Beltway

By Michael Schulkins

It's not the real world . . . it's Beltway.

Before he knows what hit him, regular guy Clement Green has fallen down the rabbit hole and finds himself in Beltway, the nation's capitol as you've never seen or imagined it before. Sworn in as freshman Copulant from the great state of Bucolia, Clem is soon up to his hips in handlers, red ink, bureau-rats, invisible committees pushing mysterious trillion dollar legislation, indigestible publicity stunts, and high-flying political intrigue involving a Kixass billionaire and a spotted cow.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Schulkins
• Release date: Mar 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370445813

Michael Schulkins

Michael Schulkins was born and raised in California, and although he has checked out repeatedly, he has of course been unable to leave. He lives with the love of his life in a classic mid-century modern house in Silicon Valley, just an iPhone’s throw from Apple Galactic Headquarters. Michael attended several universities and eventually emerged with two degrees in physics, one in music composition, and minors in math, political science, philosophy, and poker. He subsequently spent twenty years teaching physics, and now writes full time. His novels include the comic crime capers Mother Lode and Sting Suite, and the out-of-this-world political satires Beltway and Up A Tree: A Jobs and Plunkitt Galactic Adventure. All of Michael's books will give you a good laugh, but they'll also make you stop and think.

Book preview

PART I

LEARNING THE ROPES

Chapter 1 ASK NOT FOR WHOM YOUR COPULANT TOILS; HE TOILS FOR ME.

I believe that no one in the history of politics ever became a copulant with less effort on his own behalf than I. Most people who become members of the Copuleat spend years toiling in the vineyards of public service, pressing the flesh, eating rubber chickens, and talking to strangers about things they don't understand. But not me. I just woke up one morning and read about it in the paper. The whole campaign was over before I'd finished my first cup of coffee. According to the Gristville Millstone-Enterprise, I had just been appointed by the Governor of Bucolia to fill the Lower Body seat left vacant by the recent, untimely death of our beloved local surrogate, Samuel Sway.

Needless to say, I was honored. I was also shocked, and somewhat confused. As far as I could remember, I had never even applied for the job. And since I hadn't been invested by the people in the usual way, which at least gives you a little warning should you happen to win, I was woefully unprepared for the job. At the time, like most Bucolics and, indeed, most citizens of this country, I knew little or nothing about what goes on in Beltway. Like most citizens I only thought about government once a year, when I paid my annual tribute to the Eternal Revenue Service. Like most citizens, I punched my ballot card at investiture time about the same way I picked numbers in the state lottery, and with about the same expectations. But I have been well brought up, so I knew enough to know a great responsibility had been given to me, probably by mistake.

It soon became clear that my lack of political savvy was widely recognized in the district. As soon as the word of my appointment got out I was offered a great deal of advice on what it takes to be a good copulant. I welcomed this advice, but I must admit I was generally more confused after I received the advice than when I was wholly ignorant. No doubt, I thought, it will all sort out nicely once I'm established in Beltway.

My father was the first to offer guidance. He invited me over for dinner to congratulate me on the appointment, which, oddly enough, didn't appear to have taken him by surprise at all. After dinner my mother discreetly excused herself and my father took me into his study for a brandy. Dad's study has always symbolized the responsibilities and rewards of the adult world for me, and I'm sure that fact was in the back of his mind when he sat me down in the old red-leather wing chair and handed me a snifter of Courvoisier.

He sat down opposite me and swirled his drink thoughtfully. Son, he began, the Green family has traditionally had a keen interest in politics.

This was news to me. Perhaps my ignorance of this great family tradition is due to my mother's influence. As I said before, I was well brought up, and Mother always insisted that politics is to be treated like religion among decent people. It is fine to believe—in fact, belief is much to be preferred over atheism, which is very tacky—it is even acceptable to believe fervently, passionately, but one mustn't annoy people by talking about it. If you keep at it you'll soon find that you are never invited anywhere decent and you'll have to spend your evenings bowling. This, she insisted, is a fate worse than death.

So we in the Green family go to church twice a year like nearly everyone else and are proud members of the Minority Party, but we're quietly, politely proud. But, I must admit I have suspected at times that my father hides a streak of fanaticism. I think he has even been to a political convention.

If you say so, Dad, I agreed weakly.

I do say so, son, he insisted, in spite of your mother's feelings in the matter. Now, you have been given a great honor, and I want you to understand the responsibilities that go with it.

Good. Just what is it I'm responsible for? I asked.

You are responsible for the people of your district, he said.

But what am I responsible to them for, responsibility-wise, that is? I knew I'd committed gibberish but I let it stand.

