The Mammoth Book of 20th Century SF II by David G. Hartwell Page B
Authors: David G. Hartwell
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anything. And right quick SAM will compute you out an answer. So that’s what
they’ll try to do, they’ll tell you to take it easy and let SAM do it.
“Well, all right, up to a certain point. But, Mr. Larkin, understand this. SAM is like a book. Like a book, he knows the answers. But only those answers we’ve already found
out . We gave SAM those answers. A machine is not creative, neither is a book. Both are only the product of creative minds. Sure, SAM could hold the country together. But growth, man,
there’d be no more growth! No new ideas, new solutions, change, progress, development! And America must grow, must progress – ”
He stopped, exhausted. Reddington bowed his head. Larkin remained idly calm. He felt a remarkable clarity in his head.
“But, Mr. President,” he said slowly, “if the office is too much for one man, then all we can do is cut down on his powers – ”
“Ah,” the old man said faintly, “there’s the rub. Cut down on what? If I sign a tax bill, I must know enough about taxes to be certain that the bill is the right one. If
I endorse a police action, I must be certain that the strategy involved is militarily sound. If I consider farm prices . . . you see, you see, what will you cut? The office is responsible for its
acts. It must remain responsible. You cannot take just someone else’s word for things like that, you must make your own decisions. Already we sign things we know nothing about, bills for
this, bills for that, on somebody’s word.”
“What do you suggest?”
The old man cocked an eye toward Larkin, smiled once more with half his mouth, anciently worn, only hours from death, an old, old man with his work not done, never to be done.
“Son, come here. Take my hand. Can’t lift it myself.”
Larkin came forward, knelt by the side of the bed. He took the cold hand, now gaunt and almost translucent, and held it gently.
“Mr. Larkin,” the President said. “God be with you, boy. Do what you can. Delegate authority. Maybe cut the term in half. But keep us human, please, keep us growing, keep us
alive.” His voice faltered, his eyes closed. “I’m very tired. God be with you.”
Larkin laid the hand gently on the bed cover. He stood for a long moment looking down. Then he turned with Reddington and left the room.
Outside, he waited until they were past the Secret Service men and then turned to Reddington.
“Your plans for SAM. What do you think now?”
Reddington winced.
“I couldn’t see any way out.”
“But what about now? I have to know.”
“I don’t know. I really don’t know. But . . . let me tell you something.”
“Yes.”
“Whatever I say to you from now on is only advice. You don’t have to take it. Because understand this: however you came in here tonight, you’re going out the President. You
were elected. Not by the people maybe, not even by SAM. But you’re President by the grace of God and that’s enough for me. From this moment on you’ll be President to everybody in
the world. We’ve all agreed. Never think that you’re only a fraud, because you aren’t. You heard what the President said. You take it from here.”
Larkin looked at him for a long while. Then he nodded once, briefly.
“All right,” he said.
“One more thing.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve got to say this. Tonight, this afternoon, I didn’t really know what I was doing to you. I thought . . . well . . . the crisis came. But you had no time to think. That
wasn’t right. A man shouldn’t be pushed into a thing like this without time to think. The old man just taught me something about making your own decisions. I should have let you make
yours.”
“It’s all right.”
“No, it isn’t. You remember him in there. Well. That’s you four years from tonight. If you live that long.”
Now it was Larkin who reached out and patted Reddington on the shoulder.
“That’s all right, too,” he said.
Reddington said nothing. When he spoke
they’ll try to do, they’ll tell you to take it easy and let SAM do it.
“Well, all right, up to a certain point. But, Mr. Larkin, understand this. SAM is like a book. Like a book, he knows the answers. But only those answers we’ve already found
out . We gave SAM those answers. A machine is not creative, neither is a book. Both are only the product of creative minds. Sure, SAM could hold the country together. But growth, man,
there’d be no more growth! No new ideas, new solutions, change, progress, development! And America must grow, must progress – ”
He stopped, exhausted. Reddington bowed his head. Larkin remained idly calm. He felt a remarkable clarity in his head.
“But, Mr. President,” he said slowly, “if the office is too much for one man, then all we can do is cut down on his powers – ”
“Ah,” the old man said faintly, “there’s the rub. Cut down on what? If I sign a tax bill, I must know enough about taxes to be certain that the bill is the right one. If
I endorse a police action, I must be certain that the strategy involved is militarily sound. If I consider farm prices . . . you see, you see, what will you cut? The office is responsible for its
acts. It must remain responsible. You cannot take just someone else’s word for things like that, you must make your own decisions. Already we sign things we know nothing about, bills for
this, bills for that, on somebody’s word.”
“What do you suggest?”
The old man cocked an eye toward Larkin, smiled once more with half his mouth, anciently worn, only hours from death, an old, old man with his work not done, never to be done.
“Son, come here. Take my hand. Can’t lift it myself.”
Larkin came forward, knelt by the side of the bed. He took the cold hand, now gaunt and almost translucent, and held it gently.
“Mr. Larkin,” the President said. “God be with you, boy. Do what you can. Delegate authority. Maybe cut the term in half. But keep us human, please, keep us growing, keep us
alive.” His voice faltered, his eyes closed. “I’m very tired. God be with you.”
Larkin laid the hand gently on the bed cover. He stood for a long moment looking down. Then he turned with Reddington and left the room.
Outside, he waited until they were past the Secret Service men and then turned to Reddington.
“Your plans for SAM. What do you think now?”
Reddington winced.
“I couldn’t see any way out.”
“But what about now? I have to know.”
“I don’t know. I really don’t know. But . . . let me tell you something.”
“Yes.”
“Whatever I say to you from now on is only advice. You don’t have to take it. Because understand this: however you came in here tonight, you’re going out the President. You
were elected. Not by the people maybe, not even by SAM. But you’re President by the grace of God and that’s enough for me. From this moment on you’ll be President to everybody in
the world. We’ve all agreed. Never think that you’re only a fraud, because you aren’t. You heard what the President said. You take it from here.”
Larkin looked at him for a long while. Then he nodded once, briefly.
“All right,” he said.
“One more thing.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve got to say this. Tonight, this afternoon, I didn’t really know what I was doing to you. I thought . . . well . . . the crisis came. But you had no time to think. That
wasn’t right. A man shouldn’t be pushed into a thing like this without time to think. The old man just taught me something about making your own decisions. I should have let you make
yours.”
“It’s all right.”
“No, it isn’t. You remember him in there. Well. That’s you four years from tonight. If you live that long.”
Now it was Larkin who reached out and patted Reddington on the shoulder.
“That’s all right, too,” he said.
Reddington said nothing. When he spoke
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