Serpent's Walk

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Monday, October 3, 2050

Korinek’s office in the White House basement was stuffy in spite of the unseasonably cold weather. The sign on the mahogany desktop read: JANOS KORTNEK, Special Aide to the President. The duties of his post were not specified.

Lessing and Wrench sat on the two tan, upholstered chairs in front of Korinek’s desk, while Liese had chosen one end of the leather couch behind them.

“How long’ll Mulder have with Outram?” Wrench asked. Korinek inspected his wrislwatch. “Ten minutes at most. The President has to be in the studio at ten. Foreign Press Association roundtable meeting.”

Wrench got up and took a curious turn around the room. He paused by the stenographer’s desk, the shredder, the blank-faced filing cabinets, and the copy machine. He pointed to the coffeepot.

Korinek’s pale eyes followed him. “Sure,” he said. “Have some. Sugar and sweetener in the drawer. Only plastic cream, though.”

“Thanks. Black’s fine.” Wrench stirred his coffee, then wandered back. He indicated a tray on Korinek’s desk that held perhaps a dozen ballpoint pens. Each bore a gold-stamped facsimile of the Presidential seal.

“These what Outram uses to sign bills?”

“Yes. The highway bill today. Ceremony’s at four.”

“Uh… would you have…?”

“You want a pen?”

Wrench smiled ingratiatingly.

“Take one. We’ve got more.” Korinek clicked open a cabinet behind him and took out a cardboard box. “Here. Have a souvenir.”

Wrench chose a pen, put it in his coat pocket, then extracted it again to admire the seal. “Nice, hey, Lessing?”

Like a box of rubber bands: a small package jam-full of tangled contradictions. That was how Mulder had once described Wrench: one moment as sophisticated as a French boulevardier, the next, a country bumpkin gawking at the tall buildings!

“Uh… could I…? Another one… for a little girl.”

Korinek looked mildly annoyed, but he held out the box again. “She’d better be a taxpayer.”

The door opened to reveal a flustered-looking secretary. Bill Goddard was right behind her. He ignored the woman and marched straight on into the office, letting her scuttle out of his path as best she could. She made an apologetic moue at Korinek and ushered herself out again.

The leather couch squawked as Goddard sprawled down next to Liese. He pulled off his brown PHASE cap and said, “Sorry I’m late. Canada.”

He didn’t have to explain. Two days ago the Province of Quebec had declared itself an independent state and applied for membership in the United Nations. Canada’s army was busy elsewhere: the prairie provinces and Ontario were clamoring to become American states, as were Prince Edward Island and Newfoundland, while British Columbia had closed its borders and sequestered foreign businesses and bank accounts. Upheaval and violence had followed. The English-speaking Quebecois were fleeing for the Ontario bor-der, harried by gangs of French youths intent on keeping them from carrying away Quebec’s wealth — or much of anything else. The premier of Quebec, Ferdinand Marchand, had requested American aid, and President Outram had responded with Marines, Cadre troops, and a platoon of PHASE police. A full-fledged invasion force now occupied the scenic park on top of Mont Real, overlooking the smouldering battle ground that had recently been the prosperous city of Montreal.

The wheels and cogs were truly beginning to fly off, as Lessing had gloomily predicted.

On the other hand, Goddard and some other Party leaders were ecstatic. What better opportunity to squelch the Vizzies’ pestiferous Dee-Net and put an end to Zionist control of the Canadian economy? Send the Vizzies back to their former homelands in Russia and Eastern Europe! Let the other Canadian provinces do the same, and then they might be allowed to join the American union.

In a few weeks there would be a grand ceremony. The government of Quebec would be handed back to its rightful owners, the French Quebecois. English emigrants would be quietly compensated, a number of firms would change hands — nominally, at least — and the most obstreperous of the French youth-gangs would be marched off to re-education camps to learn manners. As Goddard said, they were tough kids, but they were trainable: a likely nucleus for a Canadian branch of the Party, once the rough edges were knocked off.

Goddard turned to Wrench. “You asked him yet?”

