2

THE MAN

Bradford Jules Spencer

Brad stood watching the singular red glow of the taillights careening through the blue lights of the runway.  Angrily, and aloud, he said, "Spoiled brat!" but inwardly he almost sympathized with her.  She was right, in that they would not be able to spend any time together.  The power failure would have the Institute and its' Washington affiliates occupied indefinitely.  Providing she got safely through the roadblocks, Audley would be better off at home.

He wondered for a moment at the uncanny wisdom of the little snit, driving away in his automobile.  She had the ability to size up a situation and deal with it in a much more accurate way than he did.  He attributed this to women's intuition but suspected that the ability was deeper than that, like some highly refined ESP.

He turned toward the terminal.  She was right, too, that he had been working too hard.  He should get some rest.  Maybe he would skip the meeting, go home, have a shower, a decent meal and a full nights sleep for a change.

"Dr. Spencer!"  Emerging out of the darkness was the messenger boy for the IOF.

"Oscar?  What are you doing out so late?"

"Everybody's working overtime tonight, boss," he said, falling in with Brad's long stride.  "They want you at the Institute right away."

Brad shook his head.  "I'm tired, Oscar.  I'm going home.  Tell them you couldn't find me."

Oscar persisted.  "Come on now, Dr. Spencer.  I know how you must feel, Sir."  He was sticking his neck out.  "I overheard your conversation with the lady over there."  He lowered his eyes, unaccustomed to probing into the private affairs of his superiors, but he was following the strictest of orders.  When he looked up to say, "The President has authorized it, Sir," his eyes were imperative.

"What makes Sammy run?" Brad asked absently.  What makes Bradford tick?  What makes him feel he has to abide by such authority?  What authority superseded his own needs?  When would he, Brad, be allowed to find his own reasons for being where he wanted to be, when, and for his own singularly selfish purposes?  Conditioning, he knew, was the answer.  Behavior modification.  Train a child in the things he should know and when he is grown, he will not depart from them.

Brad had been trained to be a machine.  Do not upset your sister; do not argue with your mother; do not interrupt your elder brother; do not disturb your father.  Don't move so quickly, so slowly; don't shout; don't whisper.  Don't breathe; don't exist.  Except, of course, in the disciplinary ways we establish for you.  Don't look at women.  They will distract you from your work, your life's destiny.

Open your books.  Study.  Learn.  Excel.  Attain perfection.  And do it now!  You have a brilliant mind.  It needs trained so that people will need your skills, for which they will pay you great sums of money.  You will have power and wealth, and we will be so proud.

Bradford Jules Spencer was the second son born to Lt. Col. Dudley Paine Spencer and Lydia Monroe Spencer.  Dudley, Jr., three years older than Brad, followed willingly in his father's footsteps and was now a Captain in the Army.  The sister, Kathleen, who was perhaps the only member of the family who understood Brad, married a fashion designer; she lived in France with Ives and their children, Paul and Gena.

Brad was indoctrinated into the ways of education and discipline when he was two years of age.  Ambition rather than maternal instincts drove Lydia Monroe Spencer.  She arranged a lifetime of institutions for her youngest progeny, one regime following immediately upon the other.  After a series of prep schools, Brad was sent to West Point.  The military life was not for him, however, and he argued heatedly with his father on the issue.  In the end Brad won out and attended a college of science in Chicago, receiving his master’s degree, summa cum laude, at the age of 23.

Having earned parental approval, he went on to work in Quantum Mechanics, continuing his studies and continuing to excel.  He worked on several projects for the Space Federation and, after being published in some notable journals, was discovered by General Lassater and invited to work on the federally funded Institute of Futurology.  There he helped set up and administer IOF programs, soon becoming their Head Systems Analyst.  It was during this time that he met and became closely associated with Dr. Wilhelm Blackstone, a surrogate father.

Because of Brad's stringent upbringing, his ability to develop trusting and meaningful human relationships was naturally handicapped.  His most comfortable liaison was with Samantha, the computer.  Not until he met Dr. Blackstone's daughter Audley had Brad been enamored of a woman and only now, in the eerie blinking of the blue lights on the empty runway, did he feel he might be in love.

