19

The Town Meeting

(Sunday: 7:07 P.M.)

Although the monthly Big Sky town meeting was officially convened to conduct business pertinent only to Big Sky, it had in practice evolved to include public issues affecting the entire colony. LaGrange, North Torus, and South Torus were theoretically supposed to have their own separate sessions, but their meetings had been subsumed in the Big Sky meeting for a number of reasons. The affairs of the communities were simply too interlocked for the business of each one to be conducted independently of the others; since Big Sky was the county seat, it made sense for the monthly “town” meeting to be held there. So, in reality, it was a county meeting; the name remained unchanged only because the session was modeled after the traditional New England town meeting system.

Big Sky’s meeting hall was the site of the monthly gathering. The long building in Settler’s Square, with its gabled roof and steepled bell tower, served as a nondenominational church on Sunday mornings and as a Hebrew synagogue on Saturdays. Once a month the altar was removed and replaced with a long table for the six elected members of the county Board of Selectmen. A mike stand was set up in front of the table for use by members of the public.

Three cameras were set up in the hall to televise the proceedings on Channel 2. Because the meetings could be watched at home, attendance was generally sparse. In fact, the majority of the colony’s residents paid little attention to the monthly town meeting. Except when elections were held of when the annual county budget was being determined, few of the residents troubled to show up.

It was no wonder. The monthly agenda was usually concerned with prosaic, necessary, and boring matters: construction permits for new housing in Big Sky or South Torus, commercial licenses for new businesses in LaGrange or on the Strip, reports on soybean production by the Ark, discussion of the proposed purchase of updated tutorial software for the county school, and debate on whether to curb bicycle racing on Broadway during nighttime hours. All in favor say aye. All opposed shall signify by snoring loudly.

This month’s meeting was going to be different.

Standing in the back of the hall behind one of the TV cameras, John Bigthorn watched as the bamboo pews began to fill with residents. Already most of the seats were taken, and many people were standing against the wall. Thanks to Blind Boy Grunt and the rumor mill, word had gotten out that tonight’s meeting was going to be important. Maybe even interesting.

The agenda was printed on the docket being handed to each person as they walked through the door. At the bottom of the long sheet of paper, underneath routine items like a proposed surcharge on imported soap and a declaration to have October 5 made a legal holiday in honor of Robert H. Goddard’s birthday, were two late additions. Once again, Bigthorn glanced at the sheet in his hand:

“Item 17: (Schorr, J., for the Public)—Calling for a declaration of independence by Clarke County as an independent, sovereign nation.”

“Item 18: (Schorr, N., for the Board)—Calling for a vote to dismiss John Bigthorn from his position as Sheriff of Clarke County.”

Neil must have gotten the clerk to add Item 18 only this morning. Jenny had submitted Item 17 yesterday, before …

Bigthorn blinked and pulled his eyes away from the docket. The lung transplant had been a success and her internal hemorrhaging had been stopped, but Dr. Witherspoon still had Jenny on the critical list. If the sheriff thought about it too much, he might agree with the last-minute motion submitted by Neil Schorr to have him fired. He couldn’t help but feel responsible for Jenny’s predicament. If he hadn’t challenged Ostrow …

Enough of that, he scolded himself. You were doing your job, whether Neil knows it or not.

Remembering the Golem, Bigthorn unclipped the phone from his belt, pushed a couple of numbers, and held it to his face. “Station Thirteen, report,” he said softly.

Station Thirteen here. Wade Hoffman’s voice came over the line. We’ve got a hot time in the old town tonight, John.

Hoffmann was out of sight, but closer than anyone but Bigthorn and a few other department officers knew. He was staked out in the bell tower on top of the meeting hall, where he could see all of the square, including the front and sides of the Big Sky town hall just across Settler’s Square. “What’s going on out there?” Bigthorn asked.

The Elvis nuts are still camped out in front of Town Hall. Parker’s got some sort of sit-in going but Sharon still has the front door locked. And there’s more people arriving for the meeting.

“It’s getting a late start.” Bigthorn glanced around the room again. “I don’t see the Exec Board. Are they out there?”

Yeah. There’s some politics going on out here. Neil Schorr’s talking to a few people near the statue. He looks pretty worked up about something. Probably you. And Becky Hotchner’s right below me with another bunch of folks. You can bet they’re talking about the independence move.

“Never mind that now,” Bigthorn insisted. “Ostrow’s the only thing I want you to worry about. Have you checked in with the others?”

Affirmative. Rollie and Sharon are in the station. Rollie’s working on the diskettes the girl brought us. Danny’s on foot patrol around town, and Cussler’s holding down the Strip. I just talked to them. No one’s seen anything yet.