“No. Mulder’s handling it. He’s with Outram right now.”

Korinek folded pale fingers like uncooked sausages on the blotter before him “Let me guess: you want to know about the lib-reb prisoners in California?”

“Dinkin’ right,” Goddard declared truculently. “PHASE never took ‘em, and we want to know where they are. If you’re thumbing ’em…!”

“On the contrary.“The aide leaned back in his contour chair. “It’s a matter of facing reality. Looking at things as they are.” “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just what I said. You can rock the boat only so far, then it rocks back.”

Goddard said, “Okay, what’s the bottom line? What’re you getting at?”

“I don’t see any harm in telling you. Outram’s giving your boss the same scam.”

“I think I can guess,” Wrench muttered to Lessing.

“Can you? To make a long story short, we’re not thumbing prominent Jews; we’re saving them. Our agents, temporarily decked out as special units of your PHASE police, are transporting them to comfortable… and distant… holding camps until your movement has run its course and fizzled out. Once things return to normal, they can resume their lives.”

No one spoke.

“Look,” Korinek said in his high-pitched, thin voice. “There are certain realities in America, in the world, that you have to live with. A powerful Jewish presence is one of them. Not total control, not a secret master-plot. At least, we don’t perceive it that way “

“The Party…!” Goddard began. “We won’t tolerate “

“The Party? What Party? Don’t delude yourself! Here, Goddard, let me make it simple. You and your ‘Party’ are freaks, anomalies, a bunch of fringe crazies who took advantage of a ghastly catastrophe and a sick old man to make a grab for power. The rest of us don’t want you, your Party, your Vincent Dom, or your jumped-up neo-Nazi theories!”

Goddard reared up to tower over the desk. “Freaks! Crap! The American majority is with us! You’re the anomalies… the buttoned-down liberal ‘elite’… the money-men… the self-appointed ‘culture’ aristocrats… the ‘Civil Rights’ jizmoes nobody wants… not even the Blacks, who’ve had a bellyful of Jewish landlords and merchants and patronizing liberal do-gooders! We’re America!” He reached for his peaked cap. “We’ll see what President Outram has to say about this!”

“You’ll find the President essentially agrees with my point of view. He wants the Blacks and certain other… uh… unassimilable minorities out. But he’s ready to work with the traditional interests to keep our Jewish citizens.”

“‘Traditional interests?’” Goddard parroted. “Traditional money, traditional media, traditional Jewish power! In spite of all Outram has done, the Jews and their collaborators still have a death grip on this country! On the world!”

“We haven’t hurl a single Jew,” Wrench put in, very reasonably, in the same tone he used when lecturing to the uncommitted. “They’re being sent to the Izzie colonies in Russia, sure, but nobody’s stopping them from taking their personal property and whatever else they can use there, no matter what Dee-Net’s propaganda says.”

“We think our Jews are valuable here. They add many cultural dimensions to our society.”

“God damn it!” Goddard flared. “Some of us don’t shy away from calling a spade a spade! We are tired of Jews! We have had it up to here with Jews! For two pogging thousand years we have worried about Jews… for or against! We’ve kicked ‘em out, we’ve put ‘em down, we’ve been nice to ‘em, we’ve invited ‘em in, we’ve leaned over backwards to remedy ‘past wrongs,’ we’ve got down on our knees and apologized for accusing them of killing Christ…! And what do they do? They work night and day to bleed us, to subvert our values, to subjugate us, and to make us over in their image! We’ll find your ‘holding camps’ and put your ‘prominent Jews’ on the next plane to Ufa! If you get in our way “

“You’ll what? The armed services are ours.”

“Bullshit! You want to ask ’em? Pick up your goddamned telephone and call General Hartman… General Dreydahl… Admiral Canning!”

“Some of those men aren’t what you think. Others will have to resign very soon or end up in custody. Your Cadre? Colonel Lessing, I believe your units are currently up in Quebec, watching the pretty autumn leaves.”

“How in hell could Outram agree to this?” Wrench wondered. “Last time Mulder talked to him…?”

