But isn’t it wrong— terrible and monstrous— to deprive a parent of his or her children, to hand them over to an impersonal state to bring up? Not at all! The concept of state-run creches, orphanages, schools, and the like is hardly new. In the Middle Ages the nobility sent their children to be educated as pages in some other noble’s castle. The British had their “public” boarding schools. The Spartans required all males from seven to twenty to live in dormitories and undergo rigorous military training. In fact, there is little intrinsic difference between our plan and the concept of public education, state-run vocational schools, fellowships and scholarships, and related structures of our present society. The welfare of the child is paramount, and state-adopted children will gain far more than they will lose. They will be allowed to see their birth-parents as often as they wish. If a birth-parent later becomes solvent enough to support the child at home, then this, too, will be arranged. Should a person continue to produce children without being able to support them, however, then the state will enforce further penalties, including mandatory sterilization. Again, single parents who do not belong to our ethnos will be required to settle abroad with their own people. We’ll help them get there. We will not tolerate either mongrelization or the proliferation of unwanted and unassimilable persons who can never fully participate in our society. Should such people refuse to leave, then we will enforce our will with whatever means are needed. No excuses, no wishy-washy hypocrisy! We will not be blackmailed into being the Great White Father of all of the unfortunates of the world! Let other ethnos groups care for their own, just as we care for ours.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Monday, October 3, 2050
Korinek’s office in the White House basement was stuffy in spite of the unseasonably cold weather. The sign on the mahogany desktop read: JANOS KORTNEK, Special Aide to the President. The duties of his post were not specified.
Lessing and Wrench sat on the two tan, upholstered chairs in front of Korinek’s desk, while Liese had chosen one end of the leather couch behind them.
“How long’ll Mulder have with Outram?” Wrench asked. Korinek inspected his wrislwatch. “Ten minutes at most. The President has to be in the studio at ten. Foreign Press Association roundtable meeting.”
Wrench got up and took a curious turn around the room. He paused by the stenographer’s desk, the shredder, the blank-faced filing cabinets, and the copy machine. He pointed to the coffeepot.
Korinek’s pale eyes followed him. “Sure,” he said. “Have some. Sugar and sweetener in the drawer. Only plastic cream, though.”
“Thanks. Black’s fine.” Wrench stirred his coffee, then wandered back. He indicated a tray on Korinek’s desk that held perhaps a dozen ballpoint pens. Each bore a gold-stamped facsimile of the Presidential seal.
“These what Outram uses to sign bills?”
“Yes. The highway bill today. Ceremony’s at four.”
“Uh… would you have…?”
“You want a pen?”
Wrench smiled ingratiatingly.
“Take one. We’ve got more.” Korinek clicked open a cabinet behind him and took out a cardboard box. “Here. Have a souvenir.”
Wrench chose a pen, put it in his coat pocket, then extracted it again to admire the seal. “Nice, hey, Lessing?”
Like a box of rubber bands: a small package jam-full of tangled contradictions. That was how Mulder had once described Wrench: one moment as sophisticated as a French boulevardier, the next, a country bumpkin gawking at the tall buildings!
“Uh… could I…? Another one… for a little girl.”
Korinek looked mildly annoyed, but he held out the box again. “She’d better be a taxpayer.”
The door opened to reveal a flustered-looking secretary. Bill Goddard was right behind her. He ignored the woman and marched straight on into the office, letting her scuttle out of his path as best she could. She made an apologetic moue at Korinek and ushered herself out again.
The leather couch squawked as Goddard sprawled down next to Liese. He pulled off his brown PHASE cap and said, “Sorry I’m late. Canada.”
He didn’t have to explain. Two days ago the Province of Quebec had declared itself an independent state and applied for membership in the United Nations. Canada’s army was busy elsewhere: the prairie provinces and Ontario were clamoring to become American states, as were Prince Edward Island and Newfoundland, while British Columbia had closed its borders and sequestered foreign businesses and bank accounts. Upheaval and violence had followed. The English-speaking Quebecois were fleeing for the Ontario bor-der, harried by gangs of French youths intent on keeping them from carrying away Quebec’s wealth — or much of anything else. The premier of Quebec, Ferdinand Marchand, had requested American aid, and President Outram had responded with Marines, Cadre troops, and a platoon of PHASE police. A full-fledged invasion force now occupied the scenic park on top of Mont Real, overlooking the smouldering battle ground that had recently been the prosperous city of Montreal.
The wheels and cogs were truly beginning to fly off, as Lessing had gloomily predicted.
On the other hand, Goddard and some other Party leaders were ecstatic. What better opportunity to squelch the Vizzies’ pestiferous Dee-Net and put an end to Zionist control of the Canadian economy? Send the Vizzies back to their former homelands in Russia and Eastern Europe! Let the other Canadian provinces do the same, and then they might be allowed to join the American union.
In a few weeks there would be a grand ceremony. The government of Quebec would be handed back to its rightful owners, the French Quebecois. English emigrants would be quietly compensated, a number of firms would change hands — nominally, at least — and the most obstreperous of the French youth-gangs would be marched off to re-education camps to learn manners. As Goddard said, they were tough kids, but they were trainable: a likely nucleus for a Canadian branch of the Party, once the rough edges were knocked off.
Goddard turned to Wrench. “You asked him yet?”
“No. Mulder’s handling it. He’s with Outram right now.”
Korinek folded pale fingers like uncooked sausages on the blotter before him “Let me guess: you want to know about the lib-reb prisoners in California?”
“Dinkin’ right,” Goddard declared truculently. “PHASE never took ‘em, and we want to know where they are. If you’re thumbing ’em…!”
“On the contrary.“The aide leaned back in his contour chair. “It’s a matter of facing reality. Looking at things as they are.” “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just what I said. You can rock the boat only so far, then it rocks back.”
Goddard said, “Okay, what’s the bottom line? What’re you getting at?”
“I don’t see any harm in telling you. Outram’s giving your boss the same scam.”
“I think I can guess,” Wrench muttered to Lessing.
“Can you? To make a long story short, we’re not thumbing prominent Jews; we’re saving them. Our agents, temporarily decked out as special units of your PHASE police, are transporting them to comfortable… and distant… holding camps until your movement has run its course and fizzled out. Once things return to normal, they can resume their lives.”