Hugo awards the short st.., p.224
Hugo Awards: The Short Stories (Volume 1), page 224
The bandleader fired Patton on the spot and threatened to call the cops. The crowd nearly lynched the manager for it.
As soon as the hubbub died down, Patton said to Ike, "The S. stands for Smith." And he shook his hand.
He and Ike took off that night to start up their own band.
And were together for almost thirty years.
Armstrong blew "Dry Bones."
Ike did "St. Louis Blues."
They had never done either better. This Washington audience loved them.
So had another, long ago.
The first time he and Armstrong met was in Washington, too. It was a hot, bleak July day in 1932.
The Bonus Army had come to the Capitol, asking their congressmen and their nation for some relief in the third year of the Depression. President Al Smith was virtually powerless; he had a Republican Congress under him, led by Senator Nye.
The bill granting the veterans of the Great War their bonus, due in 1945, had been passed back in the Twenties. The vets wanted it to be paid immediately. It had been sitting in the treasury, gaining interest, and was already part of the budget. The vote was coming up soon.
Thousands, dubbed the B.E.F., had poured into Washington, camping on Anacostia Flats, in tin boxes, towns of shanties dubbed Smithvilles, or under the rain and stars.
Homeless men who had slogged through the mud of Europe, had been gassed and shelled, and had lived with rats in the trenches while fighting for democracy; now they found themselves back in the mud again.
This time they were out of money, out of work, out of luck.
The faces of the men were tired. Soup kitchens had been set up. They tried to keep their humor. It was all they had left. May dragged by, then June, then July. The vote was taken in Congress on the twelfth.
Congress said no.
They accused the Bonus Marchers of being Reds. They. said they were an armed rabble. Rumors ran wild. Such financial largess, Congress said, could not be afforded.
Twenty thousand of the thirty thousand men tried to find some way back home, out of the city, back to No Place, U.S.A.
Ten thousand stayed, hoping for something to happen. Anything.
Ike went down to play for them. So did Armstrong. They ran into each other in town, got their bands and equipment together. They set up a stage in the middle of the Smithville, now a forlorn-looking bunch of mud-straw shacks.
About five thousand of the jobless men came to hear them play. They were in a holiday mood. They sat on the ground, in the mud. They didn't much care anymore.
Armstrong and Ike had begun to play that day. Half the band, including Wild George, had hangovers. They had drunk with the Bonus Marchers the night before and well into the morning before the noon concert.
They played great jazz that day anyway. Just before the music began, a cloud of smoke had risen up from some of the abandoned warehouses the veterans had been living in. There was some commotion over toward the Potomac. The band just played louder and wilder.
The marchers clapped along. Wild George smiled a bleary-eyed smile toward the crowd. They were doing half his job.
Automatic rifle fire rang out, causing heads to turn.
The Army was coming. Sons and nephews of some of the Bonus Marchers there were coming toward them on orders from Douglas MacArthur, the Chief of Staff. He had orders to clear them out.
The men came to their feet, picking up rocks and bottles.
Marching lines of soldiers came into view, bayonets fixed. Small two-man tanks, armed with machine guns, rolled between the soldiers. The lines stopped. The soldiers put on gas masks.
The Bonus Marchers, who remembered phosgene and the trenches, drew back.
"Keep playing!" said Ike.
"Keep goin'. Let it roll!" said Armstrong.
Tear-gas grenades flew toward the Bonus Marchers. Rocks and bottles sailed toward the masked soldiers. There was an explosion a block away.
The troops came on.
The gas rolled toward the marchers. Some who picked up the spewing canisters to throw them back fell coughing to the ground, overcome.
The tanks and bayonets came forward in a solid line.
The marchers broke and ran.
Their shacks and tents were set afire by Chemical Corpsmen behind the tanks.
"Let it roll! Let it roll!" said Armstrong, and they played "Didn't He Ramble?" The gas cloud hit them, and the music died in chokes and vomiting.
That night the Bonus Marchers were loaded on Army trucks, taken fifty miles due west, and let out on the sides of the roads.
Ike and Louis went up before the Washington magistrate, paid a ten-dollar fine each, and took a train to New York City.
The last time he had seen Wild George alive was two years ago. Patton had been found by somebody who'd know him in the old days.
He'd been in four bad marriages, his only kid had died in the taking of the Japanese Home Islands in early Forty-seven, and he'd lost one of his arms in a car wreck in Fifty-five. He was found in a flophouse. They'd put him in a nursing home and paid the bills.
Ike had gone to visit. The last time they had seen each other in those intervening twenty-odd years had been the day of the fist fight in Forty-three, just before the Second World War broke out. Patton had joined the Miller Band for a while but was too much for them. He'd gone from band to band and marriage to marriage to oblivion.
He was old, old. Wild George was only five years older than Ike. He looked a hundred. One eye was almost gone. He had no teeth. He was drying out in the nursing home, turning brittle as last winter's leaves.
"Hello, George," said Ike, shaking his only hand.
"I knew you'd come first," said Patton.
"You should have let somebody know."
"What's to know? One old musician lives, another one dies."
