Michael Shaara - 2066 - Election Day.pdf - Michael Shaara - widez2

Michael Shaara

Michael Shaara (1929-88) was one of the bright young SF writers of the early

1950s, who left the genre in 1957 after producing a number of fine short stories,

and later wrote a boxing novel and the Pulitzer Prize-winning American Civil War

novel, The Killer Angels (1974). Most of his short stories are collected in Soldier

Boy (1982), along with an afterword reminiscing about his early days in science

fiction, the excitement of selling to John W. Campbell’s Astounding , the

frustrations of dealing with genre markets. Algis Budrys remembers that Robert

Sheckley, Michael Shaara and he were the hot new writers of 1952-53.

After the generally positive editorial reaction to Soldier Boy , Shaara

completed an SF novel, The Herald (1981 - actually published before the

collection, which was delayed, but not published as a genre novel, since Shaara

had won the Pulitzer and his publisher was certain that a genre label would

compromise his, and their, reputation). The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction

praises his writing for its “quick, revelatory ironies about the human condition.” I

recall joking with him in 1982 that this, of all his stories, was predictive and that it

had already come true. It is still coming true.

* * * *

2066: ELECTION DAY

arly that afternoon Professor Larkin crossed the river into Washington, a thing he

always did on Election day, and sat for a long while in the Polls. It was still called

the Polls, in this year A.D. 2066, although what went on inside bore no relation at

all to the elections of primitive American history. The Polls was now a single

enormous building which rose out of the green fields where the ancient Pentagon

had once stood. There was only one of its kind in Washington, only one Polling

Place in each of the forty-eight states, but since few visited the Polls nowadays, no

more were needed.

In the lobby of the building, a great hall was reserved for visitors. Here you

could sit and watch the many-colored lights dancing and flickering on the huge

panels above, listen to the weird but strangely soothing hum and click of the vast

central machine. Professor Larkin chose a deep soft chair near the long line of

booths and sat down. He sat for a long while smoking his pipe, watching the

people go in and out of the booths with strained, anxious looks on their faces.

Professor Larkin was a lean, boyish-faced man in his late forties. With the

pipe in his hand he looked much more serious and sedate than he normally felt,

and it often bothered him that people were able to guess his profession almost

instantly. He had a vague idea that it was not becoming to look like a college

professor, and he often tried to change his appearance - a loud tie here, a sport

coat there - but it never seemed to make any difference. He remained what he

was easily identifiable, Professor Harry L. (Lloyd) Larkin, Ph.D., Dean of the

Political Science Department at a small but competent college just outside of

Washington.

It was his interest in Political Science which drew him regularly to the Polls

at every election. Here he could sit and feel the flow of American history in the

making, and recognize, as he did now, perennial candidates for the presidency.

Smiling, he watched a little old lady dressed in pink, very tiny and very fussy, flit

doggedly from booth to booth. Evidently her test marks had not been very good.

She was clutching her papers tightly in a black-gloved hand, and there was a look

of prim irritation on her face. But she knew how to run this country, by George,

and one of these days she would be President. Harry Larkin chuckled.

But it did prove one thing. The great American dream was still intact. The

tests were open to all. And anyone could still grow up to be President of the

United States.

Sitting back in his chair, Harry Larkin remembered his own childhood, how

the great battle had started. There were examinations for everything in those days

- you could not get a job streetcleaning without taking a civil-service examination -

but public office needed no qualification at all. And first the psychologists, then the

newspapers, had begun calling it a national disgrace. And, considering the caliber

of some of the men who went into public office, it was a national disgrace. But

then psychological testing came of age, really became an exact science, so that it

was possible to test a man thoroughly - his knowledge, his potential, his

personality. And from there it was a short but bitterly fought step to - SAM.

* * * *

SAM. UNCLE SAM, as he had been called originally, the last and greatest of all

electronic brains. Harry Larkin peered up in unabashed awe at the vast battery of

lights which flickered above him. He knew that there was more to SAM than just

this building, more than all the other forty-eight buildings put together, that SAM

was actually an incredibly enormous network of electronic cells which had its

heart in no one place, but its arms in all. It was an unbelievably complex analytical

computer which judged a candidate far more harshly and thoroughly than the

American public could ever have judged him. And crammed in its miles of memory

banks lay almost every bit of knowledge mankind had yet discovered. It was

frightening, many thought of it as a monster, but Harry Larkin was un-worried.

The thirty years since the introduction of SAM had been thirty of America’s

happiest years. In a world torn by continual war and unrest, by dictators, puppet

governments, the entire world had come to know and respect the American

President for what he was: the best possible man for the job. And there was no

doubt that he was the best. He had competed for the job in fair examination

against the cream of the country. He had to be a truly remarkable man to come

out on top.

