I wanted to bring in the aftermath of the revolution too. Which had a number of surprises . . .
(Durant is the protagonist of the novel, a Minute Man revolutionary who is put in charge of oppressing the people of his district until they realize how bad the government is and rebel. Arthur Carlson is the Chief of the Picked Guard, and simultaneously of the Minute Men [why does this sound like an A. E. van Vogt novel?], who is having his Minute Men do this nationwide. Really concerned about his people, isn't he?)
Carlson’s attitude was almost relaxed, as if some great burden had fallen from his back, and he could see the promised land — which, Durant remembered, Moses had never been allowed to enter. He listened calmly, with a certain concentration, to the speech.
“It’ll be a hard row to hoe,” Sadler said. “So many of the principles of the Democracy have been burned into young people’s souls.”
“Young people rebel. They can turn against those principles. What is it?”
One of the Picked Guards — a Minute Man, Durant corrected himself — had rushed into the room. “There’s a broadcast from Richmond. They’re just getting through the introduction . . .” and he changed the channel.
The man on the screen was a hard, bitter, perhaps twisted man. He stood before the Stainless Banner of the old Confederacy, and as the sound came up they could hear him.
“I’m Jake Featherston, and I’m here to tell you the truth!” he began, his face lit up with some glee. “Truth is, we here down in the old Confederacy have had it with Yankee interference. Boys have been flocking to the colors, and now, today, the Provisional Confederate Congress met here in Richmond and elected me President . . .”
Carlson passed a hand over his eyes. “I thought they would be mollified by the downfall of the Democracy. Turn it off. I can’t stand that man.”
“Sir?” Another Minute Man had come in. “There’s a broadcast from Toronto.”
“Are the old provinces of Canada declaring their independence?” Carlson said, a hint of pleasure in his voice.
“Uh, not quite . . .”
This man was a grave, distinguished person, with a certain ambiguity about him. The bloody flag of the Democracy with its single star was on the wall behind him. He was speaking slowly, precisely, “Greetings. I am Walter Trowbridge. I was once a Senator in the Democracy. The corrupt rulers, who destroyed our noble aims, removed me from office, and exiled me to the Frozen North. Now that these betrayers of the true aims of the Democracy have been expelled from power, we, the New Underground, are calling upon the supporters of the ideals that have empowered our nation since 1933 to join with us to restore them . . .”
“Trowbridge,” Carlson said, thoughtfully. “A full-score follower of the Democracy, one of the President’s lickspittles — until he began to show a little too much independent thought. The Military wanted him removed.”
Now another Minute Man came in. Carlson had men monitoring the air waves, and that seemed to have been a wise decision. He noticed the entrant and said, wearily, “What is it now?”
“There’s a report from Alberqueque. Apparently some group patched in a different speech. It apparently had the President — the old President — denouncing the Democracy and calling on the people to rise up. There are riots all across the former states of New Mexico, Arizona, and California, in the name of something called ‘The Covenant’.” He paused. “There was a message . . . the monitors claim it was from the broadcast station. It was taken over by an organized force and blown up after the speech was transmitted. They said, ‘The station is now off the air and demolition will take place in approximately thirty seconds. An attempt will be made to beat a retreat before the building goes up. Good luck.’”
Carlson seemed to slump.
About half an hour later, two other messages came on the air, almost simultaneously. One was from New York, where a Picked Guard detachment reported that all the bridges to Manhattan had been demolished, and numbers of Negroes with shaved heads could be seen marching around, arresting people and herding them away from the shores. This problem was resolved with a broadcast from the New York television studios.
The Negro who spoke looked like a prophet. He was absurdly tall, completely bald, and wore a long red robe. He knitted his brows in thought before speaking. “My name is Michael, and I am speaking to you from the temporary location of Equity, the nation for the oppressed African-American population of America . . .”
Then the other station broke in. “Hermanos, soy Maximilian Rodriguez de Santos . . .”
Carlson said, almost helplessly, “Does anyone speak Spanish?”
Fortunately someone was found, and as the others listened to the demands of this man in New York, he concentrated on the Mexican speaker. His final report was disturbing. “He has announced the restoration of the Republic of Mexico, with the Constitution of 1917, but with the boundaries of 1835. He officially denounced the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo and annulled the independence of Texas.”
Ten minutes later the radio waves went dead. Technicians scrambled around. A man came in and spoke to them. “All the frequencies are jammed. We can’t get a signal through. It’s like there’s a wall keeping the electronic spectrum shut off.”
Carlson was drained, helpess. “Isn’t there anybody around to obey an order? Isn’t there a brain left in this country?”
Then the radio and the television both burst into sound. “For twelve years, you have been asking ‘Who is John Galt?’ This is John Galt speaking . . .”
