives had long labeled him a Communist though he was instrumental in funding Poland's Solidarity movement and the removal of the Iron Curtain. He earned the enmity of the conservatives because Soros did not suffer fools well. He particularly disliked George W. Bush, mainly because of the Texan's inanity and naive views, spending large sums on 2004 candidates that ran against him.
Gregory Hovan was very similar to Soros, except for the age difference, Hovan being in his early sixtys. Both were Hungarian of birth and had made their way to the United States through economic pressures, Soros by way of the United Kingdom, and Hovan more directly.
Dustin would try again, to meet one of these humanists, this time through the seniors of his brokerage house, Peyton, Pierce and Slaughter.
Alexander Slaughter had been Dustin's mentor from the beginning, since the summer before Nine Eleven. Now he would dare to crack the tight elite at the top. He felt that he had credibility enough to broach his superior with a request for introduction to the aloof Mr. Soros, or Mr. Hovan.
" You what?" was Slaughter's initial reaction to his subordinate's rather unsubtle request. "Are you insane? What kind of trouble are you in that you are seeking their help? Are you working the sidelines . . . moonlighting? I often wondered about your spurts of genius, and then retreat into mediocrity!" Slaughter puffed.
Dustin nervously answered the last question first, unable to get a coherent grip on the preceding ones: "No sir, I'm not moonlighting . . . it's just that . . . I'm involved with a . . . " He couldn't bring himself to admit that he was a heretic and that he was fearful for the future of civilization.
"Listen Dusty, you make us money. Not as much as we think you have the potential for . . . but you're solid -- not a bull shitting facade." Alex Slaughter took a long pull on his ubiquitous cigar. "But you seem to have your head in the clouds sometimes, when you really should be immersed in your charts."
"I'm an atheist, sir." Dustin let it all hang out.
"I know you are." Alex said in a cloud of smoke. "That's why we can't understand why you're not reaching your potential -- not bound up in some guilt ridden religious hangup."
"You knew all along that I was atheist?"
"Son, you're in New York City, now. . . . the're atheists all over," and he swept the smokey atmosphere between the two of them with his hand. "I didn't become a principal of a Wall Street firm by not studying our young fund managers. Somewhere along the line, we subordinated your other interests. You want to be jack of all trades and master of none, that's your perogative. You're makin' it, and then some, . . . but a chauffeured limousine pickup in the A.M.-- you ain't there."
Dustin wondered what else Alex Slaughter knew about him, but thought the moment was not appropriate to quiz an already ballistic boss. He was sure that Slaughter would not understand what was driving him. He tried subterfuge: "I have read much about Soros and Hovan, and I thought it time to meet one of them, if you will, . . . to engage in the discussion of Philosophy which I understand they enjoy. It might be beneficial to the firm."
"Beneficial my ass! You've got something up your sleeve. You're no company man."
"You're being unkind, sir." Dustin found himself saying -- to survive the moment. "It may not seem obvious to you, but establishing a rapport with the kings of hedge analysis is hardly something to be sniffed at."
Another cloud of smoke, and the senior officer turned his back on Dustin and looked out over the air space of Fulton Street. "You get a "C" for confidence, kid. I know you're a thinker and a dreamer, and those big-shots are mysteriously guilty of the same." He hesitated, enjoying a long puff on his cigar. He turned and faced Dustin. "Though, You just might have a point, there, sport. Uhmm . . . so you want to meet one of the big guys?"
Dustin nodded at the rhetorical question. "Yes sir, I would like very much to . . . er, try."
"You think you could stand up to them, eh?"
"Like you said . . . they and I think along similar lines."
"Well, if you could swing that, you'd be a star in this house."
Dustin smiled inwardly. The give and take had almost been disastrous. "With your permission -- and guidance -- I'd like to give it a try, sir."
"Hell, Dusty . . . none of us are all that close to either of 'em." Alex sat down at his desk and fumbled through the morning's Wall Street Journal. "I did see in here that Hovan will be speaking to the Stock Exchange Commissioners next Wednesday morning. I guess we could cut you loose for that breakfast . . . to represent our house. We rarely send anyone -- though we should be more vigilant to opportunities that may open up on the Street." The last was said more to himself than for Dustin's consumption.
"I'd be glad to represent Peyton, Pierce and you, sir." Dustin beamed.
"I'm sure you would. Just make sure you come out of that thing with his autograph!"
"Yes, sir!" Dustin pivoted and fairly fled the 22nd story plush corner suite.
"So you wrangled a meal ticket to the Street's Commission meeting . . . well done fair-haired colleague!" Troy slapped Dustin's high five.
"Yeah, now I've got to figure how to gain the Icon's attention."
"You could put on your loony suit." Troy was referring to the striped jacket over plaid trousers with polka-dot tie suit that Dustin wore to a mad-cap charity ball once.
"I don't think Alex Slaughter, or the two Ps would find that appropriate, my friend."
"While you were up there browning your nose, did you say something nice about me?"
"Yeah, Troy, we discussed your keen intuition concerning olive oil futures."
"You didn't?"
"I wasn't supposed to tell you."
"I wish you hadn't."
"Seriously, I've got to come up with a plan."
"Hail him a taxi . . . or offer to share yours with him."
"Okay, . . . how do I know where he's going?"
"Hmm, . . . How about asking him a leading question that is detrimental to President Bush?"
"You mean . . . like how the economy will react to us going into Iran?"
"Actually, that might not work. Wall Street has a long established record of making money during times of war."
"Yeah . . . it has to be something more to-the-point, like, will Halliburton be involved in more no-bid contracts in the Iran theater?"
"Now you're hitting on all eight cylinders, buddy."
The setting of the breakfast was very ornate in the Ritz-Carlton Hotel.
Dustin, dressed in a lighter worsted suit to match the mild autumn morning, looked around at the arriving brokers. There were very few that he knew personally. He spotted the guest speaker talking to a few movers and shakers of the financial world across the room, men he had little or no contact with in the past. He really was an outsider, he thought to himself. He was a basics kind of guy, making money the 'old-fashioned way' and not much interested in the innovative instruments that a lot of the young brokers were experimenting in. But his older clients liked his fiscal conservatism, and they had most of the available money.
Dustin felt a slap on the back and turned to see an old classmate from Penn. "How're ya doin' Dusty, you old hound dog?" The young fellow was a balding and chipper fellow from Philadelphia, obviously doing well by his exuberant confidence and expensive threads.
"Why, Bill . . . Donovan, right?" He had known Bill from several of his under-grad classes. "I didn't know you were going into finance."
"Yeah, I went on to Wharton . . . and you?"
"Columbia."
"So what're you doing with all your cash?" His former classmate said, sizing up Dustin's rather frugal attire.
"Trying to break into the big time," he said defensively. "That's why I'm here . . . to learn from the Master."
"Well, he's the best -- if you discount his politics. His politics stink!"
"You've been taking the Journal's columnists much too much to heart."
"But war drives an economy, my friend. Best not be too critical of what the administration is doing . . . spreading democracy among the infidel is good for business."
Dustin was sickened by his casual reference to nationalism. "I know what you're saying." And he turned to go away.
"Better get with the program if you want to get close to the seven figure mark."
He didn't answer, but crossed the room as if he had an objective in focus. An idea came to mind: politics, of course -- he would try to connect with the Icon through similar views of politics. But how? Then he saw the handout laying at each place mat. Upon closer inspection, he saw that it was a questionnaire. The Icon was taking a poll!
Suddenly he focused on a table at the edge of the room, midway from front to back. He would plop down there and fill out the questionnaire. Being thusly occupied, his self-consciousness would be less evident and allow him to fit in better with a group he could hardly call his own.
Much to his surprise, the questionnaire was of a more personal nature than hard business subjects. It was as if Hovan was querying the Establishment for someone of mutual interests, perhaps for a position. Is this a veiled attempt to search for a protege? he wondered as he scanned the questions. Ecstatically, and with pencil in hand, he attacked the pages; it was as if the query was designed for his benefit.
He was hardly aware that the table places were being taken in rapid succession, and his reverie was only broken with crude comments about being forced to attend, etc. A few reviewed the document before them, some filing it in their briefcase while others crinkled it up, placing it under their chair. Their conversations were of jaded conceit for the most part, looking beyond him and waving at friends scampering to-and-fro along the perimeter space between the tables and wall.
Suddenly it dawned on him that the whole surreal scene amounted to: Hovan was an outsider -- just like himself. The Icon was a philosopher, like himself! His objective of being at the breakfast suddenly did not seem insurmountable. He thought of the question about Halliburton that Troy had suggested --was it too obvious? Would there even be a Q & A session? Hell, there's always a Q & A, he answered himself rather audibly.
"Were you talking to me," a red-headed investment banker, junior grade, asked him.
"No . . . just mumbling to myself."
"Required to attend this meeting, too . . . huh?"
Dustin didn't want to be disagreeable -- and was saved by a waiter asking him if he'd like coffee. He smiled at the red head and nodded, as if answering the question in the affirmative. The red head returned to his friend on his right, and Dustin breathed a sigh of relief. He looked around. The room was nearly full and menus were bobbing up and down as orders were being taken. He wished Gretchen were here with him. She would be so comforting in this den of iniquity. Thinking of her would brace him for awhile -- his memories of the two of them in loving embraces bringing another smile to his face, while the world's wannabe movers and shakers droned on in their incessant capital babble.
Breakfast passed in its blandness, and the Icon was introduced by no less than the former Federal Reserve Chairman, Paul Volcker. The title of his speech was: America's Responsibility. It seemed that the questionnaire was outlined toward that premise -- hardly a topic useable in Wall Street day trading by young know-it-alls. It seemed that few took the time, then and there, to fill out the questionnaire. Indeed, it could be mailed, having no immediate date of return. Dustin decided to take it along with him and maybe pencil in a quote by the Icon in the space below, reserved for 'additional comment(s)'.
The speech went on about how America, the strongest nation in the world, must show good and effective leadership. That leadership must protect the common interests of humanity, and its duty toward proper stewardship of the environment as well. Men's minds have not kept pace with technical advances, so that, indeed, the primeval cerebral cortex is guiding, more or less, important electronic innovation. He closed, stating with tongue-in-cheek that he would take questions only from those who intend to fully answer his questionnaire.
Dustin listened to the questions from the paltry few lined up at the microphone provided for the audience. Most were questions concerning trading and other technical aspects of the markets. None were political. Was this a chance for him to make a fool of himself, in the midst of so many social conservatives? He found himself rising and going toward the microphone where the line had dwindled to one person. Not much time to think, he fretted. I must do a question that marks me in his mind, but not as a fool, he thought to himself.
His turn came. He tapped the microphone.
"It's on."
"Yes sir. I've just one question . . . " He took a deep breath. "In light of us going into Iran, do you recommend buying or selling Halliburton for the short term?"
It brought the house down. There were guffaws and groans of displeasure. An old wound had been reopened. It brought a smile to Gregory Hovan's face.
Later that evening, Dustin finalized his questionnaire with a quote of George Soros on America's role in the world: 'Mankind's power over nature has increased cumulatively while its ability to govern itself has not kept pace. There is no other country that can take the place of the United States in the foreseeable future. If the United States fails to provide the right kind of leadership our civilization may destroy itself. That is the unpleasant reality that confronts us'.
He closed the envelope that was addressed to the HOVAN FOUNDATION, as the instructions outlined. In it, he enclosed a short note of thanks for Hovan's off-the-wall answer to his silly question -- however, giving second thought to penning a 'thank you' for the motivational speech.