"George, I'm sorry. The way things have turned out."
"I've been thinking it over, about that fight we had," Patton stopped to cough up some bloody spittle into a basin Ike held for him. George's eyes watered.
"God. Oh, jeez. If I could only have a drink." He stared into Ike's eyes. Then he said, "About that fight. You were still wrong."
Then he coughed some more.
Ike was crying as they went into the final number. He stepped forward to the mike Helen had used when she came out to sing with them for the last three numbers.
"This song is for the memory of George Smith Patton," he said.
They played "The Old, Rugged Cross." No one had ever played it like that before.
Ike broke down halfway through. He waved to the crowd, took his mouthpiece off, and walked into the wings.
Pops kept playing. He tried to motion Ike back. Helen was hugging him. He waved and brushed the tears away.
Armstrong finished the song.
The audience tore the place apart. They were on their feet and stamping, screaming, applauding.
Presley sat in his chair.
He was crying, too, but quickly stood up and cheered.
The whole thing was over.
****
At home, later, in Georgetown, Senator Presley was lying in bed beside his wife, Muffy. They had made love. They had both been excited. It had been terrific.
Now Muffy was asleep.
Presley got up and went to the kitchen, poured himself a scotch, and stood with his naked butt against the countertop.
It was a cold night. Through the half-curtains on the window he saw stars over the city. If you could call this seventeenth-century jumble a city.
He went into the den. The servants would be asleep.
He turned the power on the stereo, took down four or five of his Eisenhower records, looked through them. He put on Ike at the Mike, a four-record set made for RCA in 1947, toward the end of the last war.
Ike was playing "No Love, No Nothing," a song his wife had made famous three years before. She wasn't on this record, though. This was all Ike and his band.
Presley got the bottle from the kitchen, sat back down, poured himself another drink. There were more hearings tomorrow. And the day after.
Someday, he thought, someday E. Aaron Presley will be President of these here United States. Serves them right.
Ike was playing "All God's Chillun Got Shoes."
I didn't even get to shake his hand, thought Presley.
I'd give it all away to be like him, he thought.
He went to sleep sitting up.
MELANCHOLY ELEPHANTS
Spider Robinson
She sat zazen, concentrating on not concentrating, until it was time to prepare for the appointment. Sitting seemed to produce the usual serenity, put everything in perspective. Her hand did not tremble as she applied her make-up; tranquil features looked back at her from the mirror. She was mildly surprised, in fact, at just how calm she was, until she got out of the hotel elevator at the garage level and the mugger made his play. She killed him instead of disabling him. Which was obviously not a measured, balanced action—the official fuss and paperwork could make her late. Annoyed at herself, she stuffed the corpse under a shiny new Westinghouse roadable whose owner she knew to be in Luna, and continued on to her own car. This would have to be squared later, and it would cost. No help for it—she fought to regain at least the semblance of tranquillity as her car emerged from the garage and turned north. Nothing must interfere with this meeting, or with her role in it.
Dozens of man-years and God knows how many dollars, she thought, funneling down to perhaps a half hour of conversation. All the effort, all the hope. Insignificant on the scale of the Great Wheel, of course… but when you balance it all on a half hour of talk, it's like balancing a stereo cartridge on a needlepoint. It only takes a gram or so of weight to wear out a piece of diamond. I must be harder than diamond.
Rather than clear a window and watch Washington, D.C. roll by beneath her car, she turned on the television. She absorbed and integrated the news, on the chance that there might be some late-breaking item she could turn to her advantage in the conversation to come; none developed. Shortly the car addressed her: "Grounding, ma'am. I.D. eyeball request." When the car landed she cleared and then opened her window, presented her pass and I.D. to a Marine in dress blues, and was cleared at once. At the Marine's direction she re-opaqued the window and surrendered control of her car to the house computer, and when the car parked itself and powered down she got out without haste. A man she knew was waiting to meet her, smiling.
"Dorothy, it's good to see you again."
"Hello, Phillip. Good of you to meet me."
"You look lovely this evening."
"You're too kind." She did not chafe at the meaningless pleasantries. She needed Phil's support, or she might. But she did reflect on how many, many sentences have been worn smooth with use, rendered meaningless by centuries of repetition. It was by no means a new thought.
"If you'll come with me, he'll see you at once."
"Thank you, Phillip." She wanted to ask what the old man's mood was, but knew it would put Phil in an impossible position.
"I rather think your luck is good; the old man seems to be in excellent spirits tonight."
She smiled her thanks, and decided that if and when Phil got around to making his pass she would accept him. The corridors through which he led her then were broad and high and long; the building dated back to a time of cheap power. Even in Washington, few others would have dared to live in such an energy-wasteful environment. The extremely spare decor reinforced the impression created by the place's very dimensions: bare space from carpet to ceiling, broken approximately every forty meters by some exquisitely simple objet d'art of at least a megabuck's value, appropriately displayed. An unadorned, perfect, white porcelain bowl, over a thousand years old, on a rough cherrywood pedestal. An arresting colour photograph of a snow-covered country road, silkscreened onto stretched silver foil; the time of day changed as one walked past it. A crystal globe, a meter in diameter, within which danced a hologram of the immortal Shara Drummond; since she had ceased performing before the advent of holo technology.
