SATURDAY, JUNE 2.: NEW PROMETHEUS (FORMERLY NEW ATLANTIS), WESTCHESTER, NEW YORK. In the post-election euphoria, just for the fun of it, some people call themselves Hintians or Caryites. Others prefer Prometheans. But they really treat it like an inside joke. Publicly, they proudly proclaim themselves only Americans, pure and simple. At her inauguration in January, Cary Hinton said, “Test my sincerity. We need to light the fire of unity and carry the torch of bipartisanship throughout the land. I will work with anyone who will work with me. We must restore balance in the country. In our light, others will see the light. We hold the flame, pass the fire, so others will thrive and be inspired. Beauty is truth, truth beauty.”
On this, the first Saturday of June, seven months after Moreland and his crew and sixty-seven years of Free-for-All economics went down to defeat, Hinton supporters in droves are making a pilgrimage to the dedication of New Prometheus, the former New Atlantis. The sky is a blue-blue, dotted with cotton-ball clouds; the air crisp and refreshing, odd for late spring; there is a gentle breeze. A line of motley vehicles is backed up for at least three miles on the highway south of the main entrance. Spilling from the sidewalk onto the road, three abreast, throngs are arriving on foot. The first car waiting to turn in is a late model van with a Kansas license plate. Behind it is a motor home with “Cooperville Express” painted on its side. Next is a bright yellow school bus. Above the entrance, over the massive iron gates, are the words “Of the people, by the people, for the people.”
Hinton immediately went for the jugular when she set out to create New Prometheus. “The people need a visual symbol that times have really changed,” she told her advisers. So, she made it a top priority to reclaim and rename the disgraced, bankrupt New Atlantis in the image of the United People of America and turn it into a legitimate think-tank for the honest, wholesome exchange of ideas. “If anyone wants to debate the plusses and minuses of Free-for-All economics, socialism, capitalism, the barter system, whatever, they may do so freely, openly, and without prejudice or recrimination at New Prometheus,” she insisted.
Hinton had all the money and support she needed for the development of New Prometheus from the Countess Isabella de Horsch, her biggest campaign contributor, who’s back to being Idabelle Sue Raft—and loving it. The now-disgraced Count Henry thought he rid himself of her for good when he threw her out of his limousine, penniless (he thought), on Fifth Avenue, like a used Kleenex. But she’s rolling in dough (his!) and has the last laugh. The “airhead,” who he thought didn’t know how to add, had siphoned millions from his accounts without his suspecting a thing and made copies of incriminating business records that “mysteriously” found their way to the media and the IRS. “Every woman better know how to sock her own secret stash away, any way she can, or she’s a damn fool,” she told her friend LuAnn Buford. “Men are not to be trusted—at least not the men I’ve known.” She contacted Cary Hinton through her campaign and became one of her closest and most valued advisors.
As visitors make their way into New Prometheus up “Main Street” (formerly Taggart Drive), strategically placed monuments remind everyone of why and how the Galtian Restoration died. At the first turn on the left, stretched proudly across two giant oaks, is the first “John Galt Is Dead” banner that flew over New Atlantis a year ago. At the next right is the “Taj Mahal” from the Manhattan Cooperville, which Billy Buford built for the love of his life, LuAnn. The one-room shack was transported and reassembled, piece by piece—corrugated tin roof, the door that Billy insisted on painting red for good luck, the Chinese wind chime—as though it were a Michelangelo sculpture. Even the cowbell was refastened next to the front door. Next to the Taj is a black marble gravestone engraved in gold with the words “R.I.P. Billy Buford.” Idabelle posted a $50,000 reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of Billy’s murderer, but to date no one has come forward or been found.
At the next left, sits a ten foot tall, wire-mesh basket filled with empty bottles of Atlas Energy Drink and a smashed Titan WholeBody Harmony Machine. Strewn around them are fifty naked manikins in various exercise postures and nameless grave-markers. At the next turn is the bronze statue of the frail, innocent, young victim Adam, helplessly lying on the ground, a horse poised above him, on the verge of trampling him to death. Behind “Do Not Cross—US” tape is an unbroken picket line made up of fifty life-size sculptures—men, women, and children holding hands—that stretches about 120 feet along the road. At the end of the line, at the crest of the road, is a mob of fifty people huddled together around a flagpole, at the top of which is a flag with the words The United People of America.
