Anne frowned wryly; the woman had known all along. “For the military.”
A collective gasp, even discomfiting the soldiers.
The congresswoman raised her voice. I will never sign such a dangerous course of action.
Anne looked back at Richard and he nodded. “Then I have to agree with the doctor. We will not employ a chemical or any artificial means to restrict child-birth. We shall rely on the age-old method of counting the days between menstrual cycles.”
The audience had mixed responses. When it was quiet again, she said, “Speaking of drugs or prescription medicines, they demand manufacturing, which we will phase out.
An eruption of questions began and she used the gavel.
“There are exceptions. Many of our drugs come from natural plants, especially those for pain. These will be made and available in surgeries. However, we will neither prolong life when the elderly are terminally ill, nor will we save fetuses with serious handicaps that would require life-long care. We realize it’s against some of your principals, or faith, but we must reduce our numbers.
This is Orwellian!
You want only perfect babies, is that it?
“No, sir,” replied Anne with passion, “but you, sir, will never undergo the discomfort of pregnancy or the excruciating pain of childbirth. But if your wife delivers a baby with no arms or legs, would you be willing to sacrifice your career to care for that child? Or for someone in constant pain, or brain dead?”
The audience was stunned to silence with these brutal choices.
Richard said, “Every living species occasions imperfect offspring. If God had demanded that they be kept alive, we would be knee-deep in snakes and crocodiles, the air clouded with insects and birds, the oceans filled with . . . . ‘survival of the fittest.’ Only one species, thanks to medicine and technology, has sought to violate that natural law.”
Anne asked for further comment. There was none and Article Eight was slowly approved. Relieved, she banged the gavel.
“We’ve come to the last article! Article Nine. The Social Order. For this, I call on Richard of Amwell and General May,” and she fled to her seat still shaking with emotion.
Rising to address the already squirming, perspiring delegates, Clark leaned over Richard, whispering: “We still okay with me doing this?”
Richard frown-grinned—of course—and rose to join him.
Weeks before, the pair had reached their first impasse, over who would speak on the subject of governing. Richard stood firm, insisting all governments fail to rule fairly and impartially because men are inherently competitive and susceptible to corruption, and wasn’t Clark a part of it all being a member of the most bureaucratic and bloated establishment of all? Clark countered that his long experience with congressional committees and many administrations would soften the blow to the politicians, many of whom had been in his corner at the yearly budget hearings. Richard had to accept Clark’s impartiality and reasoned mind, as Clark did Richard’s creative and intuitive one.
“What about fellow staff officers and the powerful war machine lobby?” Richard asked.
“My counterparts in the other branches were the first I talked to about your ideas. Well, it was actually after they expressed concerns about your march. And yes, some thought if we didn’t use force it would mean we’d lose face. But by and large, most of them acknowledged that the government was too set in its ways, and that business was too often calling the tune.
“Y’all saw the truth long before we did, but they gave me a guarded ‘let’s see.’ Except for some, like Hothead Furn—um—I mean General Harlan Furness. From Alabama, set in his ways and a soldier who fights behind a desk with others’ blood. Walked out on our last general staff meeting, but he’s in the minority. Look here, I won’t take all the heat over this, but I’ll share it. What say?”
Richard, about to give in, grinned and bobbed his head.
Now he touched the gold-striped sleeve to ask if Clark had seen Don Walker. Clark peered over the seated crowd at his soldiers, “Checking on security, you can bet. Huh, Pen?”
Penny nodded, then frowned and abruptly got up and ducked around and behind the dome to start trudging up the hill to the cottage. From the stands, an officer rose to follow her. What’s that about, wondered Richard?
On the podium alongside Richard stood the beribboned old soldier, smiling for the respectful applause. He spoke from his notes. “It was another general—Eisenhower—who said, beware the military industrial complex. It began in 1941, gearing up to engage two better prepared enemies in two different hemispheres. Before the war, our military budget was on a par with stationery for the White House.” After the laughter, “The Pentagon didn’t exist. We never liked war, see—the country, I mean. Roosevelt had to keep secret our supplying Churchill to fight Hitler—lots of our biggest companies were in Germany. But after December 7, 1941, we set to building ships and planes faster’n we built cars, and our young men couldn’t wait to be drafted. After the war, did we return to our peace-time. isolated status? We did not, and for good reasons, so we thought at the time: the Cold War with the USSR; to protect our new position of power, and third, to maintain our huge standing armed forces, plus all the jobs making ships, planes, tanks, arms and uniforms.”
Richard added, “And fourth, nearly bankrupting both countries.”
Clark. “I’ll second that. Were we conceived as a war-making nation? We were not. Should we remain prepared to invade a sovereign nation bullying its neighbor? Or one that may threaten our economic interests in the region? Or one which engages in ethnic cleansing or genocide? Or whose corrupt government grows rich and powerful while keeping its citizens in fear and poverty—and which describes much of the third world? I say, we should not.
“We will cease producing weapons for war and slowly discharge our soldiers, sailors, marines and airmen and use their skills in the new American Society.”
This elicited a howl of protest from the delegates, but thoughtful nods from the stands and applause from the hundreds in uniforms.