Underneath his scientific facade, Brad was a witty, dramatic, sensitive and aesthetic being.  Audley had tapped these in him, and with her he had just begun to glimpse who the human Brad might be.  He had found a woman he could love, would be permitted to love.  Only it was not until this precise moment that he realized, in an almost blinding rush of emotion, that it was, indeed, a woman he knew almost nothing about and who had somehow, just now, eluded his grip.

The red blinking taillights, doggedly dodging the Meadowland roadblock, carried off all hope.  Why he felt that it was over he did not know, but as surely as he knew Quantum Mechanics and Samantha, he knew that Audley had driven not just out of the airport, but out of his life.  The potential loss of something so great, that came so close to being his, staggered him.  He grabbed for the only reality he knew: the scientific equations and disciplines of his work.

"I beg your pardon, Sir?"

"Never mind, Oscar.  Where's your car?"

Oscar led the way, happy to have succeeded in his mission.  In the old Chevy sedan, the messenger proved to be a good source of information.  "Lassater was at the Convention Hall this evening, Dr. Spencer.  He really gave the boys hell!"

Brad bristled.  "What's he saying?"

"He's saying Sam is to blame for the power failure."

Brad's blood pressure shot up.  "Son of a bitch!"

Oscar sniggered.

Sam had done more to prevent the inevitable than anyone or anything.  All Lassater accomplished by this lie was to shove the responsibility off his own shoulders onto the IOF, and the President was letting him get away with it.

"Three-Star Generals get away with too goddamned much!"

Oscar did not speak.

"What a load of crap!" he said to Oscar as much as to himself.  "Anybody with an ounce of sense would know that we were the only ones who did anything about it at all!"

"Yes, Sir."

"Lassater and the President have ignored our reports from the beginning!" Anger seldom occurred to Brad but he was having his fair share of it now.

"Yes, Sir," Oscar said.  "I know that, Sir.  But wait until you hear the General tell the story."

Brad rode the rest of the way in silence.

THE INSTITUTE HEADQUARTERS, covering several acres of prime Connecticut real estate, lay in total darkness.  At the gate, Oscar flashed his pass card to the sentry and, by the dim lights of the Chevy, maneuvered the two miles to IOF's Administration Center.  At the front, by-passing the parking lot, Oscar reverted to a flashlight to light their way up the steps.

Inside, a handful of the original 678 members hovered around a lantern in a solemn half-circle reminding Brad of a Shakespearean tragedy.

"Alas, poor Yorik!" he intoned.  "I knew him well!"

His rare display of theatrics was rejected.  They stood at once and began to verbalize their separate dismays.

“That is not funny, Brad," said one man.  "That's the Institute with worms crawling through its head!" said another, "and we'll be buried with it!"

"Oh, come now, gentlemen.  It can't be that bad," Brad said, stealing strength from their defeat.

"There is no question about it, Brad.  This is serious."  "And just when we were starting to get somewhere!"  "What a time for a power failure to occur!  The Third Annual Convention!"  "If I didn't know better, I'd say it was calculated to happen now, just to make us look bad."

"I doubt if anyone could," Brad objected, “but who would want to?"

"Lassater!" was the unanimous response.  He really had given them hell.  These men were beaten.  "We're a laughingstock." "People will immediately revert to the present."  “The IOF is at stake.”  "The Future is doomed." 

"What, precisely, did the General say?" Brad asked in an attempt to debrief them from the General's curse.

"He was furious."  "He said, 'The President is disappointed'."  "Which means no more funding.  No more federal support.  We're finished!"  "Unless..." one man suggested.

"Unless what?" Brad asked.  He was handed a sealed envelope bearing the embossed insignia of the IOF.  "What's this?"

"Open it," the donor suggested.

Brad studied their worried faces.  They were unanimous in laying something at his feet, but what was it?  He broke the seal, withdrew the official-looking document and turned it toward the lantern's feeble flame to read:

Dear Brad: By unanimous vote your peers have selected you to represent the Institute of Futurology at an emergency meeting of a Special Conclave as inaugurated by the President of the United States, to be held at the White House at 10:00 A.M., August 15, 2002, in special attendance with General H.T. Lassater.  Present the enclosed card at the East Gate at precisely 9:30 A.M. for admittance.  Good luck.  And remember, Sam loves you.  Signed:  The Future.

