By
Everyone saw the volcano explode. Ava, watching on TV, commented that the streams of reddish-orange lava were "very pretty." Mipst Gorsch, the cameraman for the evening news, was lucky enough to be on a plateau overlooking the sleepy little Columbian town; he recorded the inundation of that town by the lava.
"Oh look!" said Ava to her husband, Asa. "That whole family there - did you get a good look at them? maybe they'll replay it at eleven - well, just before the lava overtook them, they had such odd expressions on their faces - I don't know: just something about them - made me think of Carol Ballou's family. Remember Carol?"
"Of course I do, dearest," replied Asa. "I was always quite fond of your sister and her little family, even if their patriotism was - let's just say borderline. I didn't know she had moved to South America though."
"Well, I'm not sure that was her family. It just looked like them. Is there some way we could find out? Because if it was them, I'll need to send a card - I think one with a reddish-orange flower would be nice."
"I could check with the State Department," Asa said. "Even though there is a rather distinct strain of subversion deep in that Department."
"Oh, would you? That would be so nice! I'm sure Carol would appreciate it."
As soon as the evening news was over Asa dialed the State Department. "I'd like to speak to the Secretary," he said.
"He can't come to the phone right now, sir. He's got wires strapped to him. May I take a message?"
"It's pretty important," Asa explained. "I don't know if I should trust it to a woman."
"Oh, I'm his private secretary, sir. I'm pretty good at taking messages, as long as they're not too complicated."
Asa decided to risk it - a most fateful decision for the free world. "Ask the Secretary to check his visa file and see if Carol Ballou moved to South America anytime recently - Columbia in particular. My wife thinks she may have been one of the volcano victims we saw on TV. Do you have that?"
"Yes sir, I do. Just as you dictated it."
"How long do you think he'll be?" asked Asa.
"Well, they're testing him to see if he's told any lies lately. So he'll be quite a while, sir."
"I hope it won't be too long. Hallmark closes at nine."
"I'll be sure to tell him, sir. And remember: if you're going abroad, there is a strict limit on the amount of goods you can bring into the country."
"Madam, I am a citizen of the only nation on earth personally vouched for by our heavenly father. Rest assured I will never need to concern myself with foreign goods."
Presently, the Secretary of State was released from the network of wires and returned to his office. "Any messages?" he asked.
"Just one, sir. An anonymous caller asked if a Cara Balloon had moved to South America or the District of Columbia."
"Cara Balloon?" the Secretary mused. "Must mean caribou. I thought they were in Alaska this time of year."
"They must have gone south for the winter, sir."
"But it's summer in Alaska now," the Secretary pointed out.
"Then it would be winter in South America, sir."
"That's true. Maybe they like the cold so much they move when the summer sun warms up the tundra. Anything else?"
"He mentioned Visa."
"I thought I paid that bill already. Check into it if you would."
"Yes, sir. Oh, sir, one more thing: he also said to tell you Hallmark closes at nine."
"Good God! Nine? Are you sure he said nine?"
"Yes, sir. I copied it exactly as he said it."
"Nine? But that's impossible! I just bought a thousand shares at fifteen! If it went down that much that quickly, Hallmark must be in serious trouble."
"That explains why I haven't seen anything on the Hall of Fame lately! But are we allowed to buy stocks in the government, Mr. Secretary?"
"Technically we're not supposed to. But as long as we don't make a habit of it."
"What should we do?"
"I think you'd better get the President on the phone. This caribou thing, coming just when Hallmark files for bankruptcy: a little too coincidental. I don't like it. I don't like it at all."
"You think there might be a connection?"
"How could there not be?"
The Secretary of State, of all people, understands the intricacies and subtle nuances of even the simplest international matters; so he is anything but remiss in contacting the President on so strange a matter as the one presented him by his anonymous caller. It's true, of course, that the original message had gotten garbled; but truth works in mysterious ways where diplomacy is concerned, so that even in error can be found ample cause for alarm.
"So Hallmark is discontinuing its Caribou line," the President mused. "Sending all its remaining stock to its South American distributors. I guess it had to happen sooner or later. The First Lady will be very disappointed. She does love those little furry touches. But, when times are hard we all have to sacrifice. What a pity it has to be us though."
The First Lady's personal maid happened to overhear the President's musings and hurried back to her ladyship with the unhappy news that all her furs were being sold off to pay their debts.
"Our debts?" mused the First Lady. "Our debts are the nation's debts. My God! Does this mean the nation is bankrupt?"
