At noon, a stack of pizzas arrived. While eating, the team decided to meet at the same time and place each week, and the professors planned a meeting of their own at the University later in the week to work on article endorsements. The three active military officers promised to come on Mondays whenever they could, but would not always be able to slip away from other duties. General Ba-kerga asserted that he would get a cook from the air base whenever he had safe-house people on Mondays.
“This meeting of the National School Board is in session,” the chairman said.
The twenty men and two women seated around the table shuffled papers in and out of their briefcases, or sipped on coffee.
“The biggest issue today is this . . . book about the future that everyone’s up in arms about. We’re getting buried in letters from parents and special interest groups. The religious say it’s trying to do what only God should do.
The atheists say it undermines the foundational beliefs of our modern democracy. Everyone is saying it shouldn’t be in the public schools. You all have the wording of the proposed decision.”
“I wasn’t aware this book was in our classrooms,” a gray-haired man said.
“Well, it’s not,” the chairman admitted, “but they want us to ban it anyway.”
“How can we ban something we aren’t using?”
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“Most of the letters say they want it removed from school libraries, and the majority want students suspended for even talking about it.”
“Did I accidentally come to the wrong building?” another man questioned.
“Is this the Beklan Empire School Board?”
The chairman sighed. “As an elected school board, we have to do what the people want.”
“How is that different from supporting a specific religious point of view, which we are forbidden by law to do?” a woman asked.
The chairman had to think. “Neither the book, nor our draft decision, mentions any religion, religious person, or deity.”
“I am familiar with our constitution, as I’m sure you all are,” the gray-haired man stated, “which is certainly where one would find the foundational beliefs of our modern democracy. This book does not conflict with anything in our constitution. The belief this book challenges is that tomorrow holds no major problems that need to be addressed today. That belief is an article of faith, which makes it a religious belief.”
“Be that as it may,” the chairman began with an irritated expression, “the wording of the draft decision does not technically support any religious point of view. All in favor?”
He counted hands.
“All
opposed?”
Three hands came up.
“The decision is now National School Board policy.”
Priscilla selected a sturdy five-speed touring bicycle with a luggage rack over the rear tire, saddle bags on both sides, and a basket in front. After strapping a milk crate onto the luggage rack, she was ready to go shopping for the few items the safe-house kitchen needed.
Less than an hour after leaving the grocery store, she coasted down the last hill into the little hollow where the top-secret facility nestled, once the home of her beloved P-Seventeen team. Her heart beat faster, even though she was not at all tired.
After parking her bike in front of the entrance gate, she stepped to the intercom by the rarely-used outside door and pressed the call button.
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“Um . . . hello?” came a timid male voice she didn’t recognize.
“Priscilla Ka-mentha, the cook,” she said.
“Um . . . okay . . . I just started here about an hour ago, and no one’s trained me yet.”
“And no one else is there?”
“No. General Ba-kerga grabbed the other security guard and ran off to deal with some emergency at another safe house.”
Priscilla blinked a few times. “I’ll talk you through the entrance procedure, if you want.”
“Well . . . okay . . . but how do I know I’m supposed to let you in?”
“There’s a green binder beside the intercom. The third tab is Civilians, I should be listed, and I have I.D.”
“Um . . . here it is . . . yep, you’re listed, all days, all hours, all areas. Okay, what do I do first?”
“Come down to the inside of the entrance gate.”
He looked barely eighteen, had no stripes on his shoulders, and still possessed some of the clumsiness of adolescence.
“You
should be wearing a side arm,” Priscilla said through the bars, holding out her I.D. for him to see.
“They haven’t given me one yet.”
“Okay, the first step is to look around, see if anyone or anything looks suspicious.”
“Girl . . . bicycle . . . green hills.”
“If you’re comfortable with the scene, there’s a key-switch on the wall to your left. Big silver key, turn it clockwise to open the gate.”
He did and the gate began to slide open. Priscilla walked her bike through and parked it in the corner with the lawn mower and trash cans. He turned his key the other direction and the gate closed while she got her bag of groceries, change of clothes, and purse.
“Now direct me into the inspection room.”
“Which one is that?”
She suppressed a smile. “The one on the left past the stairs.”
“You know this place better than I do!” he admitted as he held the steel
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door for her.
“Yeah. I’ve been here a time or two.”
She placed her thirty-eight on the table.
He stared with wide eyes. “What do I do with that? ”
“Since I’m not a military security person, I can’t take it upstairs. Behind you, steel cabinet, small lock-box.”
He fumbled in the cabinet, almost dropping the lock-box. When he started to reach for the gun, Priscilla blocked his hand.
“Never touch someone else’s weapon. Let them put it in the box.”
“Okay,” he said with a broken voice.
“Next, you have to determine, to your satisfaction, that none of the no-no’s on the chart are in my purse or bags.”
He gazed at the chart. “That’s a lot of stuff!”
Priscilla smiled. “Normally, since I work here, you’d just trust me, but since this is your first time, you should go through the motions.”
He was soon convinced that none of her bags contained nuclear, chemical, or biological weapons.
“Now you log me in, printing neatly.”
He filled out a line in the log book slowly and carefully.
“All done! See how easy?”
The young man looked exhausted.
Two thousand miles away, at the National Stock Exchange, decisions were made behind closed doors by men in very expensive suits.
Not much later, shares of Po Publications stock crashed to a small fraction of their earlier value. A rumor began to circulate that the recent fire had been set by employees of the company, and as a result, the damage would not be covered by insurance.