The day was long since past when just any man could handle the

presidency. A full century before men had begun dying in office, cut down in their

prime by the enormous pressures of the job. And that was a hundred years ago.

Now the job had become infinitely more complex, and even now President

Creighton lay on his bed in the White House, recovering from a stroke, an old, old

man after one term of office.

Harry Larkin shuddered to think what might have happened had America

not adopted the system of “the best qualified man.” All over the world this

afternoon men waited for word from America, the calm and trustworthy words of

the new President, for there had been no leader in America since President

Creighton’s stroke. His words would mean more to the people, embroiled as they

were in another great crisis, than the words of their own leaders. The leaders of

other countries fought for power, bought it, stole it, only rarely earned it. But the

American President was known the world over for his honesty, his intelligence, his

desire for peace. Had he not those qualities, “old UNCLE SAM” would never have

elected him.

Eventually, the afternoon nearly over, Harry Larkin rose to leave. By this

time the President was probably already elected. Tomorrow the world would

return to peace. Harry Larkin paused in the door once before he left, listened to

the reassuring hum from the great machine. Then he went quietly home, walking

quickly and briskly toward the most enormous fate on Earth.

* * * *

“My name is Reddington. You know me?”

Harry Larkin smiled uncertainly into the phone.

“Why… yes, I believe so. You are, if I’m not mistaken, general director of the

Bureau of Elections.”

“Correct,” the voice went on quickly, crackling in the receiver, “and you are

supposed to be an authority on Political Science, right?”

“Supposed to be?” Larkin bridled. “Well, it’s distinctly possible that I - ”

“All right, all right,” Reddington blurted. “No time for politeness. Listen,

Larkin, this is a matter of urgent national security. There will be a car at your door

- probably be there when you put this phone down. I want you to get into it and

hop on over here. I can’t explain further. I know your devotion to the country, and

if it wasn’t for that I would not have called you. But don’t ask questions. Just

come. No time. Good-bye.”

There was a click. Harry Larkin stood holding the phone for a long shocked

moment, then he heard a pounding at the door. The housekeeper was out, but he

waited automatically before going to answer it. He didn’t like to be rushed, and he

was confused. Urgent national security? Now what in blazes -

The man at the door was an Army major. He was accompanied by two

young but very large sergeants. They identified Larkin, then escorted him politely

but firmly down the steps into a staff car. Larkin could not help feeling abducted,

and a completely characteristic rage began to rise in him. But he remembered

what Reddington had said about national security and so sat back quietly with

nothing more than an occasional grumble.

He was driven back into Washington. They took him downtown to a small

but expensive apartment house he could neither identify nor remember, and

escorted him briskly into an elevator. When they reached the suite upstairs they

opened the door and let him in, but did not follow him. They turned and went

quickly away.

Somewhat ruffled, Larkin stood for a long moment in the hall by the hat

table, regarding a large rubber plant. There was a long sliding door before him,

closed, but he could hear an argument going on behind it. He heard the word

“SAM” mentioned many times, and once he heard a clear sentence: “…

Government by machine. I will not tolerate it!” Before he had time to hear any

more, the doors slid back. A small, square man with graying hair came out to meet

him. He recognized the man instantly as Reddington.

“Larkin,” the small man said, “glad you’re here.” The tension on his face

showed also in his voice. “That makes all of us. Come in and sit down.” He turned

back into the large living room. Larkin followed.

“Sorry to be so abrupt,” Reddington said, “but it was necessary. You will

see. Here, let me introduce you around.”

Larkin stopped in involuntary awe. He was used to the sight of important

men, but not so many at one time, and never so close. There was Secretary Kell, of

Agriculture; Wachsmuth, of Commerce; General Vines, Chief of Staff; and a

battery of others so imposing that Larkin found his mouth hanging embarrassingly

open. He closed it immediately.

Reddington introduced him. The men nodded one by one, but they were all

deathly serious, their faces drawn, and there was now no conversation.

Reddington waxed him to a chair. Most of the others were standing, but Larkin

sat.

Reddington sat directly facing him. There was a long moment of silence

during which Larkin realized that he was being searchingly examined. He flushed,

but sat calmly with his hands folded in his lap. After a while Reddington took a

deep breath.

“Dr. Larkin,” he said slowly, “what I am about to say to you will die with

you. There must be no question of that. We cannot afford to have any word of

this meeting, any word at all, reach anyone not in this room. This includes your

immediate relatives, your friends, anyone - anyone at all. Before we continue, let

me impress you with that fact. This is a matter of the gravest national security.

Will you keep what is said here in confidence?”

“If the national interests - ” Larkin began, then he said abruptly, “of course.”

Reddington smiled slightly.

“Good. I believe you. I might add that just the fact of your being here,

Doctor, means that you have already passed the point of no return… well, no

matter. There is no time. I’ll get to the point.”

Michael Shaara - 2066 - Election Day.pdf

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