Below, a vast, open expanse of manicured lawn stretches in a gentle decline to the walls of the People’s Pavilion (formerly d’Anconia Pavilion). The octagon-shaped, flying-saucer-like building continues to dominate the landscape. In the island in front of it, a flame burns from a massive torch, in front of which, on a marble slab are the words “Fire: The Gift of Prometheus.” The massive, gold dollar sign that used to dominate the gleaming, copper roof has been replaced by a sculpted metal flame emerging from a torch, an exact replica of the live flame below.
Overnight, hundreds camped out in RV’s and on the lawn in tents and sleeping bags. According to the security officers who signed them in, they came from all fifty states (even Hawaii!). Hard times made many of them tough and resilient, but not callous. For years, many had lived in Coopervilles out of desperation, but made the best of it. But now, because the economy had improved under Hinton’s policies, all the encampments have disappeared, so they were enjoying a night out-of-doors—by choice, under compassionate stars. Last night, a spontaneous folk concert started at 9 p.m. No less than twelve guitars, four banjos, three recorders, and two harmonicas appeared out of nowhere—and, like wandering troubadours, kept the music playing into the early morning hours. Starting at 6 a.m., people were cooking breakfast; the smell of coffee and bacon was everywhere.
Since the doors opened at 11 a.m., the crowd has been streaming into the 7,000seat People’s Pavilion. By the standards of haute couture, it is a ragtag, motley crew, indeed; but by the guiding principles of representative government, it is a pure, robust picture of democracy-in-the-flesh, a parade of boundless diversity: men, women, and children of all sizes, shapes, and colors, sharing one priceless thing in common—a look of pure joy, almost innocence, on their faces, as though they’ve been freed from some indescribable oppression, they’re drugged on the pure joys of life, and are loving every minute of it.
The lobby of the Pavilion is bare except for a towering twenty-four foot, muscular, bronze statue of Prometheus in the middle. The monumental figure is crouching and in chains attached to a boulder. He’s struggling to free himself, plaintively looking straight ahead, his eyes saying “help me.” Every muscle in his body is taut; his veins are almost popping. In his outstretched right hand, he holds a palmful of clay, like that from which he created humanity; in his left, he holds a lighted torch, with which he gave fire, life and knowledge, empowering his creation. The midday light from a skylight intensifies the agony of the right side of his face and the ecstasy of the left. This is the quintessential hero—Prometheus, at once suffering but beyond suffering, struggling to regain his freedom, but nourished by the notion that he is paying the ultimate price for sacrificing himself for the betterment of the world. On the front of the pedestal are the words “In your light, let there be light.”
There is no price of admission. There are no trinkets or souvenirs to buy. It’s open seating, no reserved places, strictly first come, first served. On the middle of the three walls at the back of the stage, a 10‘ x 20’ national flag is mounted—one large white star in the middle, fifty alternating red and blue stripes behind it. “Of the people” is painted in black on the wall to the left of the flag; under the flag, “By the people”; and on the wall to its right, “For the people.” On the remaining five walls surrounding the audience, stained glass windows carry different messages: “Equality for All,” “Justice for All,” “Empowerment for All,” “Freedom for All,” and “Opportunity for All.”
At 2 p.m., all 7,000 seats are filled and people are standing along the walls. Outside, thousands have gathered before giant TV screens to watch the program. Over the loudspeaker, the voice of Randall Griffin says, “Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United People of America, Cary Hinton.” And from stage left, Hinton strides forward in slow, sure steps, waving to the crowd, which is on its feet and chanting “Cary, Cary, Cary!” When she reaches the podium, she smiles as she drinks in the audience, pointing to people she recognizes and mouthing a silent “Hey, there” when she sees them. After five uninterrupted minutes, like a happy seal, she waves both hands up and down, signaling the crowd to be seated. Instead, they shout “Cary, Cary, Cary” even louder. She laughs and shakes her head. “You’re too much,” she shouts. Finally, after about another five minutes, they take their seats.