I can see you're a bit confused by all this, Clement. Let me try to explain what I mean, he said kindly.

Please do, I coaxed.

Your first responsibility, he began, is to keep the economy of the district healthy and productive.

Who, me?

Yes, of course you. And you do this mainly by defending the sacred principles of free enterprise and healthy competition that have made this nation great. You speak out for the ideals and freedoms we all hold dear, he intoned.

Oh, rhetoric, I thought. That was reassuring. I could do that. I had been on the debating team.

And, he continued, you must never forget that a sound economy begins at home. Do you know what that means?

Don't run up the charge accounts while I'm in Beltway? I guessed.

Son, I think you're being deliberately obtuse, he scolded. Home means Green Industries.

Green Industries, also known as Grind, is the family business.

What does Grind have to do with Beltway? I asked.

Clement, you must try to think politically for a minute. He shook his head. Perhaps I was wrong to recommend you for this job, he said sadly.

Dad had recommended me to the Governor? I was deeply touched. I resolved to try my best to think politically as often as possible, as soon as I could figure out what that meant. I was more determined than ever to make Dad proud of me.

Maybe I should have tried to spring your brother for this job, he said, despite the, um—obvious complications involved. His talents are really far more suited for this kind of work than yours are.

Dad was obviously indulging in a little playful hyperbole at my expense. My brother Willard is currently a long-term guest of the county, investing some time at the local honor farm on account of investing some money that didn't exactly belong to him.

You can count on me, Dad, honest, I said as earnestly as I could. I just need a little brushing up on this political stuff.

I know you'll do your best, son. The point is that those fancy-pants assholes in Beltway are always sticking their noses in everybody's business. Especially business's business. So you have to make it your business to keep their noses out of ours. Understand?

I think so . . . Yes, definitely. I just had to appear on top of things.

Now, Sam Sway was very good to Grind—we were pretty good to him at investiture time, too. Dad chuckled. He kept the other Beltway assholes off our neck most of the time, and he also threw us a piece of the action whenever he could, which was more and more often in recent years, bless his lecherous old heart. Do you understand?

I think so . . . Yes, definitely.

Good. Just remember this if you get confused. He leaned forward to emphasize his point. Green Industries Mills is the biggest employer in Gristville, and in the whole damn district for that matter. People count on us. So what's good for Grind is good for Gristville, and, I need hardly mention, is especially good for you.

I see what you mean, Dad, I said. And I did.

But, just when I thought I was beginning to understand what he was saying, he concluded with this cryptic remark: Son, just remember, your job is to bring home the bacon.

He walked me out to the car.

Next, I was granted an audience with the Governor, so that he might share his wealth of experience in politics with me. When I arrived at his office he shook my hand warmly and sat me down in one of the chairs in front of his desk. He sat behind the desk and flipped a switch on the intercom.

Ms. Delicto, hold my calls, he instructed. Then he turned to me and said with a smile, "Well, Copulant Green, I suppose you must be pretty excited about going to Beltway?"

What could I say? Yes, sir, I said. It's quite an honor.

It certainly is, my boy, and believe me, a lot of folks were hoping to pick that plum, but when your father told me about your keen interest in politics and how much you wanted the job—well, your father has been pretty generous with the Party over the years, and after all the help he gave us in my re-investiture campaign last year—well, you understand.

Wow! I thought. My father has the bug a lot worse than I figured. For his sake I hope Mom doesn't find out.

But, the Governor continued, I want you to understand, this clears the books. And more than that, it's up to you to make good, son. My butt is on the line on this one. I had to twist a few dicks to make this fly, you know.

Oh, boy.

I'll do my best, sir. I can promise you that.

I'm sure you will, son, but Sam Sway did quite a job for us down in Beltway. His shoes will be hard to fill, he warned.

I would certainly appreciate any advice you can offer on how to keep them full, I said. That didn't quite come out the way I'd intended, but apparently he understood.

Well, uh—Clem, isn't it? I nodded. Well, Clem, being in politics is a lot like being a plumber.

He'd lost me already. How's that, sir? I prompted.

As a copulant, he said, your first and most important job is to keep the pipeline to your district open, and in general keep the waters of federal largess flowing into Bucolia.

Not to make crucial decisions on the great issues of the day? I asked.

He waved the idea away. Oh hell, son, nobody cares about that stuff. That guff is only for pinko college professors and after-dinner speeches at the Rotary. All that counts is making sure Bucolia gets it's full share of Free Gifts and Valuable Prizes, he insisted.

I see.

