someone recognized for that purpose. And then only if the motion is seconded. Well, how would you know much about Roberts’ Rules of Order, or democratic procedure? You are a blunt-headed military type, Rockson—the exact opposite of a calm, democratic person.”
Rock looked to the video screens. The sound was turned low, but you could see all those rough and ready rural-delegates storming and fuming at the criticism of the military, which they adored. Rock had their outer city votes now.
“Cowards like you, McGrugle, can sit and laugh at soldiers and airmen,” Rock sneered, “but it’s a fact that you’re alive and able to speak your silly words because of us military men. The military is responsible for the very existence of Century City,” Rock snapped.
There were more roars of support from the videoscreen delegates. Rock had pulled the chestnuts of civilians out of the fire more than once. “Screw the rules,” Rock said emphatically, “the damned world can’t wait for niceties like Roberts’ Rules!” He smiled slyly, “Anyway, the emergency rules say I can call for end of debate. The hour is up. Let’s vote . . . now!”
He had the chairman there. Quickly there was a chorus of beeps from the walls. The lights indicating the vote by the rural communities and far-flung cities calling for approval of Rockson’s proposal was largely blue for yes. Rock’s motion was supported by a majority of the video-screen delegates.
The chairman paled and banged his gavel. “I’m sad to say, debate is ended,” he admitted. “We too must vote.”
Someone, not realizing the tide was already against the anti-Rockson forces, said, “When we win this vote, let’s throw Rockson and Schecter out of Century City! Let’s exile them and their anti-democratic friends.”
The chairman said, “I call the vote.”
“I second,” Bing-Ling chuckled out, knowing the truth.
The chairman said, “You all should press the yes or no buttons on your consoles. But let me warn you all to vote against—”
Detroit pulled the pin out of a grenade and held it up. He pretended to toss it at the chairman, who winced and ducked. Mary Smart shrieked. When McGrugle saw the grenade hadn’t actually been let fly, he muttered a few curse words. Detroit said between clenched teeth, “Call the vote properly.” He again waved the grenade. The chairman sputtered, “All in favor of giving Rockson his stuff and his blank check, press blue; those opposed to Rockson press red, for no.”
Rockson winked over at Detroit, who put his grenade back in his bandolier, and then sat down and pressed the blue button. The tally from Century City was going up on the board, and it was mostly red. Century City, according to the Re-United States of America’s lopsided constitution, had nearly as many votes as all the other free cities combined. This would be a close one.
“Mrs. Chen, would you count the dots?” Detroit asked.
It was an amazing fact that only a visual count was made of votes in the council. No one trusted computer tallys, not after the famous vote scam of ’96.
Bing-Ling started mumbling out a count, but Rock counted faster. His shoulders sagged He could see that he’d lost by the great majority in the Century City Chamber, though he’d carried most of the outlying cities by a large margin. That margin was not enough to swing the vote to his side because of a number of abstentions.
“The mad proposal by Rockson is defeated,” the chairman laughed. “I expressly forbid, by executive order, that Rockson leave the city for one month. Nor do I allow Schecter to enter his science labs, nor experiment with any nuclear materials for a month.” He banged the gavel. “Council is dismissed.”
“Is that legal?” Chen whispered.
Rock shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I’m gonna do what I have to do.”
As the meeting broke up, the Ninja guards prevented any serious injuries when the “Pro-Rockson Three”—the owls—were
Rock looked to the video screens. The sound was turned low, but you could see all those rough and ready rural-delegates storming and fuming at the criticism of the military, which they adored. Rock had their outer city votes now.
“Cowards like you, McGrugle, can sit and laugh at soldiers and airmen,” Rock sneered, “but it’s a fact that you’re alive and able to speak your silly words because of us military men. The military is responsible for the very existence of Century City,” Rock snapped.
There were more roars of support from the videoscreen delegates. Rock had pulled the chestnuts of civilians out of the fire more than once. “Screw the rules,” Rock said emphatically, “the damned world can’t wait for niceties like Roberts’ Rules!” He smiled slyly, “Anyway, the emergency rules say I can call for end of debate. The hour is up. Let’s vote . . . now!”
He had the chairman there. Quickly there was a chorus of beeps from the walls. The lights indicating the vote by the rural communities and far-flung cities calling for approval of Rockson’s proposal was largely blue for yes. Rock’s motion was supported by a majority of the video-screen delegates.
The chairman paled and banged his gavel. “I’m sad to say, debate is ended,” he admitted. “We too must vote.”
Someone, not realizing the tide was already against the anti-Rockson forces, said, “When we win this vote, let’s throw Rockson and Schecter out of Century City! Let’s exile them and their anti-democratic friends.”
The chairman said, “I call the vote.”
“I second,” Bing-Ling chuckled out, knowing the truth.
The chairman said, “You all should press the yes or no buttons on your consoles. But let me warn you all to vote against—”
Detroit pulled the pin out of a grenade and held it up. He pretended to toss it at the chairman, who winced and ducked. Mary Smart shrieked. When McGrugle saw the grenade hadn’t actually been let fly, he muttered a few curse words. Detroit said between clenched teeth, “Call the vote properly.” He again waved the grenade. The chairman sputtered, “All in favor of giving Rockson his stuff and his blank check, press blue; those opposed to Rockson press red, for no.”
Rockson winked over at Detroit, who put his grenade back in his bandolier, and then sat down and pressed the blue button. The tally from Century City was going up on the board, and it was mostly red. Century City, according to the Re-United States of America’s lopsided constitution, had nearly as many votes as all the other free cities combined. This would be a close one.
“Mrs. Chen, would you count the dots?” Detroit asked.
It was an amazing fact that only a visual count was made of votes in the council. No one trusted computer tallys, not after the famous vote scam of ’96.
Bing-Ling started mumbling out a count, but Rock counted faster. His shoulders sagged He could see that he’d lost by the great majority in the Century City Chamber, though he’d carried most of the outlying cities by a large margin. That margin was not enough to swing the vote to his side because of a number of abstentions.
“The mad proposal by Rockson is defeated,” the chairman laughed. “I expressly forbid, by executive order, that Rockson leave the city for one month. Nor do I allow Schecter to enter his science labs, nor experiment with any nuclear materials for a month.” He banged the gavel. “Council is dismissed.”
“Is that legal?” Chen whispered.
Rock shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I’m gonna do what I have to do.”
As the meeting broke up, the Ninja guards prevented any serious injuries when the “Pro-Rockson Three”—the owls—were
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