__________________________________
CHAPTER SIX
WAR SPREADS TO IRAN
By autumn of 2007 it was apparent that President Bush's attempt to reinforce American military presence in Iraq was failing most of its eighteen objectives. To some degree, the 'surge' was working -- where coalition forces had situational control. The Iraqi government was failing its portion of the concerted effort, and the clamor in the United States increased more in favor of withdrawing troops from the Muslim nation that was now enmeshed in civil war
Months went by as the subjects of this story went about their everyday routine of making a living and a life for themselves. The news media continually reported on growing tensions east of Iraq, within the larger country of Iran. And, it was becoming more apparent that Iran was the source of weaponry getting into the hands of Shi'a and al Qaeda insurgents in the war zone -- a decidedly hostile action in the eyes of the United States. Besides the obvious, there was increasing concern about Iran's nuclear program -- especially, the proud nationalization of same, in the face of Western critics. Iran's President Ahmadinejad rebuked those in the west, telling them that it is none of their business what Iran does within its sovereign borders.
Not waiting for further delays by the United Nations and the United States, Israel, unilaterally (have they ever done it any other way?), executes a pre-emptive strike against Iran in August of 2008, intending to destroy some of the more formidable centers of nuclear activity. Unlike past Israeli holy incursions, the Iranians were prepared, and the raid met with serious air defense that achieved only about 30% of the planned destruction. With the American election less than three months away and the Republican's chances of winning Congress or the White House in a hole, President Bush attempts to rally his religious base for one final effort, and arrogantly salutes Israel's attack, -- verbally. Much to his surprise, the rally extends to those Americans heavy with fear, and his approval numbers rise.
Of course, his sanctioning of Israel's actions raised sharp criticism throughout the World. Russia, China, India, and the European Union, objected to what appeared to be America's movement toward possessing the vast oil fields of both Iraq and Iran. Their concerns were rooted in their less-than-altruistic coveting of same.
Bush's rallying cry energizes enough of the country -- the ever fearful -- to push through a bill re-instituting the Draft, making it conceivable to prepare the necessary armies for expanded warfare. The fact that it would be months before any increase in Army or Naval forces could possibly be placed into position, allowed, once more, a window for diplomacy. Again, that window like all the others, remained closed; the 'bad guy' - 'good guy' mentality would not give ground.
Russia promised its former client states in the region backup in case of 'encroachment'-- while specifically promising Iran special client-nation status. China commenced overtures with India in the face of mounting Indian - Pakistan differences. Saudi Arabia, fearful of being guilty of pandering to the United States -- and more so, Israel -- verbally condemned Western Zionism, withholding its paranoid views of Shi'a.
The Shiites, mainly in Iran, Syria, most of Iraq (and a good portion of Pakistan), continued their cry of pious outrage in defense of their mystical delusion. They had everything to gain and very little to lose -- after-all, Allah was on their side! It was easy to be confident when the battle is being waged on home ground with god protecting your flank. 'Allah will prevail!" was their rallying cry, and their reward should death overcome their efforts at defense, would be Heaven and the ministering to them by sympathetic and compliant virgins.
The United Nations Security Council was its usual head knocking self, unable to provide direction for its General Assembly. Precious time was lost in speeches, and more speeches, with a journey-in-the round of symptom identification not having any viable cures tendered. Bush's hapless Army draftees were preparing for another front, but last minute diplomacy was, not surprisingly, missing. Of course, Iran pumped missiles made in North Korea into Israel at a random interval -- designed to test the metal of Zionist pride. American Democrats and Independents had been buffaloed yet again into pre-emptive escalation of war by Republican populism and cries 'We will not be defeated.' But, at the bottom of all this hand wringing and saber rattling, no one in the West ever mentioned that this, the start of World War III, was in effect the Final Crusade.
"Okay, kids, what're we goin' to do?" Dustin asked his Committee, which had grown to six now that 'full-of-himself', Richard Sloan, had decided to join the original five. "how 'bout you, Rich . . . any suggestions?"
"You know me, Dusty . . . I'm always full of suggestions."
"That's not all you're full of," Troy couldn't resist interjecting with a smile.
Rich went on as if he hadn't heard the slur. "It's time for the Brights to react . . . and I'm glad to see you guys taking the initiative." Richard Sloan was bubbling with enthusiasm. His tall, slender frame seemed so in-concert with his talking head that, once inspired, would go on forever if allowed. "The way I see it, and Dusty, you know how I feel . . ."
"We don't call ourselves 'Brights!" Troy spoke obtrusively.
"That may well be, but Richard Dawkins suggested . . ."
"We all know about Dawkins' coining of the term," Dustin interjected, trying to run interference and channel toward productivity. "Dawkins isn't doing what this committee is trying to do."
Sloan looked around at his contemporaries, his large dark eyes taking in the serious faces of the group before turning them again to Dustin. "That very well may be, but in a round about way he is leading the UK groups toward a similar path."
Dustin tried not to smile at this wonderful opening, indeed, potential harnessing of a bundle of semantic energy, "How about you contacting Dawkins and apprising him of our mission. Maybe he'll take time off from his present book tour to engage with us toward a future plan of action."
Sloan was speechless for once. As Director of Engineering at the Lamont Observatory in Palisades, he usually held his own in hydrographic and oceanographic, as well as philosophic discussion. He exuded unnerving, didactic confidence with his many accomplishments that included classical piano, knowledge of four languages, and certification as a commercial pilot.
"How's Beth, these days?" Gretchen asked, unwittingly allowing Sloan to squirm off the hook. "Do you think you could persuade her into joining the committee too?
"Well, this is all exploratory . . . me being here." He smiled his irascible smile. "She and I are curious as to what you guys are up to." His energy would not let him stop there. "So what have guys done . . . so far?" His challenging smile never faded.
Dustin felt that a little patroni-zation was in order, seeing that Rich could be a tremendous help in brainstorming -- the bull shit and self-conceit had to be accepted as part of 'his way'. "We're glad that you came around . . . that we picqued your interest. Seriouisly, . . . we need your expertise. Dustin swallowed hard, trying not to look at the others. "What we've come up with so far are outlines of reaction to what may play out."
"Are the scenarios playing out as you expected?"
"Yeah . . . sort of. Scary, isn't it?"
"Well, we all kind of thought that this might happen . . . the Republicans needing a significant event to stay in power, come November." Sloan put his serious face back on. "I congratulate what you guys are doing, especially being led by two business types. We are an eclectic group, us atheiests, are we not?
"For sure," everyone nodded. But David added matter-of-factly: "We don't know whether to shit or go blind!"
"It's that bad, huh?"
"We need resources: money, scientific direction, and serious money!'
"It's time to stop talking, then?" Sloan's serious face looked almost ghoulish.
"Yeah, we've just about had enough of that." Dustin was concerned that Rich wouldn't take him seriously.
"You guys are right . . . this planet's in a pickle. So what's your modus operandi, save the world, or, survive?"
"Well put," Cheryl said, impressed with Sloan's cutting away the chaff. "We just want to survive."
"I thought so much . . . and I agree." Rich was one with them.
The meeting broke up with personal assignments for all: Serious money was to be sought out by Dustin and Troy -- researching the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, George Soros, Gregory Hovan, and other philanthropists that they thought might be persuaded. Richard Sloan would explore a cadre of scientists -- religious or not -- that he knew. Gretchen and Cheryl would explore elliciting empathetic intellectual contribution from the field of education. And David Burak would research underground entities such as cities, past, present, and legendary -- for any ideas on how to be shielded from contaminated atmosphere.
____________________________________
CHAPTER FIVE
COMMITTEE MEETING
"Good, I see there are five of us." Dustin looked at his wife and their two friends, Troy and Cheryl.
After the two couples introduced themselves, the newcomer nodded and gave his name:
"Dave Burak, from Hamilton Beach."
"Kinda noisy over there?" Gretchen asked.
"I live on the west side of Cross Bay . . . flights are higher and not so noisy on this side."
"Welcome to the committee . . . I take it that you're not married?" Dustin asked, seeing no wedding band on the middle aged fellow's left hand.
"I'm gay." He smiled almost contentiously.
"Hope you're not a Log Cabin Republican." Troy jokingly ventured.
"Nah, . . . I could never understand those people . . . cutting off their nose to spite their face." Dave was a bit nervous being in the midst of two touchy-feely heterosexual couples. "Most of us are freethinking Independents or Democrats."
"Your name sounds like you're from a Jewish background."
"Yeah, I can't escape my schnoz, the short, chubby fellow with a sallow face said. "My folks try to ignore my apostasy . . . and my unconventionality."
"We've all been there, lived through that." Troy probed farther: "So, was it your unconventionality, or the God question, that brought you around . . . hope you don't mind me askin'?"
"No, no, I don't mind. I just couldn't seem to grasp their rationale about us being taught that we are God's 'chosen people' on one hand, and on the other my grandmother showing me, when I was young, the kitchen oven and saying 'that's where they put many of our relatives during the Great War'," He shrugged his shoulders. "It certainly didn't make much sense to me . . . the call to worship . . . what? . . . just to end up dying as a martyr?"
"Religion ain't for everyone." Rolling their eyes, the listeners let out a sigh nearly in unison. "Ain't religion wonderful?" Troy added.
"People seem to need it."
"Yeah, those who are either afraid or too lazy to think for themselves."
"Dave, what's your take on the recent UN directive condemning trash talk of religion?" Dustin asked.
"Sounds like more of the 'sacred cow' bull shit to me."
"That's our take on it, too. American Atheists over in Parsippany have protested that it's discriminatory against atheists because there's no mention of protecting us guys that have no respect for religion . . . and, let's face it, we get bad-mouthed all the time by the clergy, everywhere!"
"Of course we're not as sensitive as those bratty children are." Troy added.
"That doesn't make it right, though!"
"What gets me is -- and here again, the UN doesn't have its thinking-cap on -- rather than issuing something so sophomoric, they really should have taken the boar by its balls and issued an alert to all nations, condemning militant religion! The UN should take the first steps toward de-fanging religion."
"Easier said than done."
"Dusty, are you tiring of the nightly news giving out the gory details of suicide bombers and miscellaneous decapitations?"
"yeah, . . . really!"
"That's the resultant price of spreading Democracy. Was it Cheney or Condi Rice who said 'The Muslims are experiencing growing pains."
"They would know."
"Oh, you mean like they know what war is all about, seeing that precious few of those chicken hawks ever saw war except on the tube?"
"I think Bush's experience with war was the video games at the 'O' Club."
"Hey, hey . . . we're slipping gear here." Dustin said. "We need to focus." He looked at his notepad, but was interrupted.
"Whad'ya think'll bite us first . . . global warming, or the final crusade?" Troy asked, reading Dustin's mind.
"Very good question." Dustin said, satisfied that Dave was comfortable within the group. "As serious as global warming is, it's really a pedestrian issue alongside the elephant in the room -- sectarian predominance, if you will! The one threatens to change peoples' lifestyles, while the other threatens life itself. The former seems a cosmetic diversion."
Most nodded in agreement, and, for once, silence permeated the room.