I hope you do, son, because if the pipeline clogs up, you're going to find yourself high and dry. Do you understand, my boy?

I think so . . . Yes, definitely.

Good.

He said one more thing as he saw me to the door. Son, just remember, your job is to bring home the bacon.

Since the Copuleat was still at recess I had a chance to spend a little time in the local office. Sam Sway had been in the Copuleat for over three decades and his office has been in the same place for most of that time. The office is in a prominent store front on Main St. in downtown Gristville. I must have walked or driven by it a thousand times, but I'd never been inside.

The place was not quite what I'd expected. When I think of a political headquarters I always imagine a bright room full of hustle and bustle, with a bank of telephones staffed by cheerful, comely coeds from Gristville Community College, big posters with the politician's face hanging everywhere, and lots of red, white, and blue balloons being filled by pizza-gobbling volunteers with gas. But it wasn't like that at all. I guess that stuff is only for campaigns.

I opened the screeching aluminum screen door and walked inside. The place seemed quite dark to me after being on the street, and it smelled like dust. There was no movement inside but the slow spinning of an old electric fan set on low. There was no sound but the slow ticking of a clock. Despite the screen door, several flies buzzed lazily in the corners.

I have to admit I was sort of disappointed. There wasn't a comely coed in sight. The only people there were two older gentlemen. And, although it was only ten o'clock in the morning, they both appeared to be asleep.

The nearest of the two was a short, friendly-looking man with a round face and a round belly. He wore a straw fedora, a loose red tie, and wide suspenders. The other fellow was tall and lean and wore a baseball cap with the name of a tractor company on it. He slept with his feet on one of the old wooden desks.

I walked over to the nearest of the men and nudged him gently. He stirred slightly and looked up from under his hat.

Office is closed, son, he said sleepily. Sam Sway's dead. You'll have to come back when the new guy gets here. He put his chin back in his hand and closed his eyes.

Excuse me, I said, "but I am the new guy. My name's Clement Green."

He stirred again. Huh?. . . Oh. Sorry, son. He stuck out his hand. I'm Frank Bottles, district Chief of Staff. We shook. That there's Ed Jeans, Senior Political Advisor. He pointed a thumb toward the other man. Hey, Ed, he called out, new copulant's here.

Ed opened his eyes and sat up. He gave me a little tip of his cap and looked on attentively.

Things are pretty quiet around here right now, Copulant, Bottles said. Why don't you go on into your private office and relax. He pointed to a room at the back.

I started toward the private office.

Wait a sec, he said. He opened a little refrigerator beside the desk and took out a jelly jar with a pinkish liquid in it. Would you like something cool to drink? He handed the jar to me.

I opened the jar and took a sip. It tasted like fruit, but with a distinct kick to it.

Ed and I make the stuff ourselves, he said proudly. It's pretty popular around these parts.

But this has liquor in it, I said. In Gristville it's only legal to buy alcoholic beverages at the state-run package store, and they certainly didn't sell this stuff.

No, sir. It's fruit juice, Frank Bottles insisted.

I drank a few more swallows to make sure. It definitely contained liquor of some sort. I noticed for the first time that there were cardboard boxes stacked around the office with their names written on them with a wide felt marker.

You mean Sam Sway let you sell this stuff right here in the office? I asked incredulously.

He was real good about it, Frank said. He liked the stuff a lot. Used to give it away to the local lobbyists. He pointed to the little fridge. Feel free to help yourself, Copulant.

Uh, thanks, I said.

I went on into the inner office. I took the jar of fruit juice with me.

While I was in the office several people came by to offer me advice about my job. That first afternoon I had a visit from a Ms. Eloise Meddlinger. Ms. Meddlinger was a supervisor in the state welfare office and president of the Union of Consolidated State, County, and Municipal Employees. She was what my mother would call a full-figured woman, and she was fuller than most. Her eyes seemed locked into a permanent suspicious squint. She didn't want a fruit juice.

Mr. Green, she began, I'm here to see that you have your priorities straight.

Which priorities are those, ma'am? I wondered.

You must always be aware of your responsibilities to the poor, the forgotten, the woebegone, and the dilapidated among your constituents. Despite decades of tireless effort on their behalf by the various government agencies throughout Bucolia that I represent, their numbers are still constantly increasing geometrically.

That's impossible, I said matter-of-factly.

Oh, I assure you, the numbers are increasing, she said.

No, I corrected, I meant that a constant increase isn't geometric.

Please don't try to dodge the issue with pedantry, Mr. Green. The facts are irrefutable. The social, psychological, financial, and sexual problems of our clients are multiplying exponentially at an alarming rate that puts an ever-increasing strain upon our already-limited resources.