The city fire chief smelled a rat, and didn’t think it would be good for his career to sleep with that rat. He quickly called a press conference and informed the world that the rumor was completely false.
Also, Po Publication’s overseas office was busy putting out press releases saying there would be no interruption in the delivery of books, especially one
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certain controversial book.
As a result, the value of Po Publications stock on the World Stock Exchange was rising.
Back at the National Stock Exchange, a computer programmer’s conscience got the better of him, and during his lunch break, he stepped into a telephone booth.
Within an hour, federal investigators swarmed into the building, began questioning everyone, and whisked the computer programmer to a safe house.
Twenty floors up, in a plush corner office, the chairman of the board of the National Stock Exchange used the pistol in his desk drawer to take his own life.
Since no one, except a few preachers and their small congregations, had actually sold their Po Publications stock, once the truth was out for everyone to see, the value of Po Publications quickly rose to record highs on both the National and World Stock Exchanges.
As General Ba-kerga drove through the entrance gate of the top-secret facility late that afternoon, he was impressed by how smoothly the untrained private handled the entry procedure. When he stepped into the building, he smelled a delicious aroma and immediately understood how the young man had received some training.
“Cookies?”
“Yes, Sir. Priscilla talked me through letting her in, stowing her gun, and logging her. I hope she told me right.”
“You can trust her, Private. She knows the place . . . and could do my job without breaking a sweat.”
The young man looked relieved.
As General Ba-kerga climbed the stairs, he began to hear music coming from the dance studio, a quick-tempo song he had heard many times when the girl wanted a good workout. He walked in that direction, and the private followed.
Priscilla waved when the pair appeared in the doorway, but continued dancing.
The private stared with admiring eyes.
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“No drooling while on duty,” General Ba-kerga said quietly but firmly.
The young man mastered himself and took on a neutral expression.
The song ended and Priscilla bowed to her small audience. “Good evening, George!”
“Let’s go into my office, Priscilla, and talk about . . . menus.”
“I just have to take the last batch of cookies out of the oven first.”
“Do I get to try one of those, too?” the private asked with adolescent excitement.
“Of course! Chocolate chip, this time.”
A few minutes later, Priscilla carried two small plates bearing cookies into General Ba-kerga’s office.
“You’re earning your paychecks already, I see. Sorry they won’t be as large as your previous checks. By the way . . .” He looked through a pile of mail.
“. . . here’s your last P-Seventeen check.”
“Thanks. I’ll spend it wisely.”
George laughed. “You’ll probably invest it and turn it into ten times that much!”
Priscilla
grinned.
“Thanks for training the private.”
“It was that, or sit on the curb waiting for you.”
“I had a mess to deal with, and Lisa and Ginny are still dealing with it. I’ll be really glad when these people are gone and I can shut down that house.”
While speaking, he handed her a catalog.
“Furniture?”
“I need your former room to handle a family, and I want it coordinated with the color scheme, so who better to ask than the original interior decorator?”
Priscilla smiled. “That brings back old memories. It’s gonna be tight . . .
I’d get this solid-oak bunk bed with rails all around the top, then swap desks with the guard room — my big roll-top would protect their radio and intercom from curious fingers. The wardrobe and bookcase can stay. A curtain rod and full-length drapes across the end of the room would give the parents a little privacy.”
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He took the catalog back. “Sounds good. By shutting down the other houses, I have a little money to spend. We’re gonna need a new washing machine soon, as I remember. You know, Priscilla, that private admires you, and since you don’t live in a top-secret facility anymore . . .”
“But my favorite boy still lives in an orphanage.”
“Oh, yes. Well, I’m sure you’ll figure out something.”
“I’ve been thinking about it. Thanks for the fatherly support.”
“Mmmm, these cookies are delicious!”
Priscilla stayed at the facility for three nights.
In that time, the kitchen took on a somewhat different atmosphere. While Maria liked everything put away when not in use, Priscilla preferred all her tools and spices spread out on the work table where she could see them.
The young private was obviously interested in her, chatting whenever she wasn’t busy. She was tempted, but eventually decided that the five years she had waited for Brian were enough of an investment to allow her to wait a little longer. Anyway, by the second day, the private was gone and Lisa was back, training a corporal who was already married.
When no one else was upstairs, Priscilla alternated between puttering in the kitchen, watering plants, and ambling from room to room, touching the walls, furniture, drapes, and carpets — feeling how much a part of her this old building was, or perhaps how much a part of it she was. She felt grateful to George for allowing her to work here, and told him so the next time he came in.
On the third day, she found an old suitcase in the garage that someone had forgotten years before, put her name on it, and took it down to the bomb shelter to keep her spare clothes neat and clean.
On her last day at the facility, the new bunk bed arrived, with strong men to move everything. George put her in charge of the work, and she installed the new privacy drapes herself while the men did the rest.
By late afternoon, the workmen were gone, and only the security corporal remained, reading training manuals in the guard room.
Priscilla did a load of laundry, packed her extra clothes into the suitcase,
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and wandered about the facility feeling that her mental and emotional transition — her grieving process — was complete. Her old room was no longer hers, but the kitchen and bomb shelter were very much hers.
Except on Mondays.
She smiled, realizing that this facility was now her get-away, her retreat from the real-world problems her team was trying to solve. But she finally felt ready to go back, talk to Susan, kiss Brian, and get ready for next Monday.
With just enough daylight remaining, Priscilla Ka-mentha, the new safe-house cook, went through the exit procedure at the top-secret facility, and pedaled home.