“Wow,” Cary says, clearly overcome. “You are too much, too too much.” She pauses to breathe in and compose herself. “You all know why we are here,” she continues. “But I never tire of saying it: We are here to dedicate New Prometheus, your home and the home of the Flames of Democracy and the United People of America. It is nothing less than a reawakening, a new birth of true freedom and self-fulfillment on this continent.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” the audience shouts, again jumping to their feet and applauding, taking their seats after about five minutes.
“It has been a long, hard struggle to reach this day. And we are here only because of all of you and others like you. We pause as well to remember those who are no longer with us, but who are part of the spirit of this day and the new spirit that has swept across this land: The young Adam whose life was cut short in the vicious attack on the National Mall Cooperville; Billy Buford, an economic refugee from the evils of Free-for-All economics, who was murdered in the Manhattan Cooperville; and all the others, whose names we may never know, but who will forever be part of us.
“Since my inauguration in January, the Constitutional Convention has met to establish the principles and the shape of the government of the United People of America. Through social media like Facebook and Twitter, through town halls and videoconferences, its members have listened to the citizens of this great country. Today, we have come together to affirm and breathe life into the spirit of their words—your words—and to dedicate ourselves to achieving their goals—your goals.
“It is with great pride and commitment, my fellow Americans, that I read the preamble to our new Constitution: ‘From this day forward, let the word go out to all people and places of the world. We, the men and women of the United People of America, declare our free, complete, and independent sovereignty and our dedication to the Five Flames of Democracy as expressed in the inviolable principles of Equality, Justice, Empowerment, Freedom, and Opportunity for all.’”
Next to the podium stands a five foot high candelabrum with five large candles in it. “To dedicate ourselves to the first Flame of Democracy, I’d like to call upon Mr. B, the ‘mayor’ of the Central Park Cooperville, to light the candle representing ‘Equality for All.’” As Mr. B makes his way from the right side of the pavilion, where he has been standing against the wall, Hinton continues, “Known only as Mr. B while he organized and protected the thousands of homeless men, women, and children who were victims of Free-for-All economics, he still prefers to go by that name. Mr. B was the last person to leave the Central Park Cooperville—and he was glad the chapter in our history that created the need for it is over. But he has told me that he cherishes his time in Cooperville as Mr. B because he came to know the greatest people in this country—average, decent, caring, hardworking men, women, and children who may be down on their luck but who are full of spirit. No one embodies our belief in equality for all more than Mr. B.”
After Mr. B lights the candle and leaves the stage, Hinton declares: “We light the flame of ‘Equality for All,’ never taking it for granted. From the radical idea of total equality, the heart and soul of this nation flows. It is our lifeblood. Each and every citizen of the United People of America, regardless of our differences, enjoys the same inalienable rights. A right extended to one is extended to all, without exception. A right denied one is denied to all, without exception. For the first time in the history of this country, that means women have equal rights; they are no longer second-class citizens. Fundamental rights may not be abrogated or abridged. The majority rules, but any vote that tramples on or takes away the inalienable right or rights of individuals and minorities is null and void.”
Next, Hinton calls on LuAnn Buford to light the flame symbolizing “Justice for All.” As Buford joins her on stage, Hinton says, “No one knows the crippling effects of injustice more than LuAnn Buford. To this day, the murderer of her husband Billy has never been found and brought to justice. And she suffers the hurt and anguish of that every day, because in the Corporate States of America she and her husband were abandoned. Agents of the law did not keep them safe or come to their defense when their rights were violated.” As Buford returns to her seat, Hinton continues, “Throughout the United People of America, every man, woman, and child must rest assured that the law protects them; that Justice is blind; that they don’t just have equal rights, they are treated equally before the law; and that there is a single, impartial system of justice. Judges, whether elected or appointed, must rule free of political and personal bias.
“Idabelle Sue Raft, will you please join me?” As the former Countess de Horsch makes her way to the stage, Hinton says, “Idabelle is without a doubt the ‘Mother of New Prometheus.’ Everyone in the United People of America owes her a debt of thanks. At the lowest point in my campaign for president, when I had almost no money and little moral support, Idabelle appeared out of nowhere. A total stranger, she contacted my campaign office and asked, ‘How can I help?’ I had no idea how to answer. So, I said, ‘I need whatever you’ve got to give.’ Well, that turned out to be time, money, and commitment. From that day forward, Idabelle was there for me—no matter what I needed, how much I needed, or when I needed it.” As Idabelle lights the candle, Hinton continues, “She is the perfect person to light the flame of ‘Empowerment for All.’