Dustin continued, "It doesn't appear anyone has a clue that the elephant is in the room! Not the media -- big city or rural, who are usually at loggerheads with each other indefining and interpreting social dysfunction; . . . And not our chief executive, nor the political wizards in the congress; not even the judicial, for the most part . . . the ACLU, as confident as they were about winning the Dover Trial, sweated the one unturned card, Judge Jones who was a church going Republican appointed by Bush in 2001. Our secular nation is hanging by a thread on the hope of the Judicial's intellectual ability to hang tough in spite of mounting demagoguery across the board . . . from the clergy and Main Street to the Capitol and the White House. Of course, that thread is becoming thinner with the growing number of five to four decisions on social issues -- now trending Right rather than Left."
"Whatever happened to the notion that politicians and political appointees rose to responsibility in their office?" Cheryl asked. "It used to be that politicians and judges relied on feel-good promises and back-stabbing chicanery to win office, but then matured with the sober requirements of their office."
"You're right, Cheryl, it seemed to be the mainstay of Democracies and benevolent dictators. But that seems to have come to an abrupt end with this president --convinced of his Divine manifesto, and his ambitious advisors in the White House. America tolerated all kinds of shenanigans by its leaders so long as the goal of cultural and economic security stayed on track." Dustin took a gulp of his Pepsi, before continuing, "It's ironic that the one president we elected on the premise of his faith in God, and was re-elected on the same premise, relies heavily on Machiavellian methods to subvert our Constitution in order to gain advantage. His 'ends justify the means' and hypocritical use of religion cost us dearly in the eyes of the World. Even though his train was derailed before it got out of the station, with nine-one-one happening, it appeared America was more interested in electing a God fearing blatherer than an intelligent leader."
"Sandra Day O'Connor had something to do with our non-plural president." Dave mentioned.
"God spoke through O'Connor, over-riding the majority of voters for Gore -- according to General Boykin who continually spouts off on his religious opinions at the expense of our tax dollars."
"Yeah, coupled with Bill Clinton opening his yap and lying about his relationship with 'that woman'. He really fucked the Democrats up . . . pardon my French, but he didn't have to comment on his own frailty."
"Morality perceived, or made up, plays well in Peoria -- and Christian circles. Wave the flag and you might get a salute or palm over the heart, but wave the Cross and you get prostration and a big donation."
"Very poetic, Gretchen. You don't write for the New Yorker, do you?"
"Nope, I just teach school."
"I disagree with your singling out Christians," Dave said to Gretchen. "If another religion was in the majority, their high-handedness would be just as overbearing. All you have to do is read the Old Testament to see how the Jews subjugated other peoples."
"I didn't mean to be so polite."
"Uh oh, do I smell a tad of political correctness?"
"No, Troy . . . it's probably yourself!" His wife scolded.
Dustin laughed and slapped his friend on the back. She got you there, buddy!"
Everyones laughter at Troy's consternation was interrupted by Dustin's speaking again: "So we may be the only ones concerned with maintaining the civil in civilization?" It was more of a statement than a question, though he was leaving the door open for input. None materialized. "The sky's wide open to the possibilities here . . . and that doesn't count the 'Rapture' I blatantly disregard that possibility -- my psyche just will not allow it. But the present situation in Iraq, Iran and Afghanistan, is no where near being resolved. Americans want Bush to pull out the troops, but are reluctant to give the enemy a timetable. Americans want to bring our kids home but are afraid of the vacuum that may be left. We want to eat our cake and then have it again later. So the conundrum remains, we are an occupier of a nation fighting a civil war -- loaded with guilt because of the fact that we caused the war in the first place. And, of course, if we leave this broken but oil rich area, the spoils of Iraq's natural resource may wind up in the hands of someone we might decide to dislike even more."
"So, where do we go from here?"
"That's what we're all about. Some of the CSHNYC call us 'the Cyphers', others call us the Doomsday Committee." Dustin smiled sheepishly. "Which do you guys prefer?"
"Really, is this about fallout shelters all over again -- stock piling food and ammunition like the Mormons and the Southern Baptists at the turn of the millenium?"
"Maybe . . . to some degree. Underground get away places are a distinct possibility. Good question, Cheryl. Our survival, I think, is what we must focus on." Dustin smiled again. ". . . reminds me of what Richard Sloan always harps on at the Solstice parties."
"Oh . . . that we will survive because we're smarter than the ignoramuses that are bringing this world down?"
"Yeah, that's it . . . as much as I hate to agree with Sloan."
"Why isn't he here?" Gretchen surly asked.
"I don't know . . . he's more mouth than action . . . I didn't even ask him -- at least the time isn't right for involving him just now."
"Smart move. He'd only voice over everything we've said here tonight with his golden nuggets of wisdom."
"How does Beth stand him?"
"The Universe is full of mysteries."
Dustin continued: "Underground is good . . . well, a bit dreary to think about -- but considering the alternative, it's viable." he remarked, then scribbled some notes on his pad.
"Science . . . what about establishing some sort of flow chart -- like critical path?" Cheryl caught a breath. "Using statistics and probability and other realms of science, we could perhaps anticipate a time line that would be flexible enough to react to unraveling events here on Earth."
"Good point," and Dustin scribbled some more.
Dave spoke up: "This is going to sound far out . . . but what about an escape pod?" He could feel the eyes boring into him. "Just a thought -- we're brainstorming, aren't we? It's a last gasp scenario!"
The meeting broke up when no more ideas were forthcoming. Indeed, the group dispersed with sober countenances and self-conscious gallows humor. Dustin accompanied Gretchen to her apartment.
"That's quite more than I expected . . . the productivity, I ,mean."
"Yeah, for sure," Gretchen answered. "It's so imbecilic . . . what these religious idiots are inadvertently preparing to do. Waste a perfectly good planet for their own selfish pipe dreams."
"Fighting over a difference of opinion as to who's God is the 'True' one doesn't make much sense. And, of course, to them, the World is a big place with inexhaustible resources."
"It's not only big, but the world's so wonderful that only a god could properly design it, and us conscious, thinking creatures garden it. But what's so incredibly stupid, is that, in their next breath, they say the World is evil and that our wonderful existence is conceived in sin. There are really some sick and confused puppies out there! While God was designing Earth and the perfect laws and mechanics of the Universe, couldn't He have written just one perfect How to Live manual instead of several chaotic, contradicting and childish tomes that the various cultures would, in the very least, misinterpret? Couldn't He have any control over its morality . . . or is this all just fun and games . . . seeing His thinking children, for the most part, burn forever in Hell?"
After her speech they quietly held hands -- both lost in their individual thoughts, as the cab made its way across town.
_____________________________________
CHAPTER FOUR
GOOD THINGS HAPPEN AMONG COUPLES
Dustin took the train into New York Saturday evening to meet Gretchen in the Theater District. Gretchen was a petite, brunette like Cheryl, about the same height, five feet three. They had met at one of the CSH library meetings. He found her out-spokeness on social and cultural issues impressive, often joining her and others in conversation afterwards. There were so many interesting women at those get-togethers; he felt he could fall in love with almost any one of them. But Gretchen was single, and about his age -- her subtle ways were accentuated by her compact, well-proportioned figure.
He had lied to Troy and Cheryl about his little black book, as this was the first date he had had since a short fling with a blonde that attended City College.
This was Gretchen's first date in a while, also, and dinner passed dreamily. He was struck by her small mouth and sensual lips, as they indulged in conversation. He wanted to tell her about the committee, but was afraid to get into such seriousness before the play they were about to see.
"I just love all you gals at our meetings," he blurted over dessert . . . "you're all so strong minded!"
"Is that strong minded as in bitchy, or bitchin'?"
Five years earlier he would have turned white from her response, "Probably both." He smiled. He knew he was being tried. He knew he would be subjected to a series of tests to see if he had ascended beyond what Richard Dawkins called 'The Middle World'. "What I meant was, to take a stand for rationality one must speak out above the blithering idiots that so amply adorn this country. You as well as most everyone else at CSHNYC speak out above the cacophony quite well. I just love you all!"
He thought he sensed just the slightest of smiles. "You're very kind." She said. "So you're an MBA type on Wall Street?"
"Yep . . . I find it a struggle, though."
"Do you guys really make the kind of change I read about?"
"Hope to some day."
"Not many Secular Humanists downtown."
"Yeah . . . I'm a mole." Another test, he thought to himself. "And I agree with you that the Wall Street Journal sucks on issues other than strict finance."
"Really? How do you know what I think?"
Oops, maybe went too far, he said to himself. "What I meant was, the Journal has its head in the sand on social and cultural issues. Most everybody at CSH would agree."
"True. It is a rag."
Whew, Passed that one. "I didn't mean to stereotype you."
"I guess it's obvious that we're all a bunch of bleeding heart liberals," she allowed.
"It's the Christian hypocrisy that has driven me from the moneyed types. Now, it's just a means of earning a living; it's no longer my first love. I hope you don't hold it against me." He dreamily thought it would be nice if she would hold something against him -- that is, her well appointed breasts.
"You don't sound like a New Yorker."
"Nah, I'm from Philly. Hope you don't hold that against me, either."
She laughed, and looked at him quizzically. "Is there a message in there somewhere?"
"Actually, I want to hold you against me," he dared to say.
She blushed, and took a bite of her sherbet.
The play was a rather sordid rendering of contemporary politics, played in a yesteryear setting; its sarcasm was poorly directed. "For some reason It seems satire is flat these days," he said in the cab on the way to her apartment.
He noticed her moving a bit closer, "I thought it wasn't all that good either. You're right, political correctness has taken its toll across the board."
Arriving at her place, she invited him up to her flat.
Wow! he thought, Passed another test. "I'd love to," he chirped. "The night is young."
He could see her vibrant smile in the light of the street lamp. "I thought it might be nice to let you hold me against you. I couldn't think of anything else during the play."
The elevator door opened and he watched her press the button for the eleventh floor. "I didn't mean to be so cock-sure, er, presumptuous."
She closed the gap between them and said, "I know exactly what you meant!"
He took her into his arms, pressing her to him. They kissed.
She fumbled for her key at her door, and he followed her in. "Holy banana boats," he stifled his enlarged anticipation by uttering his pleasant surprise of her living quarters-- his heart pounding in his chest. "Nice digs you have here."
"I've some cognac, or would you prefer wine -- coffee?"
"Wine, thanks."
He wanted to tell her about the committee, but she had such a dreamy look in her dark eyes. "You're beautiful!" he found himself saying without effort.
"Now, what was that you were so cock-sure, er, presumptuous about?" she asked demurely, sidling up to him with a knowing smile.
"What sparkling eyes you have, Gretchen," He took her in his arms again, this time for a lengthy, tongue searching kiss.
"I didn't know Philadelphians were so forward," she backed off only slightly.
"Life is short," he said, again pressing her to him.
"Not a bad kisser for a Philadelphian, either." This time she initiated the kiss.
"Maybe we should sit down before we fall down."
"I don't mind," she whispered in his ear.
What was it she didn't mind, he wondered -- sitting or falling. But the love seat was nearby and they collapsed onto it. In short order he was nuzzling her lightly scented neck and unbuttoning her blouse. Her mouth was open and her eyes closed in apparent appreciation of his intention. "I've never done this before." He lied.
"I just bet you haven't," she purred. She sleepily allowed her bra to be undone, welcoming the release of her pale, bud-tipped breasts.
They're beautiful." He said, taking a nipple wholly within his mouth.
"I bet you say that to all the girls."
Releasing his amorous hold, he answered: "Not really, it's been a while since I had a fling with a girl -- up town . . . 'bout a year ago."