“Money?” Lessing surmised. “Power?”

“Can’t be. Outram’s never taken ‘contributions’ to change his opinions or his vote before. And he has power. Power he’s too sick to use any more.”

“Maybe that’s your answer.”

Liese rose and straightened her skirt. The smoke-grey, silken fabric shimmered as she moved. “I think we’ve heard enough.”

Korinek got to his feet also, a pale, solid wall of a man. “We’ll give you time to dismantle your Party apparatus and crawl back into the woodwork. A month. No more. After that it’ll be treason trials, I.R.S. audits… arrest, imprisonment, and whatever else we have to do to get rid of you!”

“Nice meeting you again,” Wrench observed affably.

Korinek stroked his fish-belly-white jaw and watched them depart.

Gordy Monk met them outside at their car. Three more escort vehicles stood nearby, engines running. “The President’s secretary just phoned,” the bodyguard told them. “Mr. Mulder’s coming down.”

They could see from the angry color in Mulder’s cheeks that his meeting with Outram had gone much like theirs with Korinek. He didn’t say a word. Goddard got into his armored PHASE limousine, made a “see you later” sign, and sped off, leaving Mulder and the others to climb into their own vehicle. They would meet back at the Party’s Washington headquarters, the big hotel on M Street that had been commandeered after Starak had turned its owners into permanent absentee landlords.

As they drove. Wrench wriggled out of his uniform jacket, although the damp October morning was not hot. They turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue and headed for Washington Circle.

“Stop the car,” Wrench ordered. Monk obediently pulled over to the curb.

Mulder leaned forward and whispered, “You think this will work?”

Wrench made the finger-signal that warned of the likelihood of microphones. Aloud, he said, “Gordy, see if there’s anything wrong with the engine, will you? The damned thing’s heating up again.” Their chauffeur got out and raised the hood.

Liese and Lessing had not been told what was to happen. This was standard Party policy: the fewer who knew, the fewer slip-ups. They watched as Wrench opened a compartment in the armrest and took out a plastic-wrapped object, some ten inches long. The covering came off to reveal a lobster-looking thing of blue-black metal. Wrench muttered about “seeing what was wrong with the car,” opened his door, and contrived to drop his coat into the gutter. He swored isgustedly. When he picked the garment up again, the lobster was gone, down into the storm grating beside the curb.

“It’s green light now, Commander Wren,” Gordy announced. He banged the hood down, made a show of wiping his hands on his handkerchief, and got back in.

The rest of the trip passed without incident.

The “safe room” in Mulder’s suite in the old hotel was a windowless box five meters square, perhaps once a serving pantry for the wealthy guests who had once dwelt here. Liese had furnished it with a pair of sofas covered with sombre, brown-and-grey Navajo blankets, a desk, four streamlined, black Glassex chairs that resembled agonized modem sculptures, and two comma-shaped coffee tables that looked like Yin and Yang. The pictures on the beige walls were hotel kitsch: big, ornate, gilded frames containing uninspired landscapes.

“All right,” Lessing said when he had shut the insulated door. “Let’s hear it.”

Wrench made a little bow. “Eighty-Five?”

A red light on the desk blinked on, and the machine’s Melissa Willoughby voice purred, “Yes, Commander Wren?”

“How’s our pen doing?”

“Quite well. The transmitter has already sent me twelve telephone conversations and seven verbal messages which were directed to my White House terminal.”

“So that was why you wanted a presidential pen!” Liese shook her head in wonderment.

“Yup. I kept the first pen he gave me. I fished our replacement out of my pocket, palmed it, and traded it for one out of Korinek’s box.” He pulled a pen from his jacket and flipped it to her. “Here’s the first one. For Patty.”

The computer said, “I have become quite expert at miniaturizing my components and peripherals, Miss Meisinger. The pen transmits signals on the frequencies I myself employ. The second device, the one Commander Wren dropped off on your return, is a mobile transceiver; it enhances the pen’s messages and forwards them by tight beam to my terminal here.”