Exponentiation is not a multiplicative process, I pointed out.

What in heaven's name are you talking about, Copulant? Please try to pay attention, she said peevishly. You rich people are all alike. You don't care about anyone but yourselves. Let me tell you something, Mr. Green. If you prove to be insensitive to the crushing need of the powerless and disenfranchised for Free Gifts, and fail to supply experts such as myself with ample access to the Valuable Prizes and explosive new programs being developed every day to serve their problems, they will surely rise up in righteous indignation and destroy you with the blink of an eye.

I admit I was overwhelmed by her passionate pleas and became confused. Do you mean that the powerless will destroy me, or that the the Union of Consolidated Government Employees will destroy me? I asked.

Unfortunately, she misconstrued my innocent intentions and became indignant. Don't you try and be cute, she accused, but, as far as you're concerned it's the same thing.

I assured her that as a layman I was only trying to get a difficult concept through my head, but the damage was done.

She gave me one more piece of advice as she rose to leave. Sonny, just remember, your job is to bring home the bacon.

I was reassured.

I also had a visitor, a Ms. Leaf Graiser, from the Society for Inter-Species Defense. I know that nature is cruel and uncaring and that it's not supposed to be fair to judge, but she was much more attractive than Ms. Meddlinger. She had lovely long, blond hair and soft brown eyes like a deer. I wanted to help her desperately. She liked Frank and Ed's Premium Fruit Punch just fine.

Copulant, she said, do you realize that there is not a single non-human surrogate or overlord in the entire Copuleat?

"That's not what I've heard," I quipped. I just couldn't resist.

You know what I mean, she said accusingly, but very sweetly.

Yes, I do. Please go on, I repented.

She went on to insist that homo sapiens was grossly over-represented in the Copuleat, while such worthy, productive, and numerically superior species as woodchucks, honey bees, and termites—whom, she pointed out, with the able assistance of the bovines, supply the Earth with nearly all its methane—went totally unrepresented. She insisted it was my duty to put the interests of the majority of my constituents ahead of the load-mouthed minority. She also pointed out that other species were rarely awarded Valuable Prizes.

I said I would give the matter serious thought. As she rose to leave I sensed a missing element in her proposal.

Ms. Graiser, I asked, aren't you going to remind me to bring home the bacon?

She nearly fainted. But, much to her credit, she recovered quickly and added a heated supplement on the death camps the human race has operated for millennia in the name of filling their fat bellies. She stared accusingly at my abdomen. I decided to scrap my plans to ask her to stay for lunch, much to my chagrin there was murder on the menu.

I had other offers of advice before I left Bucolia, but I decided to stand pat.

After spending a few days in the district office I took a cab to Gristville Municipal Airport and got on a plane for Beltway. I spent the first part of the flight examining a map of Bucolia. Although I was sure I had lived in the Third District all my life, I was rather unclear about its boundaries. Since I was apparently responsible for securing Free Gifts and Valuable Prizes for all its inhabitants, I felt I ought to know where they lived.

I was appalled by the shape of the district. It didn't seem to make any sense at all. It included towns in nearly every out-of-the-way corner of the state, and lots of places where there were no towns at all. (Perhaps the woodchucks and termites were concentrated there.) My district included places I had never been, and omitted other places so near to where I was born I could have pegged them with a rock from my bedroom window. All the other districts were equally convoluted, and I was pretty impressed that they all fit into the state without overlapping one another or sticking out over the edges. The people who drew the plan must have been awfully clever. The thing was downright diabolical.

The old gentleman sitting next to me on the airliner got interested in the map. It showed each contiguous district in a different color and was overall quite striking.

What's that you're looking at, young fella? he asked. It looks sorta like a blow-up of one of those silly-con chips, but not so, you know, organized.

Nope. It's not a silicon chip, I said.

He tried again to guess what it was. Then it's one of those roar-shock tests, right? You tell the psychologist it looks like a hippopotamus eating a plate of auto parts and the next thing you know you're wearing a wrap-around tuxedo. He laughed to himself.

Nice try, I said, but no.

Then it's modern art.

No. Actually, it's a map of Bucolia, I admitted. These colored squiggles are the districts that surrogates represent in the Copuleat.

Aw, come on, son, he scoffed. I wasn't born yesterday. Only a fool would believe that whopper. What is it really? It's some of that art that's painted by a computer or a chimpanzee, right?

I assured him I'd told the truth.

Well, I think you're pulling my leg, but even if it's true why would anybody be interested in such a thing? he asked.

I'm the new surrogate from the Third District, I said proudly.