"Why'd you break up . . . if you don' mind me asking? Then you can continue with what you were doing," she said, as she found wet hardness while searching within his unzipped trousers.
"She was Catholic," and he took her other nipple into his mouth.
He never did get around to asking her that night about joining his proposed committee.
Balancing his job as a financial analyst with his growing activism consumed nearly all of Dustin's free time. His dreamy thoughts of romancing Gretchen were a welcome interlude; she accepted his activism into her world of secular existence. And, he got her commitment to join the Committee.
They met Troy and Cheryl for dinner before the March CSH meeting; their conversation drifted invariably to politics. The Democrats, feeling their 'oats' after winning both houses of Congress the previous autumn, was the subject of conversation.
"Pelosi is going for Bush's jugular." Gretchen said, sipping her Mai Tai.
"As she should!" the others intoned in near chorus.
"But whatever the Democrats do, Bush still has the numbers to effectively veto any proposal to change the direction of the war," Dustin drearily added.
"Can't the Republicans see . . . they're going down with a sinking ship?"
"No! The blinders are still on."
"He has been right on so few issues, yet his hard-nosed thirty percent stay with him because "He's sech a gud Christi'n mayan!"
"Yep, and the nation's goin' down with him."
"Dustin, tell me this," Troy quizzed. "You have no problem with the Atheist Station Web page, POLITICS -- their suggestion of a nuclear threat of immolation of a holy city if the Muslims continue to bang at us. How does that differ from the Religious Right's agitation to bring about nuclear conflagration over there . . . to precipitate their 'Rapture'?"
"Like I said before, Atheist Station's suggestion is a proposal for threatening the use of nuclear force, but only using that force as a last defense -- a last resort -- since there doesn't seem to be any way to talk to these rag heads."
"Yeah, well, this administration isn't known for talking diplomacy either. . ." Gretchen felt gentle pressure on her forearm.
"Let me finish." Dustin insisted, "The Religious Right is milking the situation for all it's worth. They think they can bring on the 'End Times' with their insane manipulation, subscribing to supposed prophecy of Super Christian, Bush, enabling an offensive to bring America to the brink of Armagedden. That endears him him to the Judeo-Christian world in spite of his other goofy foul-ups. The former is what I see as a position of defense. The latter is the Religious Right insanely agitating for war."
"That's why the hard core Bush supporters don't want to see the war end?" Cheryl asked, " . . . to see our troops come home?"
"Exactly."
"What utter nonsense!" Gretchen added.
"This war has all the requisites of a non-ending military action." Dustin went on. "There's the oil booty; there's the elimination of heretical Islam consideration; there's the possible 'Rapture' scenario; and the 'giving the enemy a time table for our retreat' issue; least of all is the Democracy issue that displaced the finding WMDs excuse three years ago. And that's not including what some columnists like Joe Klein say: that it's all about revenge for Saddam trying to kill Bush's dad."
"What a terrible conundrum Bush has gotten us into."
"That time table for leaving Iraq . . . that's like asking Congress for a blank check to just continue the debacle infinitum." Cheryl intervened. "It's like the administration hasn't heard of our defeat in Vietnam!"
"Those A-holes in the White House and within the Beltway are not known for their knowledge of history, among other things."
"I guess we won't be seein' any change in direction 'til Bush is gone."
"If yer not with us, yer agin' us." is their holy slogan. Besides, Harry Truman's numbers were lower than Bush's are today."
"He's so cock-sure that he'll be vindicated by history -- like Truman was."
Gretchen elbowed him in the ribs. "I don't think so. Truman had brains that weren't eroded by acid and god knows what else, . . . now, there was an intellectual!"
"Without any formal education . . . the legend goes that he read every book in his hometown library."
"Yeah, Bush's library of books could be contained in a small cupboard . . . and he talks like he's proud of it!"
"What's happened to respect for intelligence In this country?"
"I don't know, but H. L. Mencken had it about right when he penned a short ditty about some future president."
"Oh?" One or two voices questioned
All eyes were on Gretchen. "I'm sure you've all heard his quote."
"Yeah, but refresh our memory." Troy insisted, as the others leaned forward.
"I don't know that I can recite it verbatim . . . but here goes:
There was a man from Nantucket . . ."
"Ah, c'mon."
She shrugged her shoulders, "Can't pull anything over on you guys. Wait, I might just have it in my purse. . . No self respecting student of politics should caught without this gem," and she pulled a slip of paper out. "By golly, here it is!" She began reading:
"As democracy is perfected,
The office of president represents
More and more closely
The inner soul of the people.
On some great and glorious day,
The plain folks of the land
Will reach their heart's desire at last
And the White House
Will be adorned
By a downright moron."
"Ouch! I bet Bush doesn't have any of Mencken's books in his cupboard."
"He doesn't even know who Menken is!"
"They're poles apart, that's for sure."
"Dusty, do you really think l'il ol' us can make a difference?"
"Good question. I don't know that anyone else is doing anything . . . anticipating the future." Dustin straightened up in his seat. "Several months ago, I e-mailed the American Philosophical Society as per their Web site instructions -- about what, if anything, was being done concerning international cultural communication or exchanges . . . and I've yet to hear back from them."
"You mean, the philosophical society that Ben Franklin founded?"
"None other! Their Web address is amphilsoc.org . . . I believe." Dustin finished his coffee. "I don't know who else to query."
"What about the UN . . . or the European Union?"
"I don't know . . . we could make that a first order of business -- if the committee becomes a reality."
Troy piped up, "So what're the damages . . . we better get goin', -- the meeting's in ten minutes."
At the meeting hall, the foursome encountered a ot of buzz among those already there. "What's all the uproar about," Cheryl asked a balding regular, named Tim.
"Didn't you catch the evening news?"
"No, we were at dinner."
"The UN passed a resolution against defaming any religion."
The four looked at each other. "Does that include cults?" Troy quipped.
Cheryl looked back at Tim and asked, "So . . . what does that mean?"
"I guess it means that religion will now receive a pass at the global level . . . just like it receives a pass on every decision, legislation or policy in this country."
"Just . . . that about sucks."
Andrew's voice penetrated the din and clatter. "Boys and girls, if you will . . . please take your seats. We've got a full agenda!"
Slowly, his request was heeded, after he used his gavel, which was rare. "Since we don't say the Pledge, or pray . . . Is there anybody here that would like to invoke Thor's lightening bolt upon the UN?"
"Lotta good that'll do!" someone yelled.
"Sure it wasn't Zeus -- with the lightening bolt thing?" another chimed in.
Andrew smiled at the contributing wags and went on: "S the world takes a step backward . . . but I've some good news that may be a step forward."
"Yeah, what's that, Bill and Hillary renewing their vows?" There was no end to skeptic New Yorkers' cynicism.
"Even better," Andrew continued, going with the verbal flow, "We've found someone to replace Dr. Hastings on our Board."
"So wut's the big deal . . . another schmuck trying to corral a bunch of non-conformists. C'mon now!"
Andrew knew this was coming. It seemed that any attempt to centralize authority among disgruntled skeptics met with cynicism. "Now, you know why we need a Board . . . and Im not going to take anymore time to repeat myself . . . "
"Yeah, enough with the sermon already." Someone interrupted.
"But our new Board member has a proposal to chair a provocative committee." Out of courtesy, the group deferred to silence, for a short period, that is.
"So who's the schmuck?" Laughter filled the room. Gretchen gave Dustin a wincing look.
"C'mon, people, . . . be civil." Andrew's withering look once again quieted the evocative. "Dustin Erwin, from Garden City, is our new Board member, and he's got an idea that might grab . . . maybe some of you, especially in light of the resolution passed by the United Nations today." Andrew looked around the room during his hesitation. "Dustin, would you stand up and tell us what you'd like to propose?"
His chair scraped Dustin rose, bringing a suddenly respectful quiet. "thanks for hearing me . . . I'm very proud to have the opportunity to try to lead some of the world's finest -- you, thinking, non-conformists that you know are -- towards a viable future; a future that looks beyond a confused semi-civilization . . . that is about to unravel."
"A-men, brother," Someone mumbled.
He went on to reveal his idea, that was met with an undercurrent of comments between the attendees.
"You're a dreamer . . . but aren't we all?" someone said, and there was a murmur of approval.
Afterwards, he escorted Gretchen home to her apartment. Over cognac, they spoke of the meeting.
"Not a bad reaction! Not bad, to the point I'm convinced I'm about to be bedded . . . not only by an MBA . . . but a committee chairman as well." She knowingly smiled. 'What are my feminist friends going to think?"
Dustin blushed, quite flattered that his loving services were being not so subtly requested. "At your service, ma-dam," and he plopped down close by her side, cupping her breasts that were stretching the silk fabric of her blouse.
He could feel her erect nipples despite her bra's fabric. "Oh, honey, you feel so good . . . I could just eat you up."
"You may."
"I believe I'll start with your ear lobes and that sweet lower lip . . . if you don't mind."
Her pouting lower lip spoke volumes as she closed her eyes to inwardly experience his growing presence. "You must think I'm an easy woman," she eventually whispered in his ear.
"Loving you is the easiest thing I've ever experienced . . . it's just so natural -- so right, he added, truthfully.
"I mean, it's just not your physical looks . . . but . . . ah .. . what turns me on is your intense confidence of what we know to be right."
Between nibbles, he answered, "You mean my cock-sureness, or my zealotry?"
"You're no zealot."
He had her blouse off and bra undone. "I just love the way your breasts spring free," he said, admiring their lovely bounding motion.
"I love it too . . . such wonderful freedom. "And you . . . how about your freedom?" she added, feeling for his belt buckle.
"Words cannot suffice as answers to some questions."
"I can feel what you mean," she purred, undoing his trouser zipper while he tongued the area just above each npple.
"I didn't bring my toothbrush."
"I've a spare." She adjusted her position -- and clothing -- to allow his mouth more latitude. "If you're going too eat me up, will there be anything left of me to object?"
"Valid question . . . let me be the judge of that . . I . . . ah . . have giv . . . ven . . .fair warning," he said between gasps.
"Oh, darling, . . . you've given more than that!" she said, her palm encompassing his spurting essence.
"You excited me so . . . so brutally."
"I know . . . I was a bad girl, . . . and now I know where that expression 'leaping lizards' comes from." She smiled at him as he continued gasping for air. "My curiosity got the better of my playfulness. But the night is young and I see you are already recovering."
___________________________________
Chaper Three
IRAQ
blue skies, or NOTHING!
INTAFADA ! JIHAD ! HOLY WAR !
ENTER THE GREAT PEE'N CONTEST;
ENROLL YOUR RELIGION NOW !
WHICH GOD IS TRULY ALL MIGHTY ?
JIHAD'S, OR THE TERRIBLE SWIFT SWORD ?
LET'S FIND OUT TODAY !
ONLY ONE CAN BE TRIUMPHANT.
NOW, OR . . . LET'S GO ONE BETTER:
WHY THINK THERE'S A GOD AT ALL ?
LEARNING IS FINDING THE WAY !
SHOVE THE EMERGING WAR !
THIS GAME WE NEED NOT PLAY.
GOD, ALLAH, HERETIC,
THE LAST I THINK IS SANE;
BUT IT'S GETTING LATE !
TOO MANY BELIEVE IN GHOSTS;
TOO MANY ARE CLUTCHED IN FEAR.
SERMONS ASKING SALVATION
ARE THOUGHTS SELF-SERVING,
AND AN INSULT TO THE EAR.