“Eighty-Five’s got it down to a fine art!” Wrench chortled. “Damn near subatomic circuitry! Creates its own ‘waldoes’… manipulators, like hands… miniaturizes ’em, then uses those to make the next set still smaller, and so on. A lot fancier than the Magellan series the Army’s using… or anything Korinek and his kikibirds have developed!” He lay back on the sofa, obviously pleased with himself.

“Many of my extensions are now mobile: cameras, audio recorders, infrared and X-ray sensors.”

“You could create a tiny poison needle, on tracks, like a tank… the size of an insect!” Wrench made a stabbing motion, then rolled up his eyes and feigned death.

“No, Commander Wren. I am specifically ordered not to harm human beings.”

“Directly harm them. I remember one time, right here in Washington “

“If you command me to seek ways around my directives, then I will do that.” Eighty-Five’s sugary voice was expressionless.

“I think you enjoy looking for ‘ways around,’” Wrench commented.

“‘Enjoy’ is a verb I cannot fully comprehend. I am programmed to employ energy, ingenuity, and intuition in solving problems.”

Mulder idly opened a desk drawer and extracted a pad of hotel stationery. The letterhead was years old. “We don’t have time for chit-chat. What do Korinek’s conversations contain? His messages to you?”

Lessing interjected: “And why can’t you just replay all of your White House terminal’s interchanges with Korinek? Why just the ones picked up by Wrench’s eavesdropping device?”

“Can’t,” Wrench told him. “Like the two of us separately playing the same computer game. You shoot down your Martians, I shoot down mine. What with sneaky access codes and passwords, Eighty-Five can’t tell us what’s in somebody else’s file, or even acknowledge that that file exists. We can only hear what Korinek says to his Eighty-Five terminal, if Wrench’s transmitter picks it up and sends it to our Eighty-Five terminal. Our Eighty-Five can’t read Korinek’s Eighty-Five files, pen or no pen. To access them, we’d have to have Korinek here, willing to use his eye-and voice-prints, verbal codes, and whatever else. We’ve got our private files, Korinek and his boys have theirs, and the Army chiefs have theirs. And ‘never the twain shall meet.’”

Mulder had grown impatient. “What’s in the conversations?” Eighty-Five inquired, “Do you wish summaries or verbatim replays?”

“Summaries will do.”

“Message one: call to Mr. Korinek’s mistress, Ms. Dolores Can-era; he will be working overtime tonight and will contact her tomorrow. Message two: call to Mr. William Michael Tangen, Special Treasury Agent, Grade 9, to arrange for a racquetball court and a sauna at the Newport Club this afternoon at 1500 hours. Message three: call to his secretary reminding her to search for the file dealing with President Outram’s Grand Coulee Dam rebuilding project “

“Anything relating to the Party of Humankind? To us?” “Message five: a telephone call to an unidentified party. Shall I replay it?”

“Yes,” Mulder and Wrench answered simultaneously.

Korinek’s reedy voice filled the room. “Put me through. Yes. Korinek. They were here Yes… I told them. I think they’re scared, but they won’t run.” Silence. Then: “If that’s what’s needed. I’ll get Horowitz on it…”

“Horowitz?” Lessing whispered.

Eighty-Five heard him. “Ninety-three per cent certainty that the reference is to Colonel Abraham L. Horowitz, U.S. Army, commanding Special Ranger Force ‘Black Lightning’ at Fort Meade, Maryland.”

Korinek’s voice resumed: “…and we’ll take the bastards out. You coordinate it from your place…. Oh, there won’t be any slip-ups. The thirteenth? Fine…. Yes, I’ll see that somebody

handles the West Coast and the South Finley? And Arris?…

Yes, and Oakes. They’ll do.” Another pause. “Listen, I have to go. Get back to you Right.”

“Take us oufl” Mulder exclaimed. “Some sort of military action?”

“It’s not impossible,” Lessing stated. “Remember Ponape?” He himself did not — could not — remember much about that period of his life.

Wrench tugged at his lower lip. “The thirteenth? Of October?” He peered at his wristwatch calendar. “We’ve got ten days!”