His reaction was curious. He made a face like he'd caught a whiff of wet dog. Then he excused himself and went to the back of the plane and sat by the restrooms.

I flagged down the stewardess and ordered a drink.

Chapter 2 ON THE MIDWAY

I was met at the airport by a genial young man. I knew right away that he was there to meet me because he was holding a piece of cardboard with my name printed on it. He was a clean-cut, mild-mannered fellow with dark hair and a friendly, open face. His name was George Handy, and he said he was one of my junior aides. I had inherited him, so to speak, from Samuel Sway. I liked him immediately. There was something about him that made me feel comfortable.

George had a car waiting to take me into Beltway. I soon discovered that a copulant has quite a few handlers and aides to help him with the many aspects of his job. In fact, I'm told the power of a copulant can often be gauged by the number of people he has on hand to tell him what to do. In any case, I was quite pleased to have someone available to take me where I needed to go.

In order to get to Beltway itself you have to pass through a vast area of businesses and government agencies that provide the capital itself with services and support. George told me that the region is called Midway in the local parlance. It turned out to be a fascinating place in its own right.

I peered out the car window excitedly as we drove along the Midway. I thought the names and advertisements of the various service establishments might provide me with some enticing glimpses into the world of big government that lay ahead. I was right. For example, as soon as we left the airport we passed a big, gaudy place encrusted with red neon. It sported this flashing sign: Discreet Indiscretions 24-Hour Escorts. We accept all major credit cards. Just across the street, a plain, industrial-looking building offered a very different service. Its sign read, Confetti Eddie's Super Shredding Service. Serving Beltway since the Bay of Pork I understood what those two services were about, at least in general, but another one further down the street puzzled me. Its sign said simply, Have a Leak? Call THE PLUMBERS! - On the job since '32 and only caught once. Of course I know what a plumber does, but I had a feeling these guys were into something besides toilet bowls. At one point we passed a big parking lot full of trucks that resembled street sweepers. The lot bore this sign: Fade-A-Way Industrial-Strength Whitewashing. Ethics Probes Our Specialty.

There are ordinary kinds of businesses on the Midway too, but with a special stock for the locals. For example, there was Beltway's Hardball Hardware. They offered, Complete Service for the Busy Bureaucrat—screws tightened, axes ground, hatchets buried, fences mended, and bridges burnt. Don't miss this week's special: wrenches thrown in the works. And, of course, there are pawn shops. One advertised Federal Adjudicators Bought and Sold—Sorry, no appeals after nine p.m. There are do-it-yourself-type places here too. For example, Manuel y Ferdinand's Self-Serve Money Laundry. And even quick service drive-thrus: Campaign Promises Repaired While-U-Wait.

There are businesses of every size on the Midway. One booming establishment called Beltway Bob's Giant Government Surplus Warehouse sprawled across several full blocks. It had sprouted a whole forest of signs. They advertised such things as Ideas, new and used, guaranteed to float at least once; Quick fixes for tight squeezes, one size fits all; and Press Releases by the ream, Filibusters by the hour, and Campaign Promises by the carload. They sold, Blue-ribbon Panels up to 9 by 15 feet and Federal Budgets: Queen size/King size/and Up! (not responsible if dead on arrival). They must have been doing a brisk business. Apparently they'd just opened a whole new wing. It was an open-air area with all sorts of strange stuff piled haphazardly all over the place. The banner over the lot said, NOW OPEN - our big Legislative Flea Market. We have Beltway's largest selection of needless mark-ups, non-germane amendments, easy riders, and simple-to-install built-in cost overruns. Come rummage through our GIANT Off-Budget Pork Barrel. There's something in here for everybody!

We drove on. The purpose of some of the places was unclear. A big, modern building with mirrored sides called Obfuscation Inc. did nothing I could see but produce great clouds of dense, blue smoke.

At one point George sealed the windows trying to block out a dreadful stench. I asked him about it. What is that awful smell, George?

Pork farms, sir. He pointed to a vast mud flat squirming with wallowing hogs. Pork is the currency of Beltway. But don't worry, sir, the smell from the slaughterhouse never blows toward the Copuleat. Fortunately, we passed the pork yards fairly quickly. I was soon able to roll down the windows again.

At one point my attention was drawn to a huge cylindrical drum, much like an oil storage container. A sign identified it as The Cryptic Institute. Several workers in coveralls manned valve wheels controlling a thick, sweating pipe that fed into the top of the drum. A few others anxiously watched the needles of pressure gauges. Another group of workers lounged around a spigot at the bottom of the drum, listlessly waiting for something to come out of it.