“Idabelle’s contribution has funded the establishment of New Prometheus out of the ashes of New Atlantis. We are here today because of her—and only her. Count Henry de Horsch, a symbol of Free-for-All economics gone wild if there ever was one, used her and abused her and then got rid of her when it suited him. He had no idea that she had taken charge of her life, had empowered and protected herself—at his expense. Idabelle has given us the last laugh: Look around! The count has been the archenemy of everything we stand for. But now, thanks to Idabelle, his money has made New Prometheus possible—not to mention my presidency.”
As Idabelle returns to her seat, Hinton asks a child to join her on the stage, chosen at random from the audience. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Susanne.”
“How old are you?”
“Six.”
“And where are you from?”
“Oklahoma.”
“That’s a long way away. Who are you here with?”
“My momma and my poppa.”
“Well, they should be very proud of you. I’m going to hold you up and help you light the next candle.” After she does so, Susanne returns to her parents.
“Susanne lit the fourth flame, signifying ‘Freedom for All.’ Who better to do it than a six-year-old who has her whole life ahead of her and for whom freedom means her ability to realize her full potential, whatever she chooses for herself?
“Finally, Roger, please join me.” As he gets up from the front of the pavilion, where he has been sitting on the floor and walks toward the stage, Hinton says, “Like so many others who once lived in Coopervilles around the country, Roger still chooses to use only his first name, even though he is now working and able to provide for his wife Anne. I have asked him to light the flame signifying ‘Opportunity for All’ because he is Adam’s father, the young Adam who was brutally assassinated when police swarmed the National Mall Cooperville.”
Shaking Roger’s hand as he takes his place next to her, she says, “I know how hard this is for you and Anne. I know that there is never a day or a moment when you don’t think of Adam, the frail young boy for whom every day, even the best day, was a struggle to stay alive. He never had the opportunity to reach his full and glorious potential.”
As Roger lights the candle, she continues, “Today, and every day, in Adam’s name, we dedicate ourselves to providing opportunity for every man, woman, and child in the United People of America. The UPA is a meritocracy. There are no inherited rights or privileges. You are rewarded in this country because you are the best at what you do. Our constitution outlaws political parties that too often stifle opportunity and the private financing of campaigns that favors special interests over the public interest. It establishes term limits for all elected officials, including members of Congress, of course. The spirit of Adam lives. John Galt is dead!
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, please stand and join with me in reciting the Pledge of Allegiance: “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United People of America and to the republic for which it stands, one nation, indivisible, with equality, justice, empowerment, freedom, and opportunity for all.”
“I’ve heard just about all I can stomach,” Mortimer Gayle shouts as he stands and identifies himself as head of the Corporate Council of Presidents Cooper and Moreland. Shaking his right fist at Hinton, he yells angrily, “You’re filling their heads with socialist propaganda, lies, and deceit. I represent the only people, the real people, who made and who make this country great…”
The audience stands up and interrupts with boos. One man hollers, “It’s not just you! It’s everyone!” A woman in the back screams, “Put that lying corporate thief in jail!”
“No, no, that’s all right! Calm down, everyone,” Hinton says, holding both hands up, Buddha-like, palms facing the crowd. “Let him continue. He’s angry and upset, so let’s try to put ourselves in his shoes. Go on Mr. Gayle. This is your chance to get everything out. We’re listening.”
“There wouldn’t be a thriving economy without us. There wouldn’t be a country without us. We create jobs. We pay salaries. We take all the risks. We are the people who have made this country great. You can’t survive or thrive or stay alive without us. Remember what happened when John Galt and the others went on strike. You’re dooming this country to extinction with your pie-in-the-sky talk. You’re fooling everyone if you think they can do anything without us. The people you say are everything really are nothing without us. And you’ll find that out soon enough. Big deal: You’ve been in office for six months. At the end of the next six months, if you keep filling people’s heads with such rubbish, the country will be bankrupt.”