Mulder was already asking Eighty-Five fordata: troop schedules, readiness reports, and dossiers. He swivelled to face Lessing: “Get your Cadre troops back here from Canada. Make excuses: rest and relaxation, normal rotation, minor incidents here that need their attention. Liese, you inform Sam Morgan, Jennifer Caw, Grant Simmons, Hans Borchardt… all our leadership! Wrench, work with Eighty-Five and see what more you can find out. Where the hell is Bill Goddard?”

“Here.” The big man bulked in the doorway. “Traffic.”

“Fill him in,” Mulder ordered Wrench. “We’ll need PHASE to find that secret camp Korinek mentioned.”

“And to see to this guy Horowitz,” Wrench added. “As well as Finley, Arris, Oakes, and the rest of Korinek’s Seven Dwarves.”

Lessing was off on another tangent. “Eighty-Five, you said Korinek’s call was to an unidentified person? Can you trace it? Get the number from the beep-tones when he dialed?”

“I have already done that. It is a local number: 555-9201.”

“What? ‘555’ is an empty prefix… the telephone companies don’t issue it.” Wrench scratched his chin in puzzlement.

“This appears to be an exception,” Eighty-Five said. “I do not find it in any directory, nor is it in the ‘unlisted number’ files. It is also not recorded as a secret government number.”

“How the hell can that be? Trace it!”

“Mr. Korinek has ordered my White House terminal to institute baffles and tell-tales to prevent that.”

“You mean you are actually blocking… obstructing, fighting… yourself}” Lessing snapped his fingers in frustration. “For God’s sake!”

“Quite so. As you humans say, ‘I am my own worst enemy.’” Lessing thought he heard an audible chuckle. Wrench’s efforts to give Eighty-Five a sardonic sense of humor were apparently succeeding.

“We must know who that unidentified person is!” Mulder said. “Priority one!”

“If only we could access Korinek’s Eighty-Five files!” Liese put in.

Lessing considered. “Eighty-Five, you said we could order you to try to solve problems. All right, I’m ordering: find a way around Korinek’s passwords and get us into his Eighty-Five files.”

The machine seemed to ponder. Then it said, “There is a way, although my creators would be alarmed to learn that I am using it I can accept a direct command from a high Government official, however. Mr. Mulder, as Secretary of State, will you issue such an order?”

Mulder cleared his throat. “Yes. I do so issue.”

“Very well. If you wish to observe, you must go to my hologram projector room, or else have the apparatus brought here.”

“Let’s go!” Wrench urged. “Up a floor, in what used to be the penthouse fun-and-games suite.” He did not wait for the others to follow.

The penthouse was another relic of a bygone age: lavish, luxurious, provided with everything from billiards to bedrooms, a huge sauna and jacuzzi, full-wall TV, a landscaped terrace big enough to land a small plane on, and all the trappings of opulent decadence. In the bar Lessing quickly found the refrigerator behind the sleek, bubble-swirl Glassex counter; it was stocked with mixers and beer, but somebody had liberated all the hard liquor. He chose a bottle of fancy German beer — God knew how long it had been there — and poked around in the clever, little cupboards until he discovered a glass — as well as a pair of see-through panties and a set of handcuffs. The old hotel must’ve seen some fun parties…!

Wrench and Liese busied themselves with the projector equipment, while Goddard stepped out onto the terrace to confer with his PHASE subordinates on the portable vid-phone. Mulder was left to sit alone in a plastic armchair before the pit-fireplace with its fake logs and phony, crackling flames. Above his round, bald head, a holo-photo of Susan Kane, defunct Hollywood’s last and greatest bitch-goddess, undulated in beads and transparent Arabian Nights silks. That had been part of the Theda Bara revival of two decades ago: a shadow from the past, a relic of another age.

A memory… ice-blue.

Lessing blinked to find Mulder talking to him. “Jonas was never like that, Alan. I can’t understand the change I saw in him today. And why does he let himself be dominated by that man Korinek? He sounded querulous, tired, and, it had to be admitted, old.