I asked about the great drum as we passed by. What's that?

That's a think tank, sir.

Oh. I was intrigued. "How does it work?

Well, first, he explained, a big herd of certified experts is lured inside by a deep pocket full of juicy stipends, or maybe the ear of a committee chairman. Then, when the experts are safely inside, all openings are hermetically sealed to guard against contamination from the outside world. Next, the tank is pumped full of raw data and raised to a pressure of three hundred atmospheres—that's what they're doing now. When the experts have digested the data and their intellects have properly fermented, an authoritative report is issued from the spigot on the bottom. It's a delicate process, though. If the conditions are not kept just right the report can turn, then it makes an awful stink.

I said that I had heard of think tanks, of course, but had no idea until now how the process worked. I asked him what all those fellows with magnifying glasses, curved mirrors, tweezers, and fine-toothed combs were doing huddled nearby.

Well, he replied, even a properly brewed report has to be filtered and homogenized by other experts after it's issued. Otherwise it could be hazardous to the consumer.

The Midway is home to every kind of expert in the land. All sorts of institutes and consultants line the road leading into Beltway. Most of them specialize in some form of prognostication, or predictions of future trends and events.

I've always been fascinated by predictions, and I mentioned the fact to George. We had a lady back home who was quite good at such things, I said. She set up a tent at the county fair every year and did a land-office business. She drew a bigger crowd than the China hogs, just by telling folks whatever they wanted to hear for a dollar. I used to go every year myself until her cat ate the goldfish I won at the ring toss. She's dead now, though. Got run over by a beer truck.

George smiled at me indulgently. I suspected I had exposed myself as a yokel. Sir, this is Beltway, not Bucolia, he explained, as if he was speaking to a beloved but dim-witted child. Consultants aren't fortune tellers, they're trained experts. All their methods are quite scientific and usually infallible. And, I assure you, sir, they charge considerably more than a dollar.

Yes, I said, but do they tell you what you want to hear? That's the key to good fortune telling.

They have no such luxury, sir. They must follow the dictates of science, wherever they might lead.

Sounds chancy to me. I'll bet these dictators of science will lead you where you want to go, if the fare will cover the freight.

Perhaps, George said stiffly, the Copulant would like to stop for a moment and consult with some of the experts. I'm sure they can explain the merits of their methods much better than I. I'm afraid I had exasperated poor Mr. Handy. He was getting peevish.

Actually, that's a splendid idea, if you think we can spare the time.

Take all the time you want, sir.

Thank you, George, you're very accommodating. And I hope I haven't offended you. Remember, I'm quite new to all this, and I'm only trying my best to learn the ropes.

On the contrary, sir, I find your, uh—unspoiled viewpoint quite refreshing. Shall we stop and have a look?

Please. How about that place over there? I pointed at a low white building with no windows called the Holier Than Now Institute for Fiscal Forecasting and Economic Prognostications.

That's fine, sir. George pulled into a tree-lined little parking lot at one side of the building.

George parked the car and we headed for the entrance. We stepped through the tinted-glass front doors into a modern, nicely furnished waiting area where an attractive receptionist greeted us. How may I help you, gentlemen? the receptionist said with a professional smile. An armed security guard glanced up and looked us over briefly then went back to staring at some tiny TV monitors.

We'd like to find out what you do here, I said.

I see, she replied cooly. Do you have an appointment? If not, I'm sure we can arrange for you to see one of our field representatives later next week. In the meantime, if you would like one of our brochures?—

George stepped up to the desk. Ma'am, he said quietly, this is Copulant Clement Green of Bucolia. He has a keen interest in the Institute's latest work. I'm sure there must be someone available to discuss it with him. That did the trick. The young lady switched her smile to high-beams and her hands darted for the phone. I'll have to get used to thinking of myself as a copulant. Clearly, it can be useful.

Of course, Copulant, she said quickly. I hope you'll forgive me for not recognizing you. I've only lived in Beltway for a few months. I didn't tell her that I'd just arrived in town. I'll have someone here to meet you in just a moment. Would you care for a drink while you wait? If we'd only known you were coming we would have had a buffet ready— she finally wound down, looking embarrassed.

That's all right, I ate on the plane, I said. I was a bit embarrassed, too.

In a few moments a middle-aged man came into the reception area trying to straighten his tie and smooth down his hair at the same time. He put on an enthusiastic smile, then wiped his right hand on his jacket and extended it to me. I shook it warmly.

Copulant Green, what an unexpected pleasure to have you drop in on us. I'm Dudley Front, Director of Copuleative Relations for the Institute. What can we do for you, sir?