GOD(S) NEED NOTHING FROM US !
AS WE HAVE ALWAYS SEEN.
THE PATH IS OURS TO MAKE.
FEAR -- DAMN FEAR -- BE AWAY !
PLANET EARTH, PLEASE HEAR MY PLEA.
SEE THE DARK CLOUDS MOV'N ;
THAT HAS ALWAYS BEEN THE WAY.
BUT ANOTHER DAY WILL DAWN ;
TRULY IMAGINE, I SAY,
{Nothing but Blue Skies
from now on}
"That's a nice poem, Dustin." Andrew said. "What's an MBA candidate like you doing, writing existentialist poetry?"
"I look at my efforts as the ultimate hobby. I've been an unbeliever for ten years now, and every biography I read, every history I'm exposed to, leads me farther away from what I was brought up to believe."
"We've all been brainwashed, especially in view of what St. Augustine -- or was it Ignatius -- said about possessing a child until he was six or seven: 'and he will be mine for life'."
"A frightening, but too true of a quote. But I'm convinced that if there is a God, He or She will understand how I arrived at my point of view -- at least giving me credit for using the brain that was given to me at birth -- to derive a philosophy that I find solace and can live with."
"Not too many MBAs think that deeply."
"I know . . . perhaps I've had too many liberal arts courses, or, maybe I'm just more sensitive to the goings on of the so-called religious folk as they impugn their fellow man with little reluctance at all."
Andrew rubbed his chin in reflection. "So you're interesting in forming a committee you would label 'Planning'? Sounds a bit idealistic to me."
"It would be if it were preceded with an adverb like 'social' or 'Survival'."
"But that's what you intend, isn't it?"
"Yes, but it has to be an idea that becomes implemented -- not an intellectual ivory tower, hand-wringing policy -- not just sour grapes and the like."
"Now, . . . your probably talking some big bucks . . . lots of it."
"Probably so." Dustin thought back to the conversations he and Troy had had on the future, mostly before Troy became engaged and moved away to Connecticut. They had been torn by just how serious was the possibility of internecine warfare that might lead to a third and perhaps final world war -- a war that could possibly decimate the planet and threaten the very existence of human beings. "I know . . . it seems that I'm overly paranoid about Bush's handling of things -- but I can't get it out of my mind! Him and Cheney going into Iraq under the pretense of knowing Hussein had WMDs. And the last straw of Cheney insisting that Iraq and el Qaeda were connected in some way."
"Yeah, I liked that cartoon showing the mortar board-capped Cheney pointing to a classroom black board, having the 'Q's circled in the words IRAQ and AL QAEDA. Cheney smugly pointed to the line drawn, connecting the two circled Qs and said 'Here's the proof'." Andrew straightened up in the booth and asked the waitress for more coffee. "But where's the money going to come from for implementing -- what?"
"As you're in a position to know, freethinkers, humanists, whatever, have difficulty on focusing. Basically, we don't have an agenda -- certainly not a coherent one. We just want to live, and let live."
"The religionists would say otherwise. We, and the ACLU are out to destroy religion in general and Christianity in particular."
"Yeah, they say that. But we both know better."
"Dustin, they keep harping on atheistic Communism and Pol Pot's genocide. That's a difficult rap to take."
"Of course we're not responsible for the whims and foibles of a fanatical politician. Communism is an ideal that can never be effective -- just like the outlawing of religion is counter to free speech, . . . the First Amendment, for god's sake!"
"It's too early to say . . .if we'll even ever need to use it." Dustin took a sip of his coffee, then sat back to savor the moment of conversation with New York City's secular humanist leader, whose daytime job was teaching anthropology at Columbia University. "Like they say, the moment may arrive when the terms of action will dictate on how to react. I'm thinking by then, money will be more than available -- by donors affected by what might come down."
"And, like your Harry Selden, you want us to be prepared for that moment -- if it comes?"
"Exactly."
Andrew looked quickly at his watch, and grabbed a napkin, dabbing the corners of his mouth. "I gotta class in five minutes. Consider that your request will be brought up at our next Board meeting, but to chair a committee one must be a Board member or ex officio."
"I understand Dr. Hastings is stepping down."
"If your interested in replacing him, give me your bio . . . and I'll submit it and your name to the Board for their approval."
"Thanks, I'll do that."
That went well enough, thought Dustin. But, besides Troy and his friend's sweet bride, Cheryl, who else could he talk into being on his committee? He knew there would be little input early on as it seemed he was the only person driven -- perhaps obsessed -- by the need for this mission. Could he be Asimov's Harry Selden of the twenty-first century? His reverie was broken by the waiter handing him the check.
The war in Iraq had commenced with the usual patriotic rhetoric. Incredibly, the well respected Colin Powel, as Secretary of State, argued the reasons for going into America's second war in two years with convincing showmanship, if not zeal, before the United Nations' General Assembly. It was he, not long before, who admonished President Bush about the antique barn rule 'If you break it . . . you've bought it.' Such suggestions were lost on the pre-determined attitudes of the bellicose Bush. There was growing suspicion that his attitude toward Saddam Hussein's Iraq were nurtured and encouraged by Vice President Dick Cheney and other White House advisers not long after the September-eleven suicide attacks on America. Indeed, those attitudes took root in him shortly after his father, George H. W. Bush, failed to pursue the destruction of Hussein's evil dictatorship. Now, he and his neocon advisors had the excuse to eradicate Saddam Hussein by simply connecting the dots, as they saw things.
It was true that the United Nations lacked the where-with-all to follow up on Hussein's cavalier attitude dismissing the various resolutions handed him by the world body. But as the saber rattling increased, Hans Blix, the U.N.'s representative charged with finding weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, reported the country was clean. Bush was not deterred by such 'obvious incompetence' and launched his attacks within weeks. Most of the nation, and the Congress, were swayed by his administration's rationale for war. In fact, he won re-election in 2004, based on his party's mantra: 'fight the terrorists over there, so we don't have to fight them here!' Bush's administration used every means in its play book -- including, in descending order: patriotic fraternalism; fear; and withholding economic aid -- to garner a less than significant coalition of national forces that would fly in the face of the intransigent NATO, and the United Nations.
The ridiculousness of Bush's efforts to introduce Democracy to Iraq and the Middle East (a convenient substitute premise for the war when WMDs were not found), was suddenly brought home to America not too long after his famous 'Mission Accomplished' statement on an aircraft carrier off the coast of San Diego. Suddenly there were inexplicable firefights in Baghdad and surrounding villages that not only impacted occupying troops, but the citizenry as well. It was to become internecine warfare among the two ambient factions of Islam: Shi'a and Sunni -- majority versus the minority that had just been overthrown.
Iraq had been dissembled, including its army. Reconstruction was underway, but social order and policing were in disarray. Other Middle Eastern influences, from Syria and Iran -- including elements of al Qaeda -- spilled into the vacuum, creating more and more unrest. Civil works repair took a back seat to fighting insurgents; Coalition (mainly American) casualties rose from less than 200 before Bush's 'Mission Accomplished' statement, to more than a thousand within a year. America's hopes for a budding democracy in that part of the world were beginning to ebb.
Troy and Dustin argued many times about what needed to be done to extricate American troops from Iraq. Sometimes the arguments left them estranged, and they drifted apart as Troy spent most of his time with Cheryl, a demure, brunette agnostic from Staten Island that he met at one of the CSHNYC meetings. Still, the two young men remained friends at work -- and they pursued their MBAs at Columbia.
At the occasional invitation offered by the newly weds, Dustin would accompany his friend by train to Stamford for dinner -- and they would clash again about politics, over wine or sweet desserts.
"You've told me this before -- it's just too traumatic in this day and age."
"Yeah, well, what does Cheryl think?"
"She agrees with me . . . like a good wife." Troy nudged Cheryl and smiled sheepishly.
"Bullshit! She's got a mind of her own. I think that's what you told me when you said you guys were getting married." Dustin winked at her.
"You need to find someone, Dustin." Cheryl said. "Your letting this Iraq thing get to you too much."
"Hey, I've got a lot of numbers in my little black book. Besides, I got a date with Gretchen this weekend."
"Where ya taking her to . . . the Wax Museum?"
"Very funny, Troy." Dustin reached for his coffee on the settee. "All kiddin' aside, you'll join me on my committee?"
"Of course we will." Troy said taking Cheryl's hand in his. "We've talked it over and came to the conclusion that we need a little melodrama in our lives -- and to keep tabs on you, old friend."
"You're kind to humor me."
"You are very interesting," Cheryl offered, half serious. "But count me out on the nuclear exchange idea."
"That's not a plan. It's meant to be merely a threat.! For god's sake, we have a nuclear arsenal. Supposedly, it's there as a trump card, but nobody wants to turn it up . . . even admit its existence."
"We're worried that you're becoming a radical."
"Like Jefferson, Madison and Paine?"
"Not exactly."
"Yeah, I'm sure they had friends like you to keep them on the straight and narrow." Dustin sarcastically opined. "Besides, they didn't find it too inconvenient to dedicate the rest of their lives to the survival of our country; yes, they were radicals!"
"Okay, okay! I know you, buddy. We'll be there for you." Troy smiled reassuringly. So, your theory . . . you probably told me before, but, it's not yours but something you've seen on someone's blog?"
"Yeah. Ever been to atheiststation.org?"
"A coupl'a times . . . good stuff -- really in your face stuff."
"Go to WORLD PEACE page. There's a lead in article that is followed up in detail on the POLITICS page." Dustin shifted in his seat, "I think the article is entitled A Very Sober Plan to Exit Iraq. It's the only way I see us getting out of this quagmire that Bush drove us into!"
"Maybe the Democrats will come up with a less draconian method when they win the presidency in 2008."
"Whatever. But if we don't get out of there soon, this thing is going to spread and engulf the whole region . . . you know what that means! Iran's on the edge, and who knows what'll happen if Musharraf is deposed in Pakistan"
"World War Three."
They all nodded in agreement.
"And that's what the committee's mission is . . . to prepare for that possibility." Troy said to Cheryl, affirming Dustin's concern. Looking back toward his friend, he asked: "So what are you going to call this committee?"
"Well, I thought 'Bright Committee' might be a possibility -- you know, that term was coined by Richard Dawkins. But maybe Cyphers might be a less presumptuous name; what do you guys think?"
"The Cyphers kind'a has a down-home unobtrusive ring to it -- almost hokey."
"And yet, mysterious." Cheryl added. "this might just be fun -- being known as a Cypher."
"Will our meetings be classified?" Troy joked.
"Who the hell will listen to us -- take us seriously?"
"The NSA?"
" I doubt it. They haven't done anything right yet. And we don't have anything to hide. If anything, we might just want to get the word out."
"About what -- Armageddon? Everybody'll react like it's just another end-of-the-world hoax."
"You have a point there. And I'm going to check out Gretchen's two points Saturday night, if you get my drift."
"You better. You need some wholesome distraction to get you away from such seriousness." Troy added, as Cheryl nodded, indicating her complete agreement.
(the Chapter Four installment will be posted (8-26.07)______________________________________
Chapter Two
THE UNTHINKABLE
Dustin hardly voiced concern at first, "What do you make of that plane flying so low?"
Troy answered, "That's weird, isn't it?"
"Damn straight." Dustin's voice reverberated stronger. Stronger yet, he yelled, "Hell, man, it's headed for the World Trade Building."