“Perhaps his illness, sir.”

“Who in hell is Korinek, anyway?” Wrench threw in from the projector console. “A Vizzie? An Izzie? The FBI? Some other coven of would-be ass-kickers?”

“Jew-lickers, you mean! A race traitor. A very deep mole,” Goddard answered from the deepening afternoon shadows by the shuttered terrace windows. “Janos Korinek is a lapsed Catholic, Czech ancestry, family in this country since the late 1890’s. Held liberal views in college, then apparently ‘turned’ and went over to Outram. Loyal as the family dog for fifteen years. One civil rights leader called him ‘Simon Legree.’ The Black Citizens’ Council accused him of masterminding the Cleveland race riots back in 2038. Seems he loves the Jews, though. They probably planted him.”

“Jonas never completely agreed with us,” Mulder continued as though he had not heard, “but he’d never betray us.”

“Ready! Lights, camera, action! ” Wrench called. “Eighty-Five?”

“Here, Commander. My tests show green light on the equipment, a faulty power-cell at N-435, and an improperly placed projector at Apex Three.”

Wrench corrected the projector setting. The power-cell could wait.

Janos Korinek appeared before them.

They all gasped, and Wrench uttered a Banger obscenity that even Lessing had never heard.

“Do not be alarmed,” the Korinek-image said. “It is I, Eighty-Five. I will now employ Mr. Korinek’s verbal codes.” The voice went up an octave and took on the agent’s raspy, reedy quality. “Eighty-Five, Simple Simon down to London went. Took a wife and bought a tent”

The response was immediate and chilling. Another voice, much darker, colder, and crisper, said, ‘Took his wife and tent back home.”

“Never more abroad to roam.”

“You are in, Agent Korinek. I recognize you.”

Lessing would have said something, but Liese put a finger to his lips. Across the penthouse, Goddard’s features resembled a fierce, African mask, his mouth a round “O.”

“Replay messages 7-D-I51 through 7-D-157.”

“Hologram facilities?”

“Present.”

The Korinek image flicked out, and another came into being: a warm, delicately furnished room. An American flag stood beside a big desk.

“The Oval Office,” Wrench breathed. “Outram!”

The man behind the desk was obviously ill. The heavy, fleshy jowls hung loose and flabby, spotted and wrinkled and splotched like a turkey’s wattles. The hands, clenched on the desktop, were empty bags of skin over slick-like bones. They trembled. A thick shawlhid the President’s torso and sagged down over his wheelchair to the floor.

The camera panned to show another man in the room: Herman Mulder.

This was a replay of Mulder’s morning meeting!

Mulder hissed, “What…? Why…?”

“I sense other operators. Agent Korinek!” the machine warned. “Security clearances, please.”

The hologram of Korinek reappeared. “None available. Emergency, path 250, file D.”

“Incorrect. Access denied. ” The picture snapped off, and the light died.

Mulder spoke into the resulting void: “Eighty -Five, what… what did you do? How?”

“I have Agent Korinek in my files. I created a hologram of him, using my highest resolution, and showed that image to my White House terminal. I… it… read the image’s retinal patterns, voice-print, and microscopic pore structure. These produced correct physical identification. My record of Commander Wren’s pen-transmitter then provided the verbal codes needed for access.”

“You fooled yourself with yourself!” Wrench marvelled.

“But what have we learned?” Liese asked. “Mr. Mulder can tell us what he and Outram talked about.”

“There is something else,” Eighty -Five instructed. “Observe!”

Outram appeared again in the center of the room. The picture zoomed close to show a huge, three-dimensional left hand and wrist.

The thumb showed a square, black hole.

“N-435,” Liese cried. “Outram is a… a… hologram!”

Korinek returned and held up his left hand. His thumb showed the same black, empty blot. “Quite so. I… we… must repair this power-cell.”

“Where is the real Outram?” Goddard sounded baffled. “What the hell?”

Eighty-Five spoke over their questions. “Everyone, please! Absolute silence is required. I shall re-access my While House terminal, utilizing the same method. I must do this quickly since various watchdog systems are being activated even now.”