He folded the letter slowly and placed it in his breast pocket.  What makes Bradford tick?  More conditioning.  He wanted to fly to Audley; it might be his last chance.  What did he, Bradford Jules Spencer, have to do with any of this - with the President, with Lassater and Special Conclaves - for Christ's sakes?  He was free now.  The IOF was being destroyed.  He could walk away and seek his personal fortunes as he chose.  Instead, he asked cautiously, "What does this mean?"

One man answered for them all:  "It means you're it, Brad."

Brad swallowed his resentment that the panel should select him for this dubious honor.

"You mean I'm the one who gets to convince that two-faced Lassater that he's a prick?"

"You work with Sam,” one man appealed.  "You’ve got more knowledge of the technicalities of the operation than any of us."  Their attitudes implored him to understand their predicament and to represent them.  "You're young," someone added.  "No family obligations."  "You're in the best position to argue our case."

"Case?" he asked, swallowing the gall.

"That's right.  If necessary, the Future will take Uncle Sam to court."

So the IOF had not died after all!  Embedded in all the gloom lay a sliver of hope, a will to fight, to survive.  He succumbed.  After all, he had nothing better to do now that Audley....  He pulled himself upright in a gesture that immediately relieved the tension of the men in the room.

"Well, a fighting spirit gives me a little boost."

"You weren't selected because it's a flunky job, you know.  It's a responsible job we've asked you to undertake, and we all feel you can do it.  You will be well paid for your efforts."

"I appreciate that, but I don't yet know what it is I'm supposed to do!"

"Just present the card at the East Gate.  And good luck."

"What do I need luck for?" he asked.  "Sam loves me."

OUTSIDE OF MEADOWLAND Audley abruptly stopped the car and opened the window.  She had come a long way since this morning: the flight to New York, the blackout, and the fight with Brad.  Ahead of her lay more hazards.  She was hungry and wrung out but she must think, plan and use reason, for only a clear head would see her through.  She rummaged in the camera case and lit a joint, inhaling deeply.  She smoked half of it, put away the rest, then set out to do some serious calculating.

The Meadowland roadblock was still admitting certain persons through.  She had conquered that obstacle easily enough with the vehicle registration listing Brad's IOF address.  Connecticut needed the IOF and had no intention of harassing or inhibiting the comings and goings of its members and/or affiliates.

Leaving New Haven to the west, however, implied entering New York State and, conceivably, New York City.  She decided to by-pass the City to the north, cut down from Route 84 to 80, which would give her direct access through Pennsylvania and Ohio.  Here she could pick up Route 40, which would take her cross-country all the way to Bakersfield, California.  Eighty more miles would bring her into Santa Barbara and Doc Will.  One hundred more miles and she would be home.  Stopping to rest, she could make it in three days, four at the most.

She checked the gas mileage.  Thanks to Brad's sense of responsibility, it was a full tank.  How many gallons?  How many miles would it take her?  Well, it was a big tank; it would take her far enough.  The blackout could not last forever.  She could be well into Pennsylvania before she had to worry about refueling.

She checked the locks on the doors.  What about food?  She hadn't eaten since when?  Coffee and pastry for breakfast this morning in Malibu.  Malibu!  A hundred light years away.  She should never have left.  Oh, yes.  She had eaten on the plane.  Veal cutlet.  Peanuts.  It was not much, but it would stave off starvation.  No time for the “marijuana munchies” now.  She was glad for the good supply of cigarettes.  Bracing herself for the New Haven roadblock, she lit one.

The emergency broadcast station was frantic, despite its admonitions for the public to stay calm.  It was their nearly impossible task of keeping under control the police department, the fire department, crime labs and, most significantly, the mindless, frightened people, when there was little or no control to be had.  She had covered smaller blackout assignments before and she knew what it would be like.  Looters would be the biggest problem, after the problem of the dark.

"Pull over to the side of the road and wait for a patrol car to assist you."  The offers and admonitions were universally ignored.  The City of New Haven teemed with cars; their eerie headlights careened through the darkened streets.  Squad cars, identifiable only by their overhead colored bubbles, were out in full force.  Police, self-appointed and otherwise, waved flashlights and lit flares.  Looting, she could see, was already out of hand.