I glanced at George to see if he wanted to carry the ball, but he just smiled and cocked his eyebrows at me as if to say go ahead, knock yourself out. So I worked up my best official copulant voice and said, Frankly, Mr. Front, I'm here to find out just exactly what it is you fellows do here and how you go about doing it.

The expression of sick suspicion and helplessness that passed over the poor man's face reminded me of the time my little brother bit into an apple and found half a worm inside. Now, C-Copulant, he squeaked, if the Institute is to be the subject of an official inquisition I must insist that a member of the legal staff be present at all times.

Wow, the power of a copulant must be awesome, I thought. I'd only uttered a single sentence and I'd scared the man half to death. I looked at George for help and, bless him, he came to the rescue.

I'm afraid you misunderstand the Copulant, Mr. Front. There is no inquisition underway, official or otherwise, involving the Institute—at least not as far as we know. On the contrary, Copulant Green is sincerely interested in your work here. He would like to know enough about it to decide if he wants to have your prognostications included in his weekly economic briefings. George was splendid. I was beginning to see the real value of handlers to a copulant.

The Director's smile returned in spades. The worm had been a false alarm. Oh my, how stupid of me, he blubbered. Please forgive my obtuseness, 'gate Green. I would be delighted to show you all our current projects. If you'll just pin on one of these visitor's badges and follow me?

Power is a dangerous thing. I suddenly had the desperate urge to look him in the eye and snarl, Badges? We don't need no stinkin' badges! and laugh in his face, but I fought it off. Instead, I pinned on the badge and followed him into the interior of the building.

George and I walked along wide, white, florescent-lit hallways while Director Front told us about the Institute. The primary purpose of the Institute is, of course, to produce accurate short- and long-range economic forecasts on as broad a scale as possible. We have several highly scientific methods in use at the moment. For example, we have developed a totally new technique for making long-range predictions of trends in the global economy, the Ozone Depletion Determinator System, known as ODDS for short. The accuracy of this technique approaches fifty percent, which is quite remarkable in the world of economic forecasting.

That sounds neat, I said. Let's have a look at that.

Very well, he said. He led us into a room full of computer equipment where a dozen or so scruffy scientific types in white smocks mumbled and paced about with clipboards punching buttons.

George, I said, why do you suppose these scientific johnnies always dress in those white coats and never bother to get a decent haircut?

George looked pained. Please, sir, don't ask foolish questions. He looked thoughtful for a moment, then he added, Well, why do you wear a suit and tie?

That seemed a fair question. Because my father always told me people would take me more seriously that way, I answered.

George said nothing, but he looked pleased with himself.

Dudley Front introduced me to a grizzled old fellow with an unlit pipe in his teeth. He was wearing a tattered lab coat distinguished by a fine collection of coffee stains. This is the head of the ODDS project, Doctor Ludwig Spindlemutter. He'll be happy to explain the nature of his research to you. Mr. Front turned and spoke to the scientist. Doctor, I'd like you to meet Copulant Clement Green. He is very interested in our work here.

How 'ja do, son, he grunted. Fascinating project all right. Don't know if I can explain it to you, though. How's your quantum electro-chemistry? He looked away and punched a button or two.

I'd taken a science course called Humanity and Her Universe when I was a freshman at Bucolia State College, so I figured I was up to speed on the important bits. I guess I can hold my own with most folks, I said.

Right. S'what I thought. Well, he sighed, in layman's terms, he spat out the word like it was a stray bit of tobacco, we use a combination of satellite data and on-site chemical tests to track changes in the configuration of the Antarctic High-altitude Ozone Depletion Phenomenon.

I tried not to look perplexed so soon out of the chute, but failed. George whispered, The Ozone Hole, sir.

Ah, of course. I'd heard of that.

The raw data is sorted and classified, continued Dr. Spindlemutter, then transformed to a multidimensional phase-space by delayed real-time Fourier analysis and projected in false-color animation on the big monitor there. He gestured at a wall screen. The screen showed what appeared to be a great, swimming, bloodshot eye floating in a vodka gimlet. I had taken it for an example of neo-corporate post-modern art and had politely ignored it until now.

Then, he said, selected parts of the image are analyzed on a Clay supercomputer with a special algorithm of my own design utilizing a marriage of the latest advances in quantum super-string electro-chromo-dynamics and multi-phase cybernetic econometrics. The resulting economic predictions appear on this monitor here. He pointed at a screen crawling with columns of green numbers.