“Tell ’em to keep sharp,” Bigthorn said. “Ostrow won’t be wearing a name tag, y’know. If you …”

There was a mild commotion at the door. Bigthorn looked up to see Rebecca Hotchner, Neil Schorr, and their supporters filing into the room. Bob Morse, who had been sitting in a pew with a couple of other people, got up and walked over to the table, where the three other members of the Board of Selectmen were already seated.

“The meeting’s about to start,” Bigthorn said. “You’ve got the ball. If something happens out there …”

I’ll give you a buzz. Good luck, Chief.

The sheriff smiled. Wade knew how much he hated the word. “Thanks,” he replied. “Station Twelve out.”

He clipped the phone back on his belt. It was a standing-room-only crowd in the meeting hall, but nobody seemed to want to be near him. Indeed, a few people were studying him with sidelong glances. It was no wonder; he himself was an issue at this meeting. By the time it was over he would either still be the sheriff of Clarke County, or he would be out of a job.

Bigthorn ignored the covert attention. He settled his back against the wall and stuck his thumbs in the corners of the trouser pockets. “Okay,” he muttered, “it’s showtime.”

It was one hell of a show. From the moment Bob Morse banged his gavel and called the meeting to order, there was trouble.

The Board of Selectmen was a curious entity: three vocal members of the Executive Board sitting with three quiet junior members, each of whom was politically allied with one of the Executive Board members. Morse, as board chairman and Mayor of LaGrange, was supported by Kyle Wu, the other elected representative from LaGrange. Both were moderates. Neil Schorr found his political ally in Lee Shepard, another member of the New Ark and the representative of the South Torus community, which was largely populated by New Ark members. Whatever Neil said, Shepard automatically seconded. Their position was nearly always on the far left. And while Rebecca Hotchner in her role as liaison for the Clarke County Corporation was seated as a non-elected member, she was supported by Frederick Pynchon, a Skycorp engineer who represented North Torus. His constituency was the smallest in the county, but nearly all of the North Torus residents were employed by one of the consortium’s member companies. Hotchner and Pynchon, therefore, constituted the Board’s conservative vote.

Which meant that Clarke County’s government was less of a board of six members than a subtle troika of three duos. When all three parties were working toward the same goals and had the same broad interests, docket items were quickly discussed and voted upon. This was usually the case, but this meeting was one of the exceptions.

As soon as the meeting was called to order, Neil Schorr made a motion to skip the first sixteen items on the docket and begin discussion of Items 17 and 18. Shepard seconded the motion, but it was immediately opposed by Rebecca Hotchner, who made the countermotion (seconded by Pynchon) to have both items tabled until a future meeting, after the appropriate studies were conducted by ad hoc subcommittees.

She might have gotten away with this maneuver under any other circumstances. But Bob Morse noticed general unrest from the unusually large audience, which obviously wanted these items discussed sooner rather than later. In the best parliamentarian fashion, Morse first called Hotchner’s motion to a vote by the Board, then he and Wu sided with the Big Sky representatives in voting against it, with Hotchner and Pynchon voting in favor. The same two-thirds majority won when, subsequently, Schorr’s motion was voted upon.

The mood of the crowd became apparent when they applauded and cheered the votes. Morse banged the gavel again and sternly reminded them that this was an official government function and not a basketball game. The crowd hushed itself, but the look on their faces told the truth: they were here for a public debate, and were not interested in maintaining political decorum and restraint.

As Hotchner gazed stonily at him, Morse yielded the floor to Neil Schorr. Schorr stood up for his speech; this was not customary practice at the meetings, but it caught the attention of the audience. Morse and Wu remained impassive while Shepard grinned and Hotchner made a histrionic display of appearing disgusted, which Pynchon obligingly aped. The meeting was hardly ten minutes old, and already the lines of battle were drawn.

“Members of the Board, fellow residents of Clarke County, comrades of the New Ark …” he began.

“Friends, Romans, countrymen …” Pynchon stage-whispered, which earned him a few laughs from the pews and a scowl from Morse. Pynchon shut up, smiling smugly.

Schorr ignored him. “My wife, Jenny, entered a motion for public discussion at this meeting, regarding whether Clarke County should declare itself as a self-reliant, independent nation.” He looked down at the table for a moment. “As some of you know,” he continued, “she was critically injured last night in an explosion in Big Sky … of unknown origin, or at least so we are told.”

Another pause. The room was absolutely still. “However, there’s good reason to believe that she was the intended target of forces which oppose the idea of independence for Clarke County,” Schorr said. “In short, someone wanted Jenny dead before she could spread her message. The identity of the culprit is still unknown, but the motive is obvious. If they could silence her voice, then they could silence an idea.”