Creeping slowing through the city streets, intoxicated by adrenaline, Galliano, weed and adventure, Audley became fascinated with the red glow of the flares.  The city oozed red, as if the whole town was on fire.  Red faces shouted and ran, scurried like rodents, danced a strange dance, then vanished into the blackness.  Red bodies sat behind the wheels of red-black cars.  She shook herself.  She must not allow herself to become mesmerized.  She must remain detached from it and capture it by observation.  What an article!  Hell, by the time she got home she might decide to write a book.

Those drivers who had not pulled over to the side of the road (obstructing traffic, Audley thought), and those who were not crazed, were displaying uncommon courtesy to the other drivers.  It was choreography on wheels, with everyone moving in syncopation, maneuvering his or her way through the red city.

It was a small city; Audley was soon on the west side approaching the New Haven/New York roadblock.  She slowed with the traffic and stopped when instructed.  Now she offered her driver's license and Brad's registration but withheld the press card.  When her identification was confirmed, she proceeded through to the next town, Ansonia.  In Ansonia, she was pointed in the direction of the city limits, where now unencumbered by officers of the law, she floored the accelerator and sped toward Route 84. 

Entering the on-ramp, she checked her watch and the mileage.  It was 12:34 and the gas gauge had barely moved. 

At the juncture of 84 and 684, a main artery out of New York, she was forced to a near stop.  Fire blazed from an upturned gasoline truck which lay toppled over in the center of the median with as many as thirty other vehicles snared in the fiasco.  Sirens screamed in and away.  A trio of automobile horns blared incessantly.  Police set flares and directed the illegal traffic through the single free lane.

"Armageddon!" thought Audley as she passed the scene.  It would be everywhere, like the aftermath of an Urthquake, waves of terror washing over seas of faces, bodies out of touch with reason.  She shuddered, grateful for the safe confines of the Maxum, poignantly aware that if she were not careful she, too, would be a victim of this nightmare.  She drove cautiously, like an animal in search of survival, fast here, slow there, speeding away from terror and crawling slowly toward safety.

In time traffic began to thin.  Many drivers, in their haste and lack of preparation, ran out of gas and stopped mid-road.  It became a game of skirting from lane to lane to miss the obstacles.  Audley thought enviously of those drivers who had conquered, who were already safe at home.

Another, lesser accident at the intersection at Route 6, she passed through quickly, praying she would not be ambushed by a desperado out of fuel.  Her hands and feet were cold, yet she could feel the chill of perspiration under her arms and in the palms of her hands.  Adrenaline, flowing freely and continuously these many hours, altered her.  Her eyes had grown even larger, like smooth glass marbles, round and unfeeling.

New York State fell behind her.  Highway 84 stretched before her like a wave, carrying her half conscious over its endless crest.  The emergency broadcast system fell out of range and faded, leaving the radio mute, except for the occasional crackle of a local station trying in vain to get through.  Her legs ached.  Her mouth was dry, as if full of cobwebs, and her eyes burned.  But she was safe, alive, and still going.

When she noticed she had not encountered another car for perhaps half an hour, she pulled to the side of the road and ventured out, stretching her prickly legs and filling her lungs.  The air, smelling faintly burnt, hit her uneasy stomach and sent her into a fit of retching.  After, though, her head was clearer.  She finished the half-smoked joint, then gulped a deep mouthful of air in an attempt to shrug off the journey behind her.

After urinating behind the odd protection of the passenger door, she got back inside and locked the doors.  Everything was so still.  She opened her window and slumped over the wheel, trying to find her long-lost sense of well being.  In time, balance returned and she realized she was very hungry.  She found a piece of chewing gum in her purse, which took away the thirst and the taste of bile.  When the sugar was gone she lit a cigarette and doggedly resumed her vigil at the wheel.

The respite restored her calm.  She found she was not tired.  She could drive on and on and never tire.  Like the silent earphones in the airplane, a quiet place is a place of beauty.  She saw, by moonlight, that the sky was alive with stars, and very close.  In this Pennsylvania countryside, the plains rose gradually into hills and from the hills to the abrupt and dramatic Allegheny Mountains.             Fumbling under the dashboard for a cassette, she slipped one into the component and immediately her confines were sweetened by "Moonlight Sonata."

She breathed deeply of the music and the moist night air.  How curious, she thought.  She had not spoken aloud for hours, as if the sound of her own voice would be too loud, would upset the crystalline world she found out here.  She couldn't even clearly remember the events of that night.  She knew she had fought with Brad and had escaped from something, from somewhere, had run for her life, and now her life was her own.