“Thank you for sharing, Mr. Gayle,” Hinton responds. “Let me remind you that I was elected by the people of this country, the same people whom you would appear to consider trash, beneath you, insignificant in the scheme of things—your scheme of things. Moreland and his gang—you, too, I’m sure—did everything they could to keep me from winning. But all of you failed! How many millions did you and your corporate cronies contribute to Moreland? It must really kill you that, for the first time, your money didn’t do you any good. You couldn’t buy what you wanted. Isn’t that what you think, that everything has a price and, as long as you can pay it, no matter what you had to do to get the money or who you might have hurt, you’re entitled to get what you want?
“Well, now, it’s time for you to listen and to face reality, if you have the guts to. ‘The people’ have been awakened. They’ve felt their power. And they’re standing up for themselves. The game you’ve played is over. You lost. You’ve thrown your flames at us. But we don’t return fire. We’re not aiming for you, Mr. Gayle, or anyone else. It may sound hokey to you. But look at what’s burning beside me—the flames of equality, justice, empowerment, freedom, and opportunity for everyone, including you. They’re real! There’s absolutely nothing phony about it. We mean what we say. Don’t look so surprised. You’re one of us. It’s not beneath you to be one of ‘the people.’ I know it may shock you, but equality, justice, and all the other values are not just campaign slogans we use to fool people into voting for us. We believe them. We live by them. They are the blood that runs through our veins. They are all that matters to us.
“Have you been asleep for the past hour? Has nothing that has been said here registered on you? Do the words ‘for all’ mean nothing to you? Are you really so callous or dense or deaf or are you just pretending not to understand who we are and what we stand for? I’d like to give you the benefit of the doubt, but you make it very hard, Mr. Gayle. What did you think when you saw Susanne come up and light the Flame of Freedom? Nothing? Dollar signs? How could you not look at her and see the promise of tomorrow in her just being alive? How could you not feel a responsibility, a desire, a commitment to make the world a better place so she can thrive? She could become a researcher who finds a cure for cancer. Or she could thrive as a writer or artist or musician. Or she could become a mother whose greatest joy in life is to care for her husband and children. Surely, something in you wants the best for her, though you’ll never see her again. You know she exists, like millions of others. She’s you and me.
“And what about Roger, mourning the death of Adam? Aren’t you outraged and ashamed to think that an innocent, frail, young boy was trampled to death by a cop on a horse sent by the man you elected president, because he didn’t want to be reminded of the economic disaster he and people like you created? Can you feel the helplessness of a father holding the crushed bones and lifeless flesh of his son in his arms? Can you hear the screams of disbelief of a mother who first learns that the spark of life she brought into the world has been snuffed out? Or are certain people like you so blinded by greed that you are incapable of feeling. Do you only see numbers on your corporate balance sheet and care about profits in your pocket? Are you dead to other people?
“Obviously, you still don’t understand or you have a short memory or both. Do you only choose to remember John Galt’s strike? Don’t you remember what happened when your stores were swarmed, when ‘the people,’ the ones you think don’t matter, went on strike, and you couldn’t do any business? Haven’t you learned that it takes two to tango? You and others like you are just some of ‘the people who have made this country great,’ to use your words. It appears that you still don’t accept that you are not the only people who count. That kind of thinking, and the behavior that follows from it, was what was wrong with the CSA: It produced wild, unchecked, antidemocratic greed. And it led to your downfall.
“Don’t shake your head dismissing me,” she warns him, pointing with her right index finger. “And don’t you dare call what I stand for socialism. Yes, I can read your mind. I stand for democratic capitalism, for ensuring a level playing field on which each and every person in this country can achieve his or her potential—a pure meritocracy. That’s a far cry from what you and Free-for-All marketers want and wanted—and got for decades: a system rigged so you could reap millions, make that billions, from average, hardworking men and women: All for some but none for all!
“You seem to forget you were caught redhanded and the whole world has heard your heartless scheming. Everyone knows that you were at the secret meeting with Cooper and your partners in crime to profit after the hurricane hit Florida. It was a crime, you know. Everyone heard how you plotted to make millions off of other people’s misery. People were literally dying, but you were thinking only of how you could steal their land out from under them and put your department stores in better locations than they were in before the hurricane hit. I honestly don’t know how people like you sleep at night.