"Nah, it's an optical illusion." Troy rationalized, shielding his eyes from the bright blue sky. "He's goin' down the Hudson."
Just then the plane appeared to penetrate the building, but there was no noise -- just a surreal vision of orange-yellow flames shooting horizontally from where the wings should be. Then, as both young men opened their mouths, the noise impacted them rendering mute their horrific reaction.
September 11, 2001, dawned as a beautiful day on the east coast of the United States. Ten strapping, young Muslim men boarded two passenger air carriers at Logan Airport in Boston, presumably to fly to the West Coast. Another ten male Muslims were on the passenger roster to board transcontinental flights from Newark to the West Coast. Only nine showed up -- Flight 93 would have only four murdering terrorists. Of course, the rest is history as the two flights from Boston were hijacked in mid air before reaching cruising altitude. The first plane impacted the north tower of the World Trade center at the 92nd /98th floor levels, 43 minutes into its flight. What horrible events took place in its cabin during that time interval is open for conjecture, but they were most certainly like children's play in comparison to what happened upon the plane crashing into the building.
As Troy and Dustin were running uptown for cover, they spotted another low flying plane. "For Chrisakes, pinch me so I can wake up!" Dustin yelled. They turned to watch another -- lower -- impact on the second tower of equal height.
The smoke and debris followed not far behind as the excruciating sound waves finally confirmed the fireball they had just witnessed.
"This must be war!" Troy uttered, dumbfounded. "But who are we at war with? Who the hell would do this -- bombing innocent civilians?"
Dustin couldn't find the words to answer, but ducked around the corner of a building to catch his breath. Sirens blared in every direction drowning out Troy's unending questions. People running, some stopping to look back at the impossible sight, hands holding their heads in disbelief, mothers consoling their children, old men covering their heads with their coats, cops with whistles in their teeth, their eyes showing too much white.
"Yeah, it's war." Dustin heard himself say. "But I don't think it's the Ruskies."
"Oh yeah . . . then who?"
"For God's sake, Troy, gimme a break! I don't know the answer to every goddam question!"
They walked north for another ten blocks as emergency vehicles going the other direction passed them by at countless regularity. "God, some of those guys gotta be going to a certain death." Dustin said, turning to look at a wailing fire engine that just passed them.
Troy nodded in agreement. "I need a drink."
"Yeah, me too. But I don't know any place around here." Dustin did a three-sixty. "Prob'ly everything closin' up in case of more attacks."
"It ain't that I'm thirsty . . . I just want to see what they have on TV."
"Guess we'll have to keep hoofin' it . . . no cabs -- buses are filled, and the subways are all backed up."
Troy and Dustin were new to the City, sharing an apartment east of the metropolis, on Long Island, and were couriers at a Wall Street brokerage house. They were on their way to work when they saw the first plane.
"We gotta light somewhere . . . call in or somethin'."
"Yeah," Dustin grunted.
Then they heard a terrible groaning sound that seemed to encompass the whole downtown area. "Jesus Christ, one of the towers is collapsing!" Troy back pedaled.
"It don't look good for the home team!"
"Why don't we cross town'n see if we can find a bar or restaurant that's got a TV on?"
"Okay, too much evacuation / emergency traffic here."
They finally found a lounge that had not closed its doors, and immediately called into work. "Nobody there!"
"Prob'ly evacuated." Dustin said. "Well, let's order an eye-opener." as he slid onto a barstool while watching the television at the same time.
"You been downtown?" the bartender approached.
"Yeah . . . guess there won't be any work today. Who the hell did this?"
"Yeah, are we under attack?"
"Flight manifests contain names of Saudi Arabians, they're sayin". Too early to tell though." The barkeep stated. "It wouldn't surprise me if it's a bunch of religious Muslim whackos, . . . like that Egyptian co-pilot who tail-spinned a perfectly good airliner into the drink out past Long Island several years ago."
"He did it for Allah, didn't he?"
"Yeah, . . . this plane's for you, Allah, for all that you do."
Dustin considered for a moment his friend's play on the well-known Budweiser pitch line. It summed up the fundamentalist Muslim attitude of Jihad against Westerners very well. He remembered something caught on the flight recorder -- the deluded co-pilot saying something to the affect: 'I let the fate of this airplane into your hands, Allah. Allah akbar! Allah akbar!'
They chased the eye opener with another Jack Daniels, and stared, mesmerized by the continual replay of the jets impacting New York's two highest buildings.
Later that evening at their apartment, the events of the day were clearer. Fourteen of the nineteen hijackers were reported to be young and jaded Saudi Muslims, drunk with a religious mission -- and guilty of having too much time on their hands.
"Over 4,000 dead or missing in New York alone, they say." Troy looked at his colleague of four months. "And another 50 some dead in your neck of the woods."
"Yeah, that's all Pennsylvania needs is another commemorative site like Gettysburg and Valley Forge."
"What do you think their motive was?"
"Religion. Seventy-two vestal virgins greeting them in heaven for bloodying the Great Satan, America."
"Bush says that Islam is a religion of peace."
"Uh huh."
"Yeah, I think he's full of shit too!"
"Troy, we gotta do something. If this is the beginning of a religious war -- like the Crusades of the eleventh and twelfth centuries-- it could very well be the Final crusade."
"If that's the case, Dustin, aren't you getting your wish?"
"Whad'ya mean?"
"You being an atheist an' all . . . what does it matter to you if all the religious types kill off each other? That wouldn't be any skin off your ass, would it?"
"They deserve no less."
"So why do you suggest that something be done? It seems the players are taking their position to do your bidding."
"That's true. But you have to look ahead at what this planet will be like after they've done everything they can, to do each other in." Dustin looked up at the ceiling with hands clasped beneath his chin. After a while, he looked furtively at Troy, "Wanna go with me to the next Secular Humanist meeting?"
"Uptown?"
"Midtown . . . you remember, at the main library. We could get a bite to eat after work, then mosey up to the library, . . . they meet there every other 2nd or 3rd Thursday, as I recall."
"Yeah, it's been awhile . . . some good lookin' chicks come to those meetings.
And they're not just pretty faces either!"
A week past and the two young men headed uptown as planned, to the library meeting. They arrived ten minutes early and were hard pressed to find seats.
"Wow, I've never seen such a turnout." Dustin remarked.
"Must be a sign of the times."
"Yeah, they're still comin' through the door."
Noise emanated from every corner of the smallish room, as chairs scraped the hard wood floor. A tall slender man in his fifties, with a good head of slightly graying hair, looked out at the crowd. His gaze suddenly shifted toward the hall side of the room as a question was hurled at him.
"Andrew, 'r we in a religious war?"
Andrew bit his lower lip and held up both hands with palms out in a gesture of mollification. "I'll answer your question after everybody is done socializing."
The noise dropped to a murmur as faces turned toward the front of the room.
"Abe has asked a very good question, boys and girls." He panned the room while he collected his thoughts to answer. "Wars are usually defined by the winning side. But as this one has just started; I guess the reason for the attacks on us lay with the attacker . . . and they have spoken resoundingly to the affirmative." Andrew took a deep breath, as the room suddenly was very quiet. He had been the Council for Secular Humanism - New York City affiliate's leader for five years, and pretty much garnered the respect of the audience -- if that were at all possible considering that it was easier to herd cats then a group of agnostics and atheists. "Of course the Bush administration pooh-poohs that premise, labeling this action as an anomaly -- an aberration of overt zealous religiosity, if you will."
"Anomaly my ass!" Someone with a Brooklyn accent piped up.
"They can't be satisfied with expecting to live in heaven for all eternity . . . they gotta mess up our planet too!" someone else added.
"Now, now, Islam is a religion of peace!" another mimicked President Bush.
"Okay . . . okay," Andrew sought to regain control. "This is going to be war -- but not of our choosing. We just got to sit it out 'cause we honestly don't have a dog in this fight ."
"Yeah . . . but my and my neighbor's kids will be called to fight for honor, God and country!" the comment was followed by a number of loud approvals.
The crowd grew noisier as Andrew tried to head them off with upraised hands again.
Dustin looked at Troy and said: "You know, this is a very serious conundrum America faces."
"Why would you say somethin' like that . . . just 'cause two of the world's highest skyscrapers have been brought down?"
"You know, Troy, sarcasm isn't your strong suit."
"So what're you gonna do . . . my main guru?"
"I've gotta idea."
"You gonna sue a mullah or somethin'?"
Dustin ignored Troy's attempt at humor, drifting into thought. He was the deep thinker of the two business administration grads. They had met in their first week of employment at the brokerage firm of Peyton, Pierce and Slaughter, back in June. Both were MBA candidates seeking summer employment in the Big Apple, hoping to gain experience before entering their masters program. Rarely does one, let alone two, BA types chase social liberalism ideals, but these two were particularly dissed at the growing hypocrisy of their respective hometown environments. Stocks and bonds were their love, but, incredibly, social and cultural ideals were their passion.
"Listen, you idiot!" Dustin's eyes sparkled. "Have you read any of Isaac Azimovs stuff?"
"Oh, . . . yeah!" his friend said with enthusiasm.
"Have you read the Foundation trilogy?"
"Sure."
"Then you remember Dr. Harry Selden, the founder of psychohistory?"
"Of course."
"You know . . . that's something that should be put into play now."
"Psychohistory?"
"No, no!" Dustin realized he was jumping ahead of himself. "No, what Selden did was to anticipate the future -- that the future would be influenced by abnormal forces. In his case, it was a mutant intelligence."
"So you think we should be seeking a present day Nostradamus?"
"I think that those who could influence the future are in this very room -- and other like minded intellectuals out in the world."
"Oh, wow!" Troy rolled his eyes. "The intellectuals in this room?" he said, scanning the growing pandemonium.
"Well . . . some channeling needs to be done -- committees and so forth. It's obvious Andrew hasn't a clue how to get a grip on the latent talent available here."
"And, you do?"
"Don't you think something should be done --now?"
"Yeah, I guess. . . but what are you getting at? It's a tall order to try and correct somethin' -- like what happened last week."
"As Selden did, we might put together a plan to work toward."
Troy's eyes opened wide at Dustin's burning enthusiasm. It was an attribute he found compelling in his friend; a man of ideas, and perhaps vision -- one who he trusted.
"Troy, we've seen some of the high rollers that come and go at the office. You know -- one them is socially minded similar to George Soros." Suddenly, Dustin's open hands were cutting up and down as to emphasize a point, "we have some awesome resources at our disposal if we can only do some effective channeling -- focussing on a Harry Selden-like mission!"
"You are a dreamer!"
"Any better ideas?"
"Why do we have to do anything? What you're proposing seems like a hell of a lot of work to me."
"Yeah, we don't have to do anything. But as sure as God made little green apples, Bush is going to have our troops re-arranging sand dunes in Afghanistan. I know that's going to eat at me -- getting into a war that doesn't have to be fought."
"You forget you don't believe there's a God. Besides, most of the holy-roller types -- and there's a fair number of them that helped get him elected -- seem to want vengeance."
"Yup . . . those fundamentalists never seem to make any sense, do they? 'Thou shalt not kill' really means: 'Thou shalt not kill your own kind.' And 'turn the other cheek' really isn't in their play book at all. But then, 'there always will be wars and rumors of wars' will be the Religious Right's mantra for going into Afghanistan . . . and God knows where ever else."