Her gratitude extended to the vehicle.  The Maxum had saved her, she felt, with its security.  She remembered when Brad had bought the car, she had teased him for his conservative upper-class snobbery, but now she was infinitely glad he had done it.  It was a dream to drive, effortless.  The leather upholstery still smelled new, gave comfort even after these many hours at the wheel.  She also attributed to the power of the Maxum, the courage required for her to surge through the horrors of the New York freeways and the accidents.

She wondered where she had gotten the courage to drive away from Brad.  He was tired and upset, otherwise she was sure she would never have gotten away with it.  She knew, too, without remorse, that she would never renew the previous intimacy of their relationship.  It was deceitful of her to let him think she was someone she knew she was not and never could be.  She would never be happy as a socially acceptable wife of an eminent scientist.  She would not enjoy the political society of Brad's contemporaries, and she could never fully share his life.  He was already married to science and to Sam anyway.

She allowed herself a nostalgic glimpse of their love affair when it was young, how he was then, away from his work, influenced and buoyed by her optimism and vitality, then shook her head.  No.  She couldn't be a man's reason for life, for happiness.  He had to have his own source.  Otherwise, it wasn't fair to either of them.  They were worlds away from each other.  They really had nothing, she realized, in common.  He was totally committed, while she was committed to nothing and to no one.

Audley Claudine Blackstone drove on through the darkness, unfettered by other cars on the road.  At this time, she had no past and no future.  She had no existence aside from her foot on the accelerator and the stars overhead, and this was sufficient. 

"Moonlight Sonata" concluded. Without thought, Audley drove through the night, ever westward, until the faint grays of dawn came up behind her.  She knew that time was passing, but she cared not to think what it was passing from or passing to. The radio was mute.  Hers was the only car on the road.  She had not passed another for two hours.

Suddenly the car took a mean swerve to the right.  Sitting bolt upright, Audley reacted to the jolt with pumping adrenaline.  Adrenaline, she realized with a frown, was getting to be a habit.  Hearing the sickening hiss of deflating rubber, she skillfully aimed for the shoulder and brought the speeding automobile to a soft rest.

"Damn!" she exploded, cracking the morning air.  A flat tire.  Now this liberated woman would have to play mechanic.  "Christ!" she complained, cutting off the ignition.  She lit a cigarette.  Exhaustion was right around the corner.

Exhaling slowly, she observed her surroundings.  The sun was now playing coquettishly with the morning clouds, enhancing the morning mystique.  The near and distant mountains and forests were bathed in misty shadows and sunrays.  It was cool up here, and silent.  The air smelled crisp and new.  There wasn't another human being around for miles.  She was totally and happily alone.  She stepped on the fresh cigarette and moved away from the car.

"God," she whispered.  "It is so beautiful."  She sighed, enjoying the sound of her own voice, so long mute in the dark.  She leaned against the fender and looked off into the treetops.  The majestic silence awed her.  She stood for a moment in what rightfully could be called a state of prayer, feeling the pink warmth of the sun play through the leaves onto her face.  It soothed her tired body.  She had driven it hard.

She stepped into the thick soft grasses growing at the side of the road and stretched, wriggling her feet out of her shoes and into the dew-damp foliage.  Hearing the trickle of water not far off, she sought its source in the underbrush.  Within minutes, she discovered a mountain brook gurgling happily in its unhampered environs.

Audley stopped to rest here, dropping beside the cool waters, and bathed her face in its healing power.  Refreshed and at peace, she lay back gazing up through the pines.  Overhead, the treetops created for her a cathedral.  Early birds sang.

"I could stay here for the rest of my life," she said, and fell asleep.

TO A VAST MAJORITY of the populace, the power failure was just another calamity, yet another incident for which to blame the government.  It was something brought about, no doubt, by an incompetent government employee sleeping on the job; sleeping, of a certainty, with someone’s mate other than his own.

To New Yorkers, New Englanders, and those as far south as the Everglades, and as far west as Cleveland, however, it was sheer horror.  The fact that the blackout was lasting so long was bad enough in itself, but as time elapsed and no reassurance was forthcoming from their elected leaders, morals and morale decayed rapidly.  Certain sections of New York City, Boston, Newark and Hartford had become armed camps.  Parts of Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, Atlanta and Norfolk were burned beyond recognition.