“For decades, we’ve heard your mantra, and the mantra of Free-for-All economics, that government is the cause of all of our problems, not their solution. It’s wasteful, unproductive, and obstructionist, you and others have insisted. On the flip side of your broken record, you’ve repeated that business does everything right and good. But we know the truth, we know that Free-for-All economics is a smokescreen for you to lie, cheat and steal.
“We’ve done it your way for decades. Boy, I’ve got to hand it to you and the others. You sold ‘the people’ a bill of goods and they fell for your promises of the good life! You rolled them, and they just rolled over for you. The Corporate States destroyed the lives of millions of Americans. But times have changed—forever. People finally woke up and saw that business and government don’t mix. A successful business and good government operate under a different set of values and goals. Boards of directors and Wall Street don’t reward CEOs because they create a lot of jobs. Investors and owners are interested in bloated profits, not big payrolls. Our republic was not conceived as a series of profit centers created to line the pockets of corporations. You can no longer invoke our founding fathers while you pervert their ideals and twist their words. In the United People of America, there’s a firewall between business and government. And anyone who tries to cross it gets burned big time.
“Of course, under some circumstances, government and business may be complementary. When it is in the public interest, government should support the for-profit sector—certainly not create unreasonable barriers to success. But breach the firewall, tilt the balance to profit over people, and you get the corporate welfare state, except no more!
“Have you forgotten what happened when your money put CEOs in the Oval Office? Ham Cooper was incompetent, but at least he self-destructed. Ironically, he and his Administration, in cahoots with New Atlantis, did away with all regulations on the development, testing, and distribution of prescription drugs and medications—which led to the Atlas Energy Drink fraud and criminal prosecution and his getting forced out of office. But most of his predecessors were downright thieves. The first president of the CSA was Boss Roper. He was in the front pocket, the back pocket, the hip pocket, under the thumb, and on the short leash of big business. He made the case for naming the country the Corporate States of America—and, once that was done, he replaced his cabinet with a Corporate Council that drafted a new constitution that transferred executive power to them. It was a coup, but the people hardly knew what hit them.
“Everyone said Roper had a ‘ten-gallon smile,’ because when he took a bribe, he always tipped his hat, smirked, and put the checks under it. More than once, he’d forget he had a fresh stash under there, play the gentlemen to a passing lady, and scramble to pick up the ‘letters from his pen pals,’ as he called them. He signed over government leases for oil and gas rights for just enough money to make them seem like legal transactions and deregulated energy prices so they went up fifty percent in two years. He peppered his rhetoric with populist twaddle and a homegrown twang, promising to rescue America from bad government. But he made his real money from the company he founded, but which he turned over to his son, that raked in billions from a nobid contract to sell computers made in Mongolia that had no hard drives to what was left of federal agencies.
“And then there was President ‘Bucks’ Cott. His real name was Burton, but no one ever called him that. He had a sign on his desk that read ‘Your bucks stop here.’ It took him three terms in the Oval Office, but, when he was through, he had turned every government agency and health program over to private businesses—half of which he’d invested in and the other half his wife owned. And these are the good guys you made president, Mr. Gayle—because eventually we knew what they were up to, even if we couldn’t stop it.
“But the crowning glory of the CSA was the Political Stock Exchange and Commodities Market, an idea Hilton Manfreed hatched at New Atlantis. H.R. ‘Horse’ Trott was president then. They called him ‘Horse,’ because he was famous for trotting out of any jam he got himself into and letting everyone else take the blame. Well, the two of them held a news conference to announce the PSECM. As Manfreed explained it, it was just another example of ‘the beauty’ of the market: like pork bellies, the futures of elected officials and candidates would be publicly traded. That way, politicians could make millions, and average Americans could buy and sell them and make a profit. Under the Exchange, Trott could have become a stock corporation while he was running for president. Investors who were smart enough to buy shares in his IPO could have made a killing when he was elected and his price-per-share skyrocketed. When I was elected, I announced that my first act as president would be to disband the PSECM by executive order. Immediately, prices plummeted. That was the quickest way I knew to clear out the Congress. I’m guessing you took a big hit, Mr. Gayle. But you know how it is in the marketplace: You take risks. You win some. You lose some. This time you lost big. But you can win again by working for ‘the people.’