It was as if the bamboo pews had been electrified and someone had thrown a switch to send a few volts through the buttocks of the audience. Suddenly, everyone sat up straight, their eyes locked on Schorr. For once, Rebecca Hotchner had discarded her air of detachment; she looked as if she were ready to leap out of her chair and throttle Schorr. The rest of the selectmen stared at the New Ark leader with looks of bewilderment or outright anger.

In the back of the room Bigthorn found his own jaw going slack. Did Neil actually believe that the bombing which had put Jenny in the hospital was an act of political terrorism?

He flashed upon Schorr’s parting remark that morning at Clarke County General, during their brief encounter outside the ICU ward … “I already know who did it.” No, he didn’t. He couldn’t. The Golem’s existence had deliberately been kept secret. Schorr didn’t have a shred of evidence to support his allegation. And yet, without any evidence, he was insinuating that the Clarke County Corporation was behind Jenny’s “attempted assassination.”

Perhaps he doesn’t need proof, Bigthorn thought. He looked at the alert faces of the crowd, then caught the expression on Becky Hotchner’s face: stunned, bewildered, defensive yet speechless. No wonder Schorr’s been a leader for most of his life, the sheriff reflected. He knows how to rile people, how to manipulate emotions against logic. Maybe he doesn’t believe it himself. Hell, maybe it doesn’t matter whether he believes it.…

Neil’s making his grab for power. The thought occurred to the sheriff with sudden, diamondlike clarity. The son-of-a-bitch’s wife lands in the hospital, and he uses it as political leverage. Even if he has to lie about why it happened, he’s spotted his big chance.

Bigthorn folded his arms across his chest, shaking his head in admiration despite himself. “I’ll be dipped in dogshit,” he murmured.

As if he’d heard Bigthorn’s comment, Schorr stared straight across the room at the sheriff. “This attack occurred at the home of John Bigthorn, our county sheriff, who’s sworn to protect us all,” Schorr said, his voice gradually rising to gather the force of moral outrage. “The fact that our senior law officer stands among us tonight, relatively unscathed, while my wife lies in a near-coma, facing death …”

He paused, as one set of eyes after another fastened upon Bigthorn. “It cannot help but cast doubts on his ability to protect us,” Schorr went on.

Whatever admiration Bigthorn felt for Neil Schorr instantly vanished. The little bastard knows better, he thought. He knows why Jenny was at my house, and now he’s going for revenge. Son of a bitch!

Neil turned back to the audience. “Yet our first priorities must rest elsewhere, at least for the time being.” His voice was lowered now. The matter-of-fact voice of calm and reason. “We are all familiar with the situation I refer to. Clarke County is a colony, but it has been effectively colonized not by the United States, but by those who sit in corporate boardrooms in New York and Huntsville, Tokyo and Bonn and London.”

Murmurs of agreement from the audience. “Their principal interests are not our own,” Schorr continued. “We are concerned with finding a good life for ourselves and our families, with carving out a home on a new frontier, with building a community based on hard work and personal sacrifice.…”

He stopped and sighed expressively. “Their interests, however, begin and end with making money. No more, no less. The most expedient measures are preferred over the slower, evolutionary task of homesteading. Any profit which we … each and every one of us, as individuals … may make from our labors, inevitably flows back to them, in the form of ever-rising rents, surcharges, and tariffs. And meanwhile …”

Schorr grinned ruefully and shook his head. “Meanwhile, they send us another shipload of Elvis Presley cultists, who sit in our town square and tell us not to step on their blue suede shoes.”

Scattered laughter from the crowd. Everyone had seen the Church of Elvis protesters on their way into the meeting. Bigthorn smiled grimly. Neil was tapping a deep, long-dormant vein of frustration here.

Becoming somber again, Schorr held up his hands for silence. “Ladies and gentlemen, the time has come for us to make an important decision. Will Clarke County … our home, the first community in space … be guided by forces not in our own hands? By forces that do not necessarily reflect our own best interests? Shall we submit to being tools of remote economic powers which care little for our own needs and those of our children?”

Again he paused, allowing everyone to chew on that thought, while he cast his eyes around the room as if to ask the question of each individual whose gaze he met.

Then, in an abrupt fury that shattered the calm, he crashed a balled fist down on the tabletop. “Or shall we declare independence?” he shouted.

That was it: the moment he found the right button to push.

Half of the crowd surged to their feet and shouted back: “Yes!”