Riot squads patrolled and fought valiantly against the mobs and the unending darkness.  Hospitals were in chaos.  Airports had passed the critical stage and entered the 'there is nothing we can do about it' stage.  There was simply no energy anywhere.  The emergency generators failed almost as soon as they were activated.  In retrospect, the news media listed deaths at over 20,000.  Statistically Death by Accident increased 712 percent.  Rape cases were reported to be up 585 percent in a 12-hour period.  Murder was up 335 percent in the same period.  Armed robbery and burglary, estimated by some to be too low, shot up over 7,000 percent.  Cases of assault and hysteria were too numerous to calculate.

The President of the United States was consciously considering National Martial Law.  He had long since called out the Reserves and the National Guard.  Now he seriously contemplated the use of the active armed forces.  The State Department had contacted their ambassadors and diplomatic agents in every foreign country.  He knew that not many hours could elapse before he would have to reassure the citizenry, but what could he tell them?  Not one of his commissioners could assure him that power would be restored before noon tomorrow and, even so, how would the reassurance be broadcast?  He could only hope that his country and his people would survive until daylight.

DR. BRADFORD SPENCER reached the White House in clockwork fashion.  The military helicopter deposited him at the East Gate at exactly 9:30 a.m., Eastern Standard Time.  Checking credentials and a phone call to the mysterious bowels of this imposing world palace placed Brad outside the door of the Oval Office within ten minutes of his arrival.  Now, with time to wait, Brad recognized his own anxieties.

He questioned his Futurist cronies' wisdom in selecting him for a mission as sensitive as this.  Diplomacy was not his forte.  He was better known for abruptness and cynicism when under pressure, and right now, the air was thick with tension.  With power unrestored, it was obvious to a trained mind that the nation had moved into war footing.  Internal order was more pressing than external threats.  Sam had foreseen this. 

Sam had even told them that no foreign governments would move on them during these crises.  That, at least, should be reassuring.  All possible and potential actions, counter-actions, and interim measures had been forthrightly presented in the Institute's Report.  Ernie had spent weeks talking to the bigwigs, preparing them.  Obviously, they had not listened.

"Brad!"  It was 3-Star General Lassater.  "I'm glad to see you!"

Dr. Spencer stood as quickly as his elongated frame would allow and extended his hand.  "Same here, Sir.  You thought I might not come?"

Lassater slapped him on the back.  "Nothing like that.  No.  I didn't know who they were going to send.  I'm glad it's you."

Brad intuitively distrusted Lassater but it was best to play his game.  "Your boys wouldn’t even hear of a pee stop, General," Brad grinned.

"There's a can just down the hall.  I'll join you and we can talk."  Their heels clicked militantly in the echoing halls.  "We have exactly ten minutes," Lassater was saying, "but I wouldn't use them all up if I were you.  The President has a habit of starting these things early.  I sometimes think he does it just to see who has weak kidneys and who doesn't."  The General always enjoyed his own jokes but he finished this one off on a serious note.  "He's very disturbed."

Brad knew that military men had a habit of being their most provocative while facing a urinal; the General did not disappoint him.  "Hell, Sam really fucked up on this one, eh Brad?"

There it was!

"What the hell's that supposed to mean, General?"  Brad nearly missed his aim.

"Jesus Christ, Brad, don't such possibilities ever cross your minds?"  The General zipped up and moved to the sink.  "What you Futurists don't realize is that we did everything you proposed in that goddamned report of yours and we still had the biggest, most devastating black-out in the history of the goddamned world!"

Brad moved to the basin and noticed his hands were shaking.  His only comment was an audible sigh.

"I don't mean to put you on the defensive, Brad, but the President is going to ask you some hard questions and I just wanted to prepare you."  Crisply maneuvering Brad back to the waiting room, Lassater continued to fill the scientist in on events of the previous night.  “I will give you this, Brad: Sam was right on the money as far as the exact time of the failure."

"Thanks, General," Brad acknowledged cryptically.

"Oh, we like to give credit where credit is due.  You know that, Brad.  Now listen to this...."  Lassater proceeded then to outline every action taken since last May in preparation for the predicted event.  Most of those things in the IOF's report were covered.