“Mr. Gayle, the CSA turned this country into the equivalent of a dead land crab—an empty shell, picked apart and left to rot on the beach. You’ve gotta feel the desperation that average people feel. You’ve gotta get your humanity back. I’m convinced it’s still there, although you haven’t really tapped into it for a while. I forgive you. We all forgive you. Now, you’ve gotta forgive yourself enough to do the right thing. I’m not asking you blindly to believe me. I’m not a saint. But I’m sure as hell not a sinner, either. I’m asking you to work with me to make things happen as we all want them to. You give a little. I give a little. I give a lot. You give a lot. Before you know it, we may actually be able to work together. It isn’t gonna take a miracle for this to happen; it’s gonna take rational people coming together. If you’re ready to come to the table and work together with others as an equal partner to create a fair and just society, I welcome you, we welcome you. But I stress the word together, Mr. Gayle. Profit, yes, of course you’re entitled to it, but not at any cost—especially not at the cost of your soul! The days of profit over people are over.
“Thanks for hearing me out, Mr. Gayle. I rest my case. You don’t have to tell me now whether you’re on board. Only time will tell. I’m ready whenever you are. Together, we can change the world. If not, I’m gonna do my best to do it with everybody and anybody I can find. ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty.’
“Before we leave here today, there is another group of people whom I want to acknowledge, though they insist upon remaining anonymous. Without them, we would not be here, I would not be here, and there would be no United People of America. The world knows them as members of the Prometheus Project. Individually, they are known as Zeus, Olympus, Pandora, Mercury, and Adonis. Individually, each is enormously powerful. Together, once aroused, they are unstoppable. They remain the sworn enemies of the followers of Atlas, who so drug themselves, that they lose reason and judgment and turn their victims into objects of crass exploitation. The Prometheus people are living breathing human beings, but they are also symbols of the undying spirit of ‘the people,’ a force beyond any one person’s or any group of people’s ability to trample and suppress forever. They rose up before and they and others like them will rise up again if we, or others, betray their trust.”
As Pete Seeger’s version of “This Land Is Your Land” is piped in over the loudspeaker, Hinton walks down from the stage and makes her way over to Mortimer Gayle, who’s taken aback.
“Come with me,” she says, smiling, beckoning him to join her, then taking him by the hand so together they walk up the middle aisle of the pavilion, shaking hands with and greeting people. Leaning against the back wall of the pavilion is a young, red-headed man. When Hinton reaches him, she shakes his right hand with hers, then places her left hand warmly over both of theirs. He’s the last person she sees before she exits by the back door.
The young red-head thinks to himself, How much has changed! How much remains to be done! Exactly one year ago today, Hilton Manfreed tried to humiliate him when he dared to ask a question about the morality of Free-for-All economics. He laughs now thinking of how, a little later that day, he smirked as he watched Manfreed’s minions leaving the d’Anconia Pavilion, outraged at the “John Galt Is Dead” banner flying over head. Just a year ago, he had no idea that those four words would spark a revolution.
Startled by a loud ringing, he quickly reaches into his pocket to silence what he assumes is his cell phone, only to discover that it isn’t the source of the noise. He wonders what tomorrow will bring, and the day after, and the day after, and a year from now—and if he should wonder at anything or just take one day at a time, instead of killing the moment as usual with premonitions of what might be. Something is definitely troubling him. He can’t put it into words. But he can see it—a fuzzy, amorphous grayness that gives him a funny feeling in his stomach, like nothing he’s ever felt before, a feeling that could foreshadow impending delight or doom, but without a clear cause or even the certainty that it’s simply one or the other. It might be both, he thinks. Here I go again, driving myself crazy. I can never just let things be.
The ringing gets louder. What the hell is that? Who the hell can that be? he wonders. Am I the only one who hears that infernal noise? But as aware as he is of “something out there,” he refuses to let it or any of life’s petty annoyances distract him. Nothing is going to keep him from relishing every minute of being at New Prometheus this minute, today. History is being made, and he can say he has been here from the beginning. It’s been like a dream-come-true. EPILOGUE