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commercials but he could not say that radio had been improved. There was an
unnewsy sameness to the propaganda which now came over the air. He checked
through while wishing for just one old-fashioned, uncensored newscast.
"Here's an item!" he said suddenly. "Get this, Dad "
"Read it to me, Ed." Dad's spectacles had been broken on Final Sunday. He
could bring down a deer, or a man, at a thousand yards but he might never
read again.
"'New Center, 28 April It is with deep regret that Continental
Coordinating Authority for World Unification, North American District,
announces that the former city of St. Joseph, Missouri, has been subjected
to sanitary measures. It is ordered that a memorial plaque setting forth
the circumstances be erected on the former site of St. Joseph as soon as
radioactivity permits. Despite repeated warnings the former inhabitants of
this lamented city encouraged and succored marauding bands of outlaws
skulking around the outskirts of their community. It is hoped that the sad
fate of St. Joseph will encourage the native authorities of all North
American communities to take all necessary steps to suppress treasonable
intercourse with the few remaining lawless elements in our continental
society.' "
Dad cocked a brow at Morgan. "How many does that make since they took
over?"
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"Let's see . . . Salinas . . . Colorado Springs . . . uh, six, including
St. Joe."
"Son, there weren't more than sixty million Americans left after Final
Sunday. If they keep up, we'll be kind of thinned out in a few years."
"I know." Morgan looked troubled. "We've got to work out ways to operate
without calling attention to the towns. Too many hostages."
A short, dark man dressed in dirty dungarees entered from a side tunnel,
followed by Margie. "You wanted me, Boss?"
"Yes, Jerry. I want to get word to McCracken to come in for a meeting. Two
hours from now, if he can get here.
"Boss, you're using radio too much. You'll get him shot and us, too."
"I thought that business of bouncing it off the cliff face was foolproof?"
"Well . . . a dodge I can work up, somebody else can figure out. Besides,
I've got the chassis unshipped. I was working on it."
"How long to rig it?"
"Oh, half an hour twenty minutes."
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"Do it. This may be the last time we'll use radio, except as utter last
resort."
Okay, boss.
The meeting was in the common room. Morgan called it to order once all were
present or accounted for. McCracken arrived just as he had decided to
proceed without him. McCracken had a pass for the countryside, being a
veterinarian, and held proxy for the colony's underground associates in
Barclay.
"The Barclay Free Company, a provisional unit of the United States of
America, is now in session," Morgan announced formally. "Does any member
have any item to lay before the Company?"
He looked around; there was no response. "How about you?" he challenged Joe
Benz. "I heard that you had some things you thought the Company ought to
hear."
Benz started to speak, shook his head. "I'll wait."
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"Don't wait too long," Morgan said mildly. "Well, I have two points to
bring up for discussion "
"Three," corrected Dr. McCracken. "I'm glad you sent for me." He stepped up
to Morgan and handed him a large, much folded piece of paper. Morgan looked
it over, refolded it, and put it in his pocket.
"It fits in," he said to McCracken. "What do the folks in town say?"
"They are waiting to hear from you. They'll back you up so far, anyway."
"All right." Morgan turned back to the group. "First item we got a
message today, passed by hand and about three weeks old, setting up another
provisional government. The courier was grabbed right under our noses.
Maybe he was a stooge; maybe he was careless that's neither here nor
there at the moment. The message was that the Honorable Albert M. Brockman
proclaimed himself provisional President of these United States, under
derived authority, and appointed Brigadier General Dewey Fenton commander
of armed forces including irregular militia meaning us and called on
all citizens to unite to throw the Invader out. All formal and proper. So
what do we do about it?"
"And who the devil is the Honorable Albert M. Brockman?" asked someone in
the rear.
"I've been trying to remember. The message listed government jobs he's
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held, including some assistant secretary job I suppose that's the
'derived authority'
angle. But I can't place him."
"I recall him," Dr. McCracken said suddenly. "I met him when I was in the
Bureau of Animal Husbandry. A career civil servant . . . and a stuffed
shirt."
There was a gloomy silence. Ted spoke up. "Then why bother with him?"
The Leader shook his head. "It's not that simple, Ted. We can't assume that
he's no good. Napoleon might have been a minor clerk under different
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