Without public knowledge, the government had stockpiled enough fuel oil to see the entire country through not only the summer but also the coming winter, particularly the Atlantic seaboard area.  A secret détente had been reached between Saudi Arabia and the United States.   The Saudis had agreed to hold their prices on crude oil in return for military support against the pending military aggression of Israel.  Naturally, this was politically sensitive, but the President had been working on it for months.  This was all Top Secret, of course, and would be denied should the occasion arise.

There were obvious ramifications to all of this, but the General knew there was no need to reiterate them to a Futurist.  And, most baffling of all, according to Lassater’s opinion, within fifteen minutes after the black-out hit, at exactly 10:15 p.m., a confidential report was handed to the President indicating that there was no mechanical failure involved.  The blackout simply could not be accounted for!

"I hear what you're saying, General," Brad responded, "but I don't see how, in the face of it, you can tell me that Sam goofed!"  Brad allowed that his prejudice for Sam was showing, for to blame Sam was to blame himself. "You must know that we deal in probabilities, General," but before he could finish his train of thought, he was face to face with the President of the United States.

THE TELEPHONE NEXT TO DOC Will's bed had a rude sound to it.  It woke him to a grouchy mood.  He peered at his digital clock and saw that it was minutes after seven.  "Who in hell would be calling at this hour?" he grumbled.

"Doc? Brad here.  Sorry to call so early, but it's important."  Brad's voice was steady and commanding.  "I'll hang on while you splash some water on your face.  I want you wide awake, okay?"

"Sure, Brad."  Doc Will felt for the hair on the back of his head.  "Give me a minute."

He threw off the cover and moved as fast as his aging legs would carry him.  On the way to the bathroom, he pushed the buzzer for his housekeeper, Martha.   He paused in the bathroom long enough to massage his arthritic neck and shoulder and do a few quick jogs in place, before returning expectantly to the phone.  "I'm awake, Brad.  What's on your mind?"

"Have you seen the morning papers yet?"

"No."

"Then you haven't heard the news."

"I missed the 10:00 news last night.  What is it?"

"It wasn't on the 10:00 news, but the entire East Coast was hit last night with a power outage.  It's still out."

"Good Lord.”  Doc Will sat down.  “Is Audley alright?"

"She's fine," Brad speculated convincingly.  "But let me go on.  You know General Lassater?"

"Yeah, what about him?"

"Well, the President isn't too happy with the IOF or with Sam.  It was the good General who suggested to the President that I get involved in all this."

"I'm filling in gaps here, Brad.  Before you go too fast, correct me if I'm wrong.  Lassater is holding you responsible for the power failure.  He knows you did the programming for this project.  Right?"  Doc was quick.

"That's what it boils down to, but there's more.  The President is convinced that the power will be on shortly, and I don't necessarily disagree with that, but the point is that he is convinced that there was no reason for the black-out."

"I'm filling in gaps again, Brad."

"The President has a memo on his desk that states, unequivocally, that there was no mechanical failure, that there is no Urthly reason for the black-out.  Also, the Feds, without IOF's knowing, followed all of our suggestions to forestall this possibility, but in spite of all attempts to avoid it, it happened anyway.  For no apparent reason."

"Is this phone bugged?"

"It better not be, it's a White House phone."

"Brad, sometimes your naivete...."

"Doc, listen.  It doesn't matter.”  He forged ahead.  “Through Lassater's insistence, the President and the IOF want me to head the investigation into the causes and come up with a Futuristic Synopsis, as he put it, of our next sequence of events."

"What did you tell him?"

"I hinted he was blackmailing me, to alleviate my sins, so to speak, for programming Sam."

"Sounds about right to me.  What did you say?"

"I said 'yes', of course."

Brad could sense Doc's unspoken reaction.  The doctor would have told them to take a flying leap.

"I can't let the IOF take the rap for this.  What I need," Brad went on, "is access to your files on the IOF personnel."

Doc was lost in thought.  The boy was not qualified to head this kind of thing.  His over-emotional reactions confirmed it.  It was unfair of Lassater, who obviously wanted to see Brad fail, to see the IOF fail.  Why?

"I know what you're thinking.  Those files are confidential.  But before you scream 'Privileged Communications', I'm going to remind you that those evaluations belong to the government, and I...."  Brad immediately regretted his innuendo.  Blackmail seemed to be contagious.