When the police had come to take her into custody, Oliver Parker knew that in the long run Mary Boston would be nothing but trouble. He was certain of that when the maintenance man showed up at the Big Sky town hall. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

If he’d had a choice in the matter, he would not have led a vigil outside the town hall to protest her arrest: All things considered, he would much rather have returned to the Strip tonight, this time to get ripped and comfortably screwed as only the Dark Elvis could. But when Mary Boston, or whatever her name was, had been apprehended in that little gimmick shop in LaGrange, she had not been alone. When the police hauled the woman away, her brothers and sisters from the Church had followed.

So now here he was: sitting in the town square; surrounded by his followers, who insisted upon singing every song Elvis Presley had ever recorded; waiting either for the police to release Sister Mary (fat chance) or to die of terminal boredom (much more likely). It was a good thing he was wearing his sunglasses; otherwise, someone might have seen from the look in his eyes that the Living Elvis was filled with anything but holy rage.

They had been here for about four hours now. If it had been his choice, Parker would have said, “Well, okay … we’ll come back tomorrow, gang, and see if we can post bail. Let’s go get something to eat.” However, he couldn’t do that. He was constrained by his own role; he had to be perceived as leading his followers in the good fight. Religious persecution and all that …

So, even if his buns were aching from sitting on the hard pavement for so long, he wasn’t at liberty to suggest that it was time to give it up. Or even to second the motion to adjourn, had it been proposed by one of the flock … which hadn’t yet occurred. Fueled by self-righteous anger, they were determined to see this crusade through, even if it meant sitting here all night.

It looked as if that was exactly what was going to happen.

Sometimes, being a messiah was a pain in the ass.

The ragged chorus of “Heartbreak Hotel”—the fourth time it had been sung in so many hours—had just died out when the electric cart rolled to a stop in front of the town hall. Parker looked over his shoulder to see a tall man in gray coveralls, work vest, and cap climb out of the driver’s seat. He began walking around the crowd to the door. No one did anything to stop him; the Church of Elvis protesters knew better than to interfere with anyone going in and out of the building. Parker had made sure of that. Besides, this man was obviously the night custodian, coming to mop the floors and empty the wastebaskets.…

Yet, as he walked by, Parker did a double take. There was something oddly familiar about the man. As he climbed the front steps, Parker tipped down his shades to get a better look. As he did, the custodian briefly turned in his direction.

Even under the brim of his cap, his face was instantly recognizable to Parker. It was the guy whom he had met yesterday in the TexSpace Third-Class lounge. Another tourist.

Now this was weird. What the hell was he doing here, dressed as a janitor?

As the Church members swung into “Good Golly, Miss Molly,” the man stopped at the front door and slid a keycard into the slot. As the door buzzed and he opened it, he seemed to sense that someone was watching him. He looked over his shoulder and stared straight at Parker.

Parker felt a chill run down his spine. He had never seen eyes that were so …

Dead.

Then the “janitor” looked away. He entered the building, stepping through the door like a robot, letting the door shut behind him, unlocked.

Oliver Parker had an uneasy feeling that something was wrong. Something that had to do with Mary Boston.

Without really thinking about it, he stood up and began walking towards the door. The singers stammered; a few people reached up to touch his legs, to ask him what was going on. Parker ignored them. There was something wrong here … and there was a woman inside who was a member of his Church. Like it or not, he was responsible for her. His followers had made that clear to him.

“Elvis …?”

“Living Elvis, what’s …?”

“Is there something …?”

“Why are you …?”

He turned around, raising his hands to calm them. “It’s okay, brothers and sisters,” he said soothingly. “Elvis just wants to see about something. He’ll be right back.”

Then he hurried up the steps, pulled open the door, and walked into the town hall.

The corridor was dark. The ceiling panels were turned off; the only light came from the far end, through the glass doors of the Sheriff’s Department offices.

The hallway was empty.

Parker took a few steps forward, the heavy soles of his platform shoes tapping loudly on the tiles. He could see nothing, hear nothing but his own breathing. Suddenly, he was afraid. He stopped and swallowed.…

“Hello?” he said. “Is anyone there?”

An indistinct figure suddenly stepped out of an alcove several yards in front of him, blocking the light. Parker reflexively raised his hands.…

There was a muzzle-flash, a high rattle of gunfire, and Parker felt the bullets ripping into his chest and stomach.

The pain was explosive and brutal. His body slammed backwards into the door, then he slid slowly down its cool surface, leaving a long red streak on the glass.

Parker’s head lolled forward on his neck. As the pain enveloped him, as time itself expanded, he heard someone scream from somewhere behind him, a scream that seemed to last forever.…

Then darkness, numb and endless, enveloped him. Ollie Sperber had time for one clear, final thought …

Ladies and gentlemen, Elvis has left the building.