_________________________________
Chapter One
---AS IT ONCE WAS---
In the not too distant past there was an idyllic planet in a most fortunate orbit about a middle size star near the edge of the Milky Way Galaxy. Though its sun was one of billions of stars of that system, it was the only known world to support life forms, one of which, incredibly, evolved into a cognizant entity that gained awareness of its own existence. Earth is the name of that planet, and its subtle and interesting soil is called by that name. Organisms of every shape and color flourished within that nurturing medium, invigorated and teased by the rays of a sun that was neither so close to harm nor too far away to deny their growth. Their embodiment provided sustenance and companion to the great and lesser animals that grazed its produce.
The sky abounded with flying creatures consuming or being consumed by other aerial or grounded fauna. The same was the condition of life in the seas. Instead of birds and insects, the fishes darted to and fro in their medium of brine, composed of one part oxygen and two parts hydrogen, trying to stay alive, propagating as if it were the ultimate game. And what a game it was -- to survive another day in a storm tossed and frothy environment -- mating with abandon, limited only by the physiology of their individual kind.
It was a garden like no other that any being had ever seen -- except God, and He isn't talking. Of course, life may have formed on other planets in other solar systems and other galaxies. But the astronomical distances and the length of cosmic time precludes the possibility of any cross-witness to the phenomenal abundance and array of plant and animal existence, the like of which is in our hydrogen, oxygen, and carbon rich setting. The galaxy in which Earth exists is nearly 100,000 light years across. Certainly, somewhere within the millions, if not billions, of solar systems in the Milky Way Galaxy, the probability of a planet similar to illustrious Earth exists -- or existed -- is high. If one had formed approximately along the same lines as Earth, say as late as 10,000 years ago, their light and/or radio waves could be considerably distant at this late juncture in time. We, or our progeny, will never experience seeing them, if the events of this story hold true!
The nearest star to Earth's sun is Alpha Centauri (actually three stars rotating about each other), 4.2 to 4.3 light years away. Light traveling at 186,000 miles (300,000 km) per second computes the distance to that star system to be 25 trillion miles/40 trillion kilometers (which amounts to a billion trips around the world, or 269,000 astronomical units*).
Upon this unlikely garden, hurling through space at over a million miles per day as it rotates about its Sun at an angular velocity in excess of 66,000 miles per hour (30 kilometers per second), a hominid stood up, and over time, took charge of its surroundings. Eventually this hunter, then gardener, sparked recognizance of its existence, succoring the misty calm of the area it found itself in, but ever fearful of the changing and unpredictable environment that was prone to sometimes becoming destructive. Lightning and thunder often brought wind and rain, swelling the rivulets into rampaging and flooding streams. Volcanoes and earthquakes heightened these hominids' fear -- usually at times when these beings had become complacent in their settlement. Using their keen eyesight and substantial brain they survived more by wit than by their limited physical capabilities. They unconsciously became generalists and, in their communal familial development, cooperated to bring down the largest of animals. Tools made of stone and bone advanced their capabilities, allowing them more time to develop their maturing consciousness.
Eventually, these tribes-people found they could achieve the simplest communication among themselves by varying their guttural sounds ands grunts. With time's advance, tribes split from the parent and sought new territory, spreading their influence far and abroad. So as their range of distance expanded, the development of tribal languages and other characteristics took on differences that would eventually become unrecognizable to other tribes dispersed in opposite directions.
As tribal development came down to the present cultures, the more progressed hominids defined themselves as Homosapien, being the highest branch of the Primates. , Homosapiens were very well cognizant of their existence and viewed their life in awestruck appreciation, deferring unhesitatingly to the powers of creation whomever or whatever that may be.
It was as simple as that -- they were the offspring and the pawns of a Creator, and stumbled over each other doing their best to show their thankfulness -- and to shower their favors so as to avoid cataclysmic acts the Creator seemed to bring forth from time to time.
Similar to their language, skin color, and blood type differences, their dispersion upon the planet necessarily allowed for a differing ideal as to who or what the Creator was or looked like because each tribe's situation was unique. In some instances, there were good gods and in others there were gods that weren't so good. In other situations there were gods who mingled and bred with special members of the tribe. In nearly all cases, fear of what was unknown demanded some sort of allegiance to an overseeing entity, usually referred to as a Father or Mother. Zeus, Hercules, Venus, Apollo, Diana, Thor and Dionysious evolved into the tribal psyche on the figurative ashes of countless other deities that have been conceived from the dawn of measurable time. These gods and lords gave reason for one's existence, explaining away all the mysteries of mankind's special condition.
For very good reason it was proper that Mother Nature's grandiose experiment, mankind, pay homage to the gods so as to shower thankfulness for the gift of life and the benefits of a beautiful and plentiful world. Few would disagree that there are no proper words to describe the panoply of the Cosmos' skies, and the flora and fauna existing on this spherical garden somewhere near the edge of a huge galaxy. Though life on Earth is abundant in very many forms, the rarity of its existence everywhere else -- the overwhelming extreme emptiness just beyond our ionosphere -- is like no other miracle. To early man, life was the miracle of miracles!
But as the worm will turn, onerous cultural institutions on wonderfully endowed Earth have interpreted Mother Nature's grand experiment as a sinful temptation, not as a privilege or as a gift -- certainly not as a responsibility! The tribes have advanced their consciousness to beyond survival to a supposed civilization more concerned about security, lots of comfort and security -- for eternity! The value of life, over time, has been subordinated to the value of things, some of which doesn't exist.
The bottom line on nearly every balance sheet today is the monetary health of the Corporation, or the political health of its host nation. The health of the individual or the health of a nation's citizenry is hardly more than collateral on a loan proffered to the nation as it marches off to war. And war is inevitable, even as the nations' "Good Books" prophesize the same: "There will be wars and rumors of wars." That substantial brain of the early tribal people, in too many cases, has been redirected from advancing the husbandry of the planet to the milking of it for hardly altruistic reasons. The commonweal has been subordinated to the themes of nationalism and theo-nationalism: "that our flag is better than your flag; that our God is better than your god!"
Mother Nature's hold on the planet marks time as mankind tried often, with misguided honor, to decimate itself in the face of its enemy. She held sway through two world wars and many attempts at genocide, covering these mistaken efforts with rusting armor, weeds and jungles. But man devised an even more contemptible weapon -- the splitting of the atom, which releases enough energy to vaporize opposing ideology. Still, man's substantial brain effectively governed the use of the atom, steering it toward the peaceful activity of providing electrical power. It wasn't until the rise of religious fundamentalism that anger overcame what little remained of rational thinking. As liberal-civilization advancement often outpaced conservative nationalism and theism, the liberals overconfidently pooh-poohed the conservatives as ignoramuses, proclaiming that 'God is dead.'
The backlash was fast and unrelenting; religious fundamentalism grew at a phenomenal rate. Smug liberals and the intelligentsia scoffed at the increase in religious fundamentalists, enraging them all the more. This movement back to rote conservatism was primarily on two fronts: the Middle East, and, the United States. To a lesser extent, the Roman Catholic Church retreated to some of its earlier stances, but the real backlash took place in the area bordered on the east by Mesopotamia, now Iraq (known as the birthplace of civilization), and on the west by the Mediterranean Sea. There, in the wake of the setup of the Jewish State of Israel from lands of the Palestinians, a cultural rift was torn in the fabric of quiet Arab nations. Palestinians were forced from their homeland to make room for a community of displaced and homeless Jews. The United Nations re-established the Jewish homeland in 1948, as Britain's Mandate over Palestine had expired. In this era of the first half of the twentieth century, nationalism had already taken its toll with the ridiculous conflagrations that culminated in World War One.
With the installation of a Jewish state on Arab soil -- on the heels of Hitler's 'special solution' of World War Two (the genocide of about six million Jews) -- all the world was sympathetic to them except for the displaced Palestinians. The latter half of the twentieth century witnessed a smoldering of Muslim reaction, first, with the 1967 War; the Lebanese Civil War; the assassination of Anwar Sadat; and the terrorist bombings of the U.S. Marine Barracks in Lebanon: the USS Cole; and the attempt to bring down New York City's World Trade Center. The latter three are attributed to al Qaeda, a Muslim fundamentalist movement self-commissioned to reverse "evil" Western influence in the Islamic region.
During the 1960s, America came under siege by leftist 'flower children,' idealists who demanded an end to nationalism, the status quo, and religious hypocrisy. The Silent Majority, the nation's churchgoing moderates and conservatives were offended at the arrogance of the liberals that sympathized with the impromptu take over of university class rooms and buildings, sit-ins protesting corporate excesses, and criticism of environmental abuse. The turning point in favor of reaffirming America's dedication to conservative doctrine may well have been the killing of four students, demonstrating at Kent State University in Ohio, in 1969. Since then, fundamentalist Christian churches have rebounded at the expense of the more staid mainline Protestant churches, which suffered serious decline in membership. Preacher Pat Robertson and to a lesser extent Jerry Falwell, Billy Graham, Oral Roberts) rallied President Nixon's Silent Majority, into becoming the Christian Coalition. Their mission: to push the fundamentalist message that the word of the Bible is without error -- and to get involved with politics. Their stance was adamant, to the point of being intolerant of less committed 'cafeteria' Christians. The Catholic Church mirrored this step back toward orthodoxy, through the efforts of Pope John Paul.
During all of this, nuclear proliferation was brought to a standstill and the threat of Armageddon was put on hold -- especially with the fall of the Soviet Union in 1989. For a short time, world peace appeared to be on the horizon if one overlooked the smoldering sectarian angers in America and the Holy Land. Mother Earth breathed a sigh of relief after the potential for nuclear exchanges between the United States and The Soviet Union ended.
To be sure, most societies were sensitive and appreciative of the needs of the planet: environmentalism took root like in no other era. Nuclear power was given additional thought after the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant accident. Power plants and automobile emissions were throttled somewhat, although politics dissembled gains, in exchange for Gross National Product, from time to time.
With the threat of nuclear war shelved, events on the surface seemed to stabilize -- except for the ideologue rhetoric, which some labeled a cultural war. In 1988 Pat Robertson ran for president as an evangelical, third party candidate, unabashed by an earlier prediction that the world would end in 1984.
Conservative Pat Buchanan campaigned for president, again as a third party candidate in 1992, highliting the Cultural War in a speech. Part of this war was to deny the doctrine of Separation of Church and State, stating unequivocally that the United States was founded on purely Christian principles. Other lay fundamentalist preachers ranted that organizations like the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) were vilified (incorrectly) as enemies of religion in general and Christians in particular. Both of these candidates lost their bids for office but advanced their base and agenda for intolerance and conservatism.
The smoldering embers of fundamentalist sectarianism continued to heat up on both sides of the planet.
Chapter Two
THE UNTHINKABLE HAPPENED
Dustin hardly voiced concern at first, "What do you make of that plane flying so low?" he asked his friend.
Troy answered, "That's weird, isn't it?"
"Damn straight!" Dustin's voice reverberated stronger. Stronger yet, he yelled, "Hell, man, it's headed for the World Trade Building!"
"Nah, it's an optical illusion." Troy rationalized, shielding his eyes from the bright blue sky. "He's goin' down the Hudson."
Just then the plane appeared to penetrate the tall skyscraper, but there was no noise -- just a surreal vision of orange-yellow flames shooting horizontally from where the wings should be. Then, as both young men opened their mouths, the noise impacted them rendering mute their horrific reaction.