A marriage made in liquid nitrogen, I quipped, with no detectable reaction. The gimlet eye swam sullenly while I tried to think of something appropriate to say. So, I summarized, you can predict the vagaries of the world economy by watching for fluctuations in the Ozone Hole.

Yes, said Spindlemutter reluctantly, to put it on the level of a child, that is what we do. Director Front winced at the insult.

The technicolor Ozone Hole swam silently, fixing me with an icy stare. I stared right back at the Hole and thought it all through. Then I thought it through again. But, I don't get it, I admitted finally. I don't see the connection. What could the Ozone Hole possibly have to do with the world economy?

Dr. Spindlemutter, Director Front, and George all let out a sad collective sigh. The good doctor muttered the single word politicians and shook his head. Somehow I knew it was his vilest curse.

Mr. Front hustled us out of the lab. He and George were acting like I'd barfed at a wedding. After polite goodbyes and an assurance from George that my office would love to be on the mailing list for the Institute's newsletter, we left the premises.

As we drove away I tried to cheer George up. Well, George, I said cheerily, I'll admit that that Ozone Hole beats an old crystal ball by a mile and a half. And they don't even need a cat. But he wasn't visibly cheered by these concessions. Well, science was never my forte, I admitted.

As we continued toward Beltway I let the whole matter stew in the back of my mind. I watched the scenery pass for several minutes and suddenly the whole thing made perfect sense. How could I have been so stupid? The connection was obvious. I decided to describe my revelation to George to see if I'd got it right. This will cheer him up, I thought. George, I think I've figured it out. There are laws in all the industrialized countries restricting the use of chlorofluorocarbons and the like so as to keep the old Ozone Hole filled up, right?

That's true, George admitted.

So, when the Ozone Hole gets big, some industries get nervous about more regulations and cut back production, and bingo! The world economy declines.

I was very pleased with my theory, but George was shaking his head. I'm afraid it's nothing so simple-minded as that, sir. This is a matter for experts. It's best to leave the science to them. As you say, it's not your forte.

I was crestfallen.

We drove in silence for a few minutes, then George said quietly, I'm sorry, Copulant. I didn't mean to call you simple-minded.

That's all right, George, I said brightly. I know perfectly well that I'm not stupid, but I guess I am simple-minded—because I can't see anything wrong with having a simple mind.

Chapter 3 THE REEFS OF HONOR

It wasn't long before I could see signs of Beltway itself. The wide, raised ribbon of encircling highway that gives the city its name was visible ahead of us, or partially visible, at least. Clouds of thick, steamy air hovered low over the highway, obscuring what lay beyond. The air inside the car was becoming warmer and more humid by the minute.

As we approached the city I noticed something strange. The embankment supporting the great beltway was not made of simple dirt or concrete like the embankments on most highways. Instead, it appeared to be made of blocks of marble or granite in a wide range of shapes and sizes and colors. As we came closer I could see that the blocks were individually crafted and decorated with inscriptions. Some were adorned with small spires or columns, and a few even boasted statues, or scenes carved in base relief.

George, this is beautiful. I had no idea that the Beltway highway was anything more than just a road. Why, it's a monument.

Actually, many thousands of monuments, he corrected. The Beltway Wall. He said the name with obvious reverence.

But who built it? What's it for?

It's been built up over generations, sir, and it is still being added to today. In fact, the whole city rests on it. Without those monuments Beltway would sink into the ground and be swallowed up. Honestly, sir, I'm surprised you don't know more about it, even if you are from Bucolia.

George, I said defensively, Bucolia may be a long way from Beltway, but we are still part of the modern world. Believe it or not, we even have 24-hour banking and a sushi bar. I'm afraid he had touched a nerve that's rather exposed on most Bucolics.

Sorry, sir. I didn't mean to be insulting.

That's okay. It was a fair statement, especially since I was a copulant. I guess I've never been that interested in politics, until recently that is.

I understand, sir. Perhaps you'd like to make another stop? We could climb down the Wall from the road and inspect some of the monuments at first hand.

Could we, George? But we've made one stop already. Won't they be expecting me in the Ring or something?

Don't concern yourself, sir. You are the copulant. You may do what you like.

Good. Let's have a look then, I ordered.

By this time we were cruising along on the great Beltway highway itself. George maneuvered skillfully across several lanes of traffic and pulled the car onto a grassy fringe lining the road. Cars whizzed by me at high speeds as I stepped out. I walked down the embankment to get away from the road and immediately began admiring the blocks nearest me.

Most of the stones were colored subtly different shades of pink, magenta, and purple, but some were pastel yellow, umber, cyan, turquoise, and green. A few blocks I could see were a bright crimson and one in a thousand perhaps was