She was suspicious. “Okay. No problem. But why—why only women?
She knew why, of course. They’d discussed it often enough, but she wanted to hear it in this new and different (and risk-filled) context.
“Anne, we men aren’t to be trusted—no, that’s not entirely true. There are good men, wise men, but we know the problems the planet has faced due to the hubris of just one half of one species. It is far too long overdue we gave the other half its chance to run things in the next millennia.
“I want you to organize the second Congress of Outsiders—no, wait—we’ll call it the third Continental Congress. And just women. About time we put Mother Nature in charge. What do you say?”
Ann’s response was to dissolve into tears and, wailing her joy, threw herself at this grinning, wonderful man. Then she drew back. “Except for you, the one man—more woman than man—whose genius and foresight has made this all possible—yes?”
“Well, sure, and that brings me to a rather important caveat . . .”
“I knew it! What’s the catch?”
“No catch—well, not really. Your congress of women will have full powers to enact legislation based on . . . “
Ann laughed ruefully. “Go on, and I know what you’re going to say. Based on all the things you and your professors and builders and Indians and nerds discussed every night by your raging bonfires. And typed up by that marvelous woman, and which you’ve kept secret!”
“Well, yes, but all of it must be approved by your congress—no, no, I mean it.”
“All right, my darling. Show me. Come on. I’ve seen you lugging that big journal that sits under your desk, darting from page to page. I’ve seen you sucking your pencil.”
From his back pocket, Richard produced a crumpled sheet and handed it to Anne. Wow. A single page, and just nine ‘articles’ in all. She got off the swing and the porch and sat down by their tree, a spreading chestnut, and pored over each brief Article of a ‘Prime Directive. Her mouth slowly opened and remained so, her face tightening in fear.
Then she had to gasp with shock at the harsh, life-changing ‘commandments’ outlined for their – all humanity’s – future. She shook her head at Richard—not now!—he had gotten up and was crossing to her.
It was almost an hour before she returned to the cabin and answered his frown of question and some disappointment, with murmurs of fatigue and a need to further study this document. She’d wanted to let Penelope see it but Richard cautioned her. Something she’d said on entering the cabin late last night and which he heard from his bed made him pause. “Pink!’ she had cried. He looked over at this fine boned lady, this ‘office manager’ person from apparently nowhere who’d joined the march and was so helpful. And wasn’t she always wearing army ‘fatigues?’
Suddenly sparked the connection between her and Clark May. Clark’s old house in Charleston was named, ‘Pinckney Pink.’ And at one time, didn’t Clark admit he had a friend on the march who’d kept him informed of their progress and their plans. Now he sat down at his desk and stared at Penny until she, having glanced up several times at him, removed the clips from between her lips and swallowed and ahemmed. It was obvious they liked one another, and her cheeks seemed abnormally rosy now as she said, “I’m sorry, Richard, to have deceived you and Anne for so long. Being under orders was a lame excuse.”
“Under orders? You’re in the army?”
“Captain P. U. Shaw reporting for duty.” A deep sigh of apology, then a decision to spell it out. “Umm, I’m sorry, Richard. See, my husband, Colonel Sam Shaw, was Clark’s chief of staff for twenty-some years. Well, both of us, really. I did all Sam’s typing, collating and organizing. He’d bring it all home with him – he was a fighting man, not a pencil pusher. When he died six years ago, I took over. And Clark placed me on leave to . . . join your amazing march.”
Now it was Richard’s turn to heave a regretful sigh. “And did you—of course you did—you made a carbon copy of your transcribed notes of our nightly meetings around the bonfire.”
She shut her eyes and nodded. “But not all of it, heavens no. Not the Prime Directive, just things I thought he ought to know, like when the direction of the march changed.”
“I see.” He was absorbing the import of it and, now that Clark was a part of the team, really could find no harm; in fact, great help. He smiled, then chuckled and broke out into laughter, which Penny, nearly tearful, now joined in and they hugged.
Later, with Anne, they shared a bottle of good wine (Clark’s usual arrival gift was a case), vegetable soup and cheese, and they caught her up on all their plans for the commune. She was gasping her surprise and delight throughout and they hugged warmly before she left. In his arms, Richard smelled a subtle perfume and felt a woman beneath the coat and mused about the widow Shaw and the widower May.
To Anne’s joy and amazement, in one day Penny had organized her entire accumulation of notes and letters and had them labeled and boxed and did not need to return until necessary and told them she was expecting her boss at any moment.
Next morning as Anne served him his toast and coffee, she told Richard that his ideas were sound, but, well, she thought that if only women were in charge it would not be fairly treated by the Outside community of men. Besides, there were too many good, wise and creative minds belonging to men that should join the Congress. He demurred to her wisdom so long, he warned, that all were willing to think ‘Earth First.’ And they both agreed that before word got out, General May should be apprised of these draconian changes to the lives of homo sapiens.
The clatter was heard long before the bird, a much smaller one with a bubble cockpit, in which could be seen the general gaping as it rounded the dome and eventually settled dustily. The first to greet him were a crisply-uniformed and saluting Captain Shaw (Richard realized she was expected but disappointed they hadn’t even shaken hands) and several of his adjutants, especially the explosives guru, Colonel Walker. Anne and Richard waited patiently while he was briefed by each and they trundled off to their respective duties. Now the two of them strolled up to the bird to welcome the tall man dressed in a strikingly familiar uniform—for golfing! Richard looked back, frowning at the film crew and tried to shoo them off with his hand behind his back.
“What are you doing?” Anne whispered out of the side of her mouth.
“Do we want the Commander in chief of the Armed Forces to be seen in tartan pants and a pink cashmere sweater?”
Tim Walton, a Pulitzer Prize-winning documentary film producer, and a friend of Anne’s, had asked her halfway through the march, to record ‘for posterity this epic journey’. Richard had refused outright, fearing a Hollywood stunt might emerge out of something serious with an uncertain, scary outcome. From his experience in advertising, he knew how truth could be distorted, manipulated. Anne disagreed: from her experience in media reporting, she knew how to edit out unwanted material. They compromised; by contract, Walton Productions was allowed to film anything but with their approval of the final cut. Plus a verbal agreement by Tim’s photographer and sound man to be as discreet or invisible as possible. The marchers, and later, the general and his aide, and finally, everyone involved, became accustomed to being ‘on camera.’ And on mike via a special spy horn that could hear whispers a dozen yards off. Now it was Anne’s turn to be disturbed by a view of two soldiers inside the dome speaking, to Anne’s eye, somewhat conspiratorially; Colonel Walker and Captain Shaw.
The general could not stop shaking his head in wonder. “It’s beautiful,” he repeated as they approached the giant dome, “but what’s it for?”