September 11, 2001, dawned as a beautiful day on the east coast of the United States. Ten strapping, young Muslim men boarded two passenger air carriers at Logan Airport in Boston, presumably to fly to the West Coast. Another ten male Muslims were on the passenger roster to board transcontinental flights from Newark's international airport to the West Coast. Only nine showed up -- Flight 93 would have only four murdering terrorists. Of course, the rest is history as the two flights from Boston were hijacked in mid-air before reaching cruising altitude. The first plane, flight eleven, impacted the north tower of the World Trade center at the 92nd /98th floor levels, forty-three minutes into its flight. What horrible events took place in its cabin during that time interval is open for conjecture, but they were most certainly like children's play in comparison to what happened upon the plane crashing into the building.
As Troy and Dustin were running uptown for cover, they spotted another low flying plane. "For Chrisakes, pinch me so I can wake up!" Dustin yelled. They turned to watch another -- lower -- impact on the second tower, the South Tower, of equal height.
The smoke and debris followed not far behind as the sound waves finally confirmed the fireball they had just witnessed.
"This must be war!" Troy uttered, dumbfounded. "But who are we at war with? Who the hell would do this, . . . bombing innocent civilians?"
Dustin couldn't find the words to answer, but ducked around the corner of a building to catch his breath. Sirens blared in every direction drowning out Troy's unending stream of questions. People running -- some stopping to look back at the impossible sight; hands holding their heads in disbelief; mothers consoling their children; old men covering their heads with their coats; cops with whistles in their teeth, their eyes showing too much white.
"Yeah, it's war." Dustin heard himself say. "But I don't think it's the Ruskies."
"Oh yeah . . . then who?"
"For God's sake, Troy, gimme a break! I don't know the answer to every goddam question!"
They walked north for another ten blocks as emergency vehicles going the other direction passed them by at countless regularity. "God, some of those guys gotta be going to a certain death." Dustin opined, turning to look at a wailing fire engine that just passed them.
Troy nodded in agreement. "I need a drink!"
"Yeah, me too. But I don't know any place around here." Dustin did a three-sixty. "Prob'ly everything closin' up in case of more attacks."
"It ain't that I'm thirsty . . . I just want to see what they have on TV."
"Guess we'll have to keep hoofin' it . . . no cabs -- buses are filled, and the subways are all backed up."
Troy and Dustin were new to the City, sharing an apartment east of the metropolis, on Long Island, and were couriers at a Wall Street brokerage house. They were on their way to work when they saw the first plane.
"We gotta light somewhere, . . . call in or somethin'."
"Yeah," Dustin grunted.
Then they heard a terrible groaning sound that seemed to encompass the whole downtown area. "Jesus Christ, one of the towers is collapsing!"
Troy back pedaled. "It don't look good for the home team!"
"Why don't we cross town 'n see if we can find a bar or restaurant that's got a TV on?" Dustin suggested.
"Okay, too much emergency traffic here."
They finally found a lounge across town that had not closed its doors, and Troy called into work. "Nobody there!"
"Prob'ly evacuated." Dustin said.
"Well, let's order an eye-opener." Troy said as he slid onto a barstool, watching the television all the time.
"You been downtown?" the bartender approached.
"Yeah . . . guess there won't be any work today." Troy answered. "Who the hell did this to us?"
"Yeah, are we under attack?"
"Flight manifests contain names of Saudi Arabians, they're sayin'. Too early to tell though." The barkeep reported. "It wouldn't surprise me if it's a bunch of religious Muslim whackos, . . . like that Egyptian co-pilot who tail-spinned a perfectly good airliner into the drink out past Long Island several years ago."
"He did it for Allah, didn't he?"
"Yeah, . . . this plane.s for you, Allah, for all that you do." Troy punned.
Dustin considered for a moment his friend's play on the well-known Budweiser pitch line. It summed up the fundamentalist Muslim attitude of Jihad against Westerners extremely well. He remembered something caught on the flight recorder -- the deluded co-pilot saying something to the affect: 'I let the fate of this airplane into your hands, Allah. Allah akbar! Allah akbar!'
They chased the eye opener with another Jack Daniels, and stared, mesmerized by the continual replay of the jets impacting New York's two highest buildings.
Later that evening at their apartment, the events of the day were clearer. Fourteen of the nineteen hijackers were young and jaded Saudi Muslims, drunk with a religious mission -- and guilty of having too much time on their hands.
"Over 4,000 dead or missing in New York alone, they say." Troy said, looking at his colleague of four months. "And another 50 some dead in your neck of the woods."
"Yeah, that's all my state needs is another adverse commemorative site like Gettysburg and Valley Forge."
"What do you think their motive was?"
"Religion -- pure and simple." Dustin offered. Seventy-two vestal virgins greeting them in heaven for bloodying the Great Satan, America."
"Bush says that Islam is a religion of peace."
"Uh huh."
"Yeah, I think he's full of shit too!"
"Troy, we gotta do something. If this is the beginning of a religious war -- like the Crusades of the eleventh and twelfth centuries -- it could very well be the Final crusade."
"If that's the situation, aren't you getting your wish?"
"Whad'ya mean?"
"You being an atheist an' all . . . what does it matter to you if all the religious types kill off each other? That wouldn't be any skin off your ass, would it?"
"They deserve no less."
"So why do you suggest that something be done? It seems the players are taking position to do your bidding."
"That's true. But you have to look ahead at what this planet will be like after they've done everything they can to do each other in." Dustin looked up at the ceiling with hands clasped beneath his chin. After a while, he looked questioningly at Troy, "Wanna go with me to the next Humanist meeting?"
"Uptown?"
"Midtown . . . you remember, at the main library. We could get a bite to eat after work, then mosey up to the library; they meet there every other 2nd or 3rd Thursday, as I recall."
"Yeah, it's been awhile . . . some good lookin' chicks come to those meetings -- and they're not just pretty faces either!"
A week past and the two young men headed uptown, as planned, to the library meeting. They arrived ten minutes early and were hard pressed to find seats.
"Wow, I've never seen such a turnout." Dustin remarked.
"Must be a sign of the times."
"Yeah, they're still comin' through the door."
Noise emanated from every corner of the smallish room, as chairs scraped the hard- wood floor. A tall slender man in his fifties, with a good head of slightly graying hair, looked out at the crowd. His gaze suddenly shifted toward the hall side of the room as a question was hurled at him.
"Andrew, 'r we in a religious war?"
Andrew bit his lower lip and held up both hands with palms out in a gesture of mollification. "I'll answer your question after everybody is done socializing."
The noise dropped to a murmur and faces turned toward the front of the room.
"Abe has asked a very good question, boys and girls." He panned the room while he collected his thoughts to answer. "Wars are usually defined by the winning side. But as this one has just started; I guess the reason for the attacks on us lay with the attacker . . . and they have spoken resoundingly to the affirmative."
Andrew took a deep breath, as the room suddenly was very quiet. He had been the Council for Secular Humanism - New York City affiliate's leader for five years, and pretty much garnered the respect of the audience -- if that were at all possible considering that it was easier to herd cats then a group of agnostics and atheists. "Of course, the Bush administration pooh-poohs that premise, labeling this action as an anomaly -- an
aberration of overt zealous religiosity, if you will."
"Anomaly my ass!" someone with a Brooklyn accent piped up.
"They can't be satisfied with expecting to live in heaven for all eternity . . . they gotta have our planet too!" someone else added.
"Now, now, Islam is a religion of peace!" another mimicked President Bush.
"Okay . . . okay, . . . " Andrew sought to regain control. "This is going to be war -- but not of our choosing. We just got to sit it out 'cause we honestly don't have a dog in this fight."
"Yeah . . . but my kids, and my neighbor's kids, will be called to fight for honor, God and country!" The comment was followed by a number of loud approvals.
The crowd grew noisier as Andrew tried to head them off with upraised hands again.
Dustin looked at Troy and repeated his concern: "You know, this is a very serious conundrum America faces."
"Why would you say somethin' like that, . . . just 'cause two of the world's highest skyscrapers have been brought down?"
"You know, Troy, sarcasm isn't very becoming of you."
"So what're you gonna do . . . my main guru?"
"I've gotta idea!"
"You gonna sue a mullah or somethin'?"
Dustin ignored Troy's attempt at humor, drifting into contemplation. He was the deep thinker of the two business administration grads. They had met in their first week of employment at the brokerage firm of Peyton, Pierce and Slaughter, back in June. Both were MBA candidates seeking summer employment in the Big Apple, hoping to gain experience before entering their masters program. Rarely does one, let alone two, BA types chase social liberalistic ideals, but these two were particularly dissed at the growing hypocrisy of their respective hometown environments. Stocks and bonds were their love, but, incredibly, social and cultural ideals were their passion.
"Listen, you idiot!" Dustin's eyes sparkled. Dustin Irwin was of medium build, ruddy with a height just shy of six feet. He had brownish hair that he parted in a manner not to call attention to himself. An introverted sort who only recently found comfort among others.
Troy Saylor was taller by three inches, with a barrel chest that reverberated when he laughed ﾖ which was often; then his reddish hair setoff the sparkle in his blue eyes.
"Have you read any of Isaac Azimovs stuff?"
"Oh, yeah!"
"Have you read the Foundation trilogy?"
"Sure."
"Then you remember Dr. Harry Selden, the founder of psychohistory?"
"Of course."
"You know . . . that's something that should be put into play now."
"Psychohistory?"
"No, no!" Dustin realized he was jumping ahead of himself. "No. What Selden did was to anticipate the future -- knowing that the future could be influenced by abnormal forces. In his case, it was a mutant intelligence."
"So you think we should be seeking a present day Nostradamus?"
"I think that those who could influence the future are in this very room -- among other like minded intellectuals out in the world."
"Oh, wow!" Troy rolled his eyes. "The intellectuals in this room?" he said, scanning the growing pandemonium.
"Well . . . some channeling needs to be done -- committees and so forth. It's obvious Andrew hasn't a clue how to harness the latent talent available in here."
"And, you do?"
"Don't you think something should be done -- now?"
"Yeah, I guess. . . but what are you getting at? It's a tall order to try and correct somethin' -- like what happened last week."
"As Selden did, we might put together a plan to work toward."
Troy's eyes opened wide at Dustin's burning enthusiasm. It was an attribute he found compelling in his friend -- a man of ideas, and perhaps vision -- one of few who he trusted to follow.
"Troy, we've seen some of the high rollers that come and go at the office. You know -- one them is socially minded similar to George Soros." Suddenly, Dustin's open hands were cutting up and down as to emphasize a point, "We have some awesome resources at our disposal if we can only do some effective channeling -- focussing on a Harry Selden-like mission!"
"You are a dreamer!"
"Any better ideas?"
"Why do we have to do anything? What you're proposing seems like a hell of a lot of work to me!"
"Yeah, we don't have to do anything. But as sure as God made little green apples, Bush is going to have our troops re-arranging sand dunes in Afghanistan. I know that's going to eat at me -- getting into a war that doesn't have to be fought."
"You forget you don't believe there's a God. Besides, most of the holy-roller types --and there's a fair number of them that helped get him elected -- seem to want vengeance."
"Yup . . . those fundamentalists never seem to make any sense, do they? 'Thou shalt not kill' really means: 'Thou shalt not kill your own kind.' And 'Turn the other cheek' really isn't in their play book at all. But then, "There always will be wars and rumors of wars' will be the Religious Right's mantra for going into Afghanistan . . . and God knows where ever else."
| |
| |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|