Off to the side, where Edward couldn’t see, his son mimed in a silent unison, giving a comical salute, sharing a joke I didn’t find the least bit funny.
“Oh,” said Ballington, “there’ll be no compulsion. Nothing like that. Just ordinary economic forces, that’s all we need. Natural as gravity. Can’t feed your family? That’s fine. Can’t pay your rent? Exclusive contract, any major corporation—five, ten, twenty years, option on renewal. Family stays together. Everybody wins.”
“Pretty uneven kind of win,” I said.
He smiled; a smug, excited little smile.
“You’re like the rest of them. Their four year plans, their economic la-di-da . . . You don’t even begin to see how simple it all really is, do you?”
I wanted to turn round, walk out. Instead, I said, “So tell me.”
“We have gods, Mr. Copeland. We have gods, and we have slaves. The basic building blocks of all human society, stretching back through history, to the days the pyramids were built. What more could we require?
“Slavery is right. Slavery is good. Every year, we celebrate it. You didn’t know that, did you, Englishman? Christopher Columbus Day. Once a year. The man who brought it to America. Right at the start. He knew, see—he knew what was required.
“I have a vision, Copeland. I have a vision for this country. You know what I see?
“I see a land of happy workers, happy slaves. I see power bestowed on us by gods. I see productivity—” he swung back his arm “—right out the ballpark. I see business booming. I see this, and I see so much more. You want a prophecy? Look in your wallet. In God we trust. That’s the new world, the new new world. In gods we trust. That’s my world, Copeland. Mine.”
And then he sighed.
“But first—there are some steps to be taken.”
“Steps,” I said.
“There has been a betrayal. And betrayal must be dealt with”
He was staring straight at me, and the dreamy, visionary tone was gone. His voice was low and hard.
“I want that man. That Johnny Appleseed. I’ve chased that bastard half across the country, trying to get what I was promised. I want him back here, and I want the goods delivered. Now, you understand?” His eyes were knives. His fingers clutched the chair arms. “That,” he said, “is your job.”
“Oh no. I don’t—”
“You don’t work for me. No, maybe not. But I know what you’re going to say before it’s even out your mouth. Funny, hey? You don’t work for me. But here’s the thing: you do. Everyone works for me. Whether they know it or they don’t. And this job, Copeland—this one’s yours.”
Chapter 45
The Prodromal God
“You know it’s resonating with him, don’t you?”
“Dad-o’s moods—”
“Yeah. Other people’s, too, maybe. But his, most of all.”
“Well, his moods—” He put his hands in the air.
“They’re epic, I gathered. Don’t laugh about it. There’s a problem, and I don’t think you realize it. I don’t think he does, either.”
We were standing in the doorway by which I’d entered, looking off towards the public section of the park; just me and Eddie. I was wondering whether I could get this grinning idiot to actually help me, or even help himself.
“Look,” I said, “it’s riding him. Not all the time, perhaps, but some of it. It’s living in him. Understand?”
“What?” He tried to laugh it off. “Like when a dog gets worms?”
“Something like that. You notice any changes in him recently?”
“Oh, Dad-o—he’s always been crazy. That’s his way.”
Have you actually been paying attention? I thought.
I remembered another son of the rich I’d known. I hadn’t liked him much, either. Maybe I was bigoted. But, remembering that, I said, “You see much of your father? When you were growing up? When you were a kid?”
“Man, I was in school. I saw him for vacations, sometimes. He took us all to Europe one year. Christmas, you know? Skiing. Switzerland. I tell you, you get up there, the piste just—”
“Yeah, I get it. I won’t say this again, but something’s got its hooks in your beloved Dad-o, and that should worry you. Your god’s not properly contained, is it?”
“He let us down. That’s what Dad-o’s mad about.”
“That’s what he says he’s mad about. Really, he’s mad that Appleseed didn’t bring you more goodies. Right?”
Eddie made a vague, noncommittal gesture. Then he said, “It’s in the lower level. It doesn’t move too far from that. Weird shit on the lower floors, this wing. It doesn’t bother me. I mean, not like it’s haunted, right? It’s not like ghosts or something. Not like jolly old England, eh what?”
“Your accent’s terrible,” I said. “And no one talks like that.”
Ghirelli came by then. He produced the baggie with my reader and my phone. He also produced a ledger in which I signed to say that I’d received them.
To Eddie, I said, “You need to call the Registry.”