"I don't need that kind of reminding, Brad. I know full well you could get the CIA files if I didn't lend you mine."

"Also," Brad continued, meeker, "I'm going to need access to a computer that's completely unrelated to any governmental program.  Technically, this is the point where I thought of you."

"Thanks for nothing, Brad.  I have no intention, at my age, of getting involved in any paranoid governmental saboteur’s hunt, nor of getting any of my innocent associates involved.  It all sounds like basic schizophrenic humbug to me.  You are welcome to the files, but leave me out of this.  I have a book to finish."

"What if I were to tell you that the President went so far as to intimate that he was willing to use this investigation to inaugurate certain basic changes in our society?  The kinds of changes you have been advocating for years.  The kind you are now writing about?"

Doc fumed.  "Look.  What do I have to do with this?  I don't like the feel of it.  If they wanted to inaugurate these programs, they would do it whether I worked with you on this or not, Brad.  Leave me the hell out of it!"

A shivery chill ripped through the younger man, collapsing his resolve.

"Brad," Doc went on in a gentler tone, "you're not politic.  Don't try to buy me."

"Doc, listen.  My head is swimming.  I haven't slept in days.  I'm sick about this, and I'm sick about Audley, and I...."

"What about Audley?  Why?  She's with you, isn't she?"

Now they were on common ground.

"She was."

"She was!  Well, where the hell is she now?"

"Doc, please.  Calm down!  She's alright."  He hoped he was convincing.  "She's on her way home.  She's driving out.  She left last night in my car, obsessed with the idea of driving until she gets home."

Doc Will snarled into the receiver.  "That's insane!  You should never have let her do it."

"I had no choice, Doc.  She was...."  Brad was distraught in the White House telephone room.  He had called Doc for reassurance and, so far, had blundered his way into further isolation.

Doc Will sensed Brad's defeat.  "Yes, well....  Have you heard from her yet?  Has she called to let you know where she is?"

"No.  Actually I was hoping she might have called you."

"No, she hasn't."

Both men were anxious.  Their shared concern for Audley transcended all else.

"Well, I'm sure she'll call when she can.  It's still early.  And I'm sure she's alright," Brad stressed, as much for his own reassurance as for Doc's.  "Believe me, Doc.  She is better off away from here.  She left early enough to have made it out easily.  This place is an armed camp.  She did the right thing.  Really."

"I wish I could be so sure."  Doc reflected.  It was foolhardy, but Audley would somehow come out of it unscathed.  At least, she had always survived before.  "Well, I'm awake now, for Christ's sake.  How soon will you need those files?"

"I'd like to come out right away."

"Well, come along then, son.  We'll be expecting you."

As Doc replaced the phone in the cradle, Martha entered, wearing a worried expression and carrying coffee and the morning paper whose headlines read:  “East Coast Declared Disaster Area!”

SYLVIA CHANDLER WATERGATE had no idea anything was going on.  The night of the blackout she had drunk too much, argued with Roger, taken a sleeping pill, and was blissfully unconscious in her satin-covered bed, snug at home in Beverly Hills.  Had she known about the power failure, it was a safe bet that she would have thought about her friend and then the dress, in that order.

She ordered a Bloody Mary on first sight of the morning's headlines.  "My God!" she said through her hangover.  "Audley's in that mess!"  She threw the paper across the table to her husband.  "Why didn't you tell me?"

Roger was accustomed to his wife's accusations.  They were meaningless.  He made no response except to return the paper to her.  He was fond of Audley.  If the truth were known, he was even more fond of Audley than he was of his wife.  But long ago he had reconciled himself to the life he lived with Sylvia and he was not going to make any alterations in his established life-style.  He had a politically powerful legal career going for him and was not about to rock any boats.

"Roger!  Can't you do something?  Can't your friends in Washington get her out of there?"

Roger hid a smile.  It was not often that his wife was concerned about someone other than herself.   He found it cute.  "If I know Audley, Sylvia, she's doing just fine,  probably having the time of her life.  Drink your drink and stop worrying."

"Well!" she bemoaned. "There goes my dress!"

Now, that's more in keeping, Roger thought, pushing himself away from the table.  "I'll be at the office all day, Sylvia.  If you hear anything, give me a call."  He perfunctorily kissed his wife good-bye and left.