The access sequence was repeated. Lessing found himself clutching his glass so tightly that he had to will his fingers to let go. Liese, on his other side, made a muffled sound of protest, and he released her too.

“Eighty-Five,” the Korinek-figure said, “Where is President Outram?”

“Code five!” the cold, mechanical voice demanded.

“Never give a sucker a snowball in hell.”

“You are in, Agent Korinek.” The machine paused, then said, “President Jonas Outram remains exactly where you put him: in a grave in Arlington National Cemetery under the name of Sergeant Orville Judd Hickam, killed in action in Mexico on March 18, 2050.”

Mulder could not restrain himself: “He’s dead? Jonas is dead!”

“Identify the unknown operator, please!”

“Ignore….” The rest was lost in a confusion of voices.

Korinek flared and vanished, and a familiar blue-and-gold shield appeared in his place. The scarlet lettering on the shield read: U.S. GOVERNMENT: ACCESS RESTRICTED.

A new Janos Korinek formed before them This one was visibly angry — and shaken.

“You people arc becoming a nuisance!”

“You killed Jonas Outram,” Mulder hissed. “The President of the United States! You killed him!”

The image shifted to Outram at his desk. “Nonsense!”

“Don’t bother,” Goddard snarled. “We know! Remember Sergeant Hickam?”

“All right.” The aide shrugged. “But we didn’t kill him. He died of liver complications two months ago. It was expedient to keep him alive

“Until you could get a handle on us and our movement! ” Goddard accused. “Until you could get your ‘traditional interests’ ready for a comeback!”

“Good reasons, don’t you think? No? Well, then, what do you plan to do about it? Tell the world? We’ll cheerfully admit our deception. It was in the public interest not to have a power vacuum at this time in our history. Certain high-level government officials decided to keep the President ‘alive,’ at least until the lib-reb war was over. I doubt if there’ll be a problem. On the other hand, we happen to know that your ‘Vincent Dom’ is a hologram too. What if we expose hint! Our red-blooded American citizenry may not like to be led by a computerized composite cartoon-character. How about a joint balloon-popping party?”

“You have committed treason,” Lessing stated heavily. ‘The President dies… under what circumstances nobody knows… and is secretly buried. You take over the country and run it to suit yourself… you and the power-groupies you represent! No, I don’t think treason’s the right word. Coup d’etat fits better.”

“Don’t strain your limited vocabulary, Mister Lessing. Let’s just agree that we both have things to lose by rocking the boat right now.”

“Screw that!” Goddard growled. “You’ll be in PHASE custody inside of twenty minutes!”

“I doubt it.” They could see Korinek’s fingers dancing over objects on his desk, though the camera angle prevented a clear view of what they were. He was doubtless marshalling his response.

“We will go public with Jonas’ death,” Mulder said. “You’ll see it on Home-Net as soon as we can get it out. You can reveal ‘Dom’ if you want. We’re strong enough to withstand that. We used him to get our message across in the most palatable, charismatic way we could, like an ad-campaign. Americans will understand that! You used ‘Outram’ to deceive the people while you made major, secret changes in policy. There is a difference.”

“We can also reveal your Nazi past, Herr Müller. Wasn’t your grandfather one of the big fish who got away: Heinrich Müller, the head of the Gestapo?”

“What does that matter now?” Mulder made an angry gesture of dismissal. “What does anything matter after Pacov and Starak and all the horrors committed by you non-Nazis… or anti-Nazis… or Jews, or… or whatever you call yourselves.”

“Let’s just say we like the status quo. No sweeping changes in our executive boardrooms.”

“We will make those changes. We have come too far to be stopped. You, however, have reached the end of your tether. The world is tired of deceptions and machinations and manipulation by a power-elite. We… our ethnos… will prevail.”

“Just watch Home-Net for the next thrilling installment!” Wrench warbled.

Korinek made no answer. His image shimmered and disappeared, leaving them blinking in the golden, afternoon dimness within the eery, empty penthouse.