"Thank you, Phillip. Any topics to be sure and avoid?"
"Well… don't bring up haemorrhoids."
"I didn't know one could."
He smiled. "Are we still on for lunch Thursday?"
"Unless you'd rather make it dinner."
One eyebrow lifted. "And breakfast?"
She appeared to consider it. "Brunch," she decided. He half-bowed and stepped back. The elevator door closed and she forgot Phillip's existence.
Sentient beings are innumerable; I vow to save them all. The deluding passions are limitless; I vow to extinguish them all. The truth is limitless; I—
The elevator door opened again, truncating the Vow of the Bodhisattva. She had not felt the elevator stop—yet she knew that she must have descended at least a hundred meters. She left the elevator. The room was larger than she had expected; nonetheless the big powered chair dominated it easily. The chair also seemed to dominate—at least visually—its occupant. A misleading impression, as he dominated all this massive home, everything in it and, to a great degree, the country in which it stood. But he did not look like much.
A scent symphony was in progress, the cinnamon passage of Bulachevski's "Childhood." It happened to be one of her personal favourites, and this encouraged her.
"Hello, Senator."
"Hello, Mrs. Martin. Welcome to my home. Forgive me for not rising."
"Of course. It was most gracious of you to receive me."
"It is my pleasure and privilege. A man my age appreciates a chance to spend time with a woman as beautiful and intelligent as yourself."
"Senator, how soon do we start talking to each other?"
He raised that part of his face which had once held an eyebrow.
"We haven't said anything yet that is true. You do not stand because you cannot. Your gracious reception cost me three carefully hoarded favours and a good deal of folding cash. More than the going rate; you are seeing me reluctantly. You have at least eight mistresses that I know of, each of whom makes me look like a dull matron. I concealed a warm corpse on the way here because I dared not be late; my time is short and my business urgent. Can we begin?"
She held her breath and prayed silently. Everything she had been able to learn about the Senator told her that this was the correct way to approach him. But was it?
The mummy-like face fissured in a broad grin. "Right away. Mrs. Martin, I like you and that's the truth. My time is short, too. What do you want of me?"
"Don't you know?"
"I can make an excellent guess. I hate guessing."
"I am heavily and publicly committed to the defeat of S.4217896."
"Yes, but for all I know you might have come here to sell out."
"Oh." She tried not to show her surprise. "What makes you think that possible?"
"Your organization is large and well-financed and fairly efficient, Mrs. Martin, and there's something about it I don't understand."
"What is that?"
"Your objective. Your arguments are weak and implausible, and whenever this is pointed out to one of you, you simply keep on pushing. Many times I have seen people take a position without apparent logic to it—but I've always been able to see the logic, if I kept on looking hard enough. But as I see it, S. '896 would work to the clear and lasting advantage of the group you claim to represent, the artists. There's too much intelligence in your organization to square with your goals. So I have to wonder what you are working for, and why. One possibility is that you're willing to roll over on this copyright thing in exchange for whatever it is that you really want. Follow me?"
"Senator, I am working on behalf of all artists—and in a broader sense—"
He looked pained, or rather, more pained. "—for all mankind, oh my God, Mrs. Martin, really now."
"I know you have heard that countless times, and probably said it as often." He grinned evilly. "This is one of those rare times when it happens to be true. I believe that if S. '896 does pass, our species will suffer significant trauma."
He raised a skeletal hand, tugged at his lower lip. "Now that I have ascertained where you stand, I believe I can save you a good deal of money. By concluding this audience, and seeing that the squeeze you paid for half an hour of my time is refunded pro rata."
Her heart sank, but she kept her voice even. "Without even hearing the hidden logic behind our arguments?"
"It would be pointless and cruel to make you go into your spiel, ma'am. You see, I cannot help you."
She wanted to cry out, and savagely refused herself permission. Control, whispered a part of her mind, while another part shouted that a man such as this did not lightly use the words "I cannot." But he had to be wrong. Perhaps the sentence was only a bargaining gambit…
No sign of the internal conflict showed; her voice was calm and measured. "Sir, I have not come here to lobby. I simply wanted to inform you personally that our organization intends to make a no-strings campaign donation in the amount of—"
"Mrs. Martin, please! Before you commit yourself, I repeat, I cannot help you. Regardless of the sum offered."
"Sir, it is substantial."
"I'm sure. Nonetheless it is insufficient."
She knew she should not ask. "Senator, why?"
He frowned, a frightening sight.
"Look," she said, the desperation almost showing through now, "keep the pro rata if it buys me an answer! Until I'm convinced that my mission is utterly hopeless, I must not abandon it: answering me is the quickest way to get me out of your office. Your scanners have watched me quite thoroughly, you know that I'm not abscamming you."
Still frowning, he nodded. "Very well. I cannot accept your campaign donation because I have already accepted one from another source."
Her very worst secret fear was realized. He had already taken money from the other side. The one thing any politician must do, no matter how powerful, is stay bought. It was all over.