The First Lady ran at once to her husband's room to see if he knew anything about it. "What?" he asked. "Bankrupt? The United States of America bankrupt? Are you sure? My God! I'll have to inform the Secretary of the Treasury before he prints another single dollar bill!"
In a flash the President was on the phone to the Treasury Department, asking to speak to the Secretary.
"Who shall I say is calling?"
"Tell him it's a friend."
"Mr. Secretary, there's a friend on the phone who wishes to speak to you personally. Will you take the call?"
"A friend?" asked the Secretary of the Treasury. "A friend of mine or a friend of yours?"
"He didn't say."
"Tell him I'll have to return his call."
The message was relayed, as was the counter-message from the friendly caller. "He says it's urgent, sir."
"Urgent? Or argent?" posed the Secretary. "It makes a big difference."
"Is that urgent or argent?" the President was asked.
"Never mind," the President replied and hung up. "So that's it," he mused. "The Treasury has shipped all our currency to Argentina. But why? What can they possibly have that's so valuable we'd pay our last cent for it? Unless it's the country itself. My God! Don't tell me we just bought Argentina! I'd better call Commerce."
A by now weary presidential hand reached for and dialed the phone. "Hello, Commerce Department."
"Commerce, this is your boss. Let me speak to the Secretary," the President ordered.
"He's busy right now, sir," came the reply. "He's investigating a possible stock merger the Treasurer told him about. Could I take a message?"
"Yes, ask him why we bought Argentina and how much we paid for it. Meanwhile, I'll call the Argentine embassy to see when they want to turn their country over to us."
The President posed this question to the ambassador from Argentina, who, as it happened, was a skilled economist by trade and knew a good deal when he saw one. And with inflation running upwards of 400%, he was pleased to learn his country had been put on the market.
"We are prepared, Mr. President," said the ambassador, "to deliver Argentina this Friday at one P.M., Eastern Standard Time."
"That'll be fine. And, of course, you'll want a receipt."
"Payment would even be better," said the ambassador.
"But I don't understand. I was told in no uncertain terms we had already paid."
"No, sir. Your information is inaccurate."
Good God! thought the President. My Treasurer must have made off with the money. "Will you accept a check?" he asked the ambassador.
"No, Mr. President: cash on the line."
"And how much was it again that we agreed on?"
The ambassador, in truth, had graduated at the top of his class in economics. His eyes flashed a moment, he did a few impromptu calculations, and came out with one hundred billion as the sale price. "This, of course, includes the standard ten percent Good Neighbor discount," he assured the President.
"Do you want this in small bills, or will large bills do?"
"Small bills, Mr. President."
"Unmarked, of course."
"Of course."
"Alright. We'll be there Friday at one P.M. sharp. Please have the title with you."
"We certainly will. And it's been a pleasure doing business with you. I'm sure you'll be just as happy with our little country as we have been these many, many years."
"Thank you, Mr. Ambassador."
"You're most welcome, Mr. President."
When the President hung up, he began musing. "So Hallmark just might end up the big winner of this whole affair after all, transferring their operations to South America. Just think how many change of address cards will have to be sent. I'm a little surprised my Secretary of State wasn't aware of that - as many cards as he sends."
"As many cards as he sends," the President has said. A master of many wonderful things, the President of the United States, as we shall soon see, is also a master of understatement. So let's turn now to the Evening News, where, late in the broadcast, the President's words will take on ironic proportions.
The Evening News, after you've eaten and before you've fallen asleep in your big, overstuffed easy chair. Brought to you by the Consumer Consumer Protection Protection Agency.
A little girl is crying. Her mother tries hard to console her. "Why would anyone do this to my baby?" the mother asks in desperation. "Why? Why? It was her favorite toy - now it's gone. Gone, forever. She'll never see it again. Why? Why?" Now a man with a kindly face comes on. His eyes are full of compassion. "Why?" he echoes the mother's question. "For you own good - that's why. Or, so the story goes. A doll, beloved by a little girl, taken off the shelf - another victim of 'Consumerism'; another child's little heart broken in the name of 'Consumer Protection." So what was wrong with Poppy Ann? Who knows? Was it a fire hazard? Did it have exposed sharp edges? Were its tiny tears toxic? Did its insides come out - would your baby swallow its insides? Who knows? The faceless bureaucrat who stole it from a little girl's play pen, when he decreed it off the store shelves needed no reason: he was protecting consumers! That's all the justification he needed to break her little heart. Where does she turn for help? Where does her mother turn? Where would you turn when all of a sudden you can't buy something you want simply because someone somewhere has declared it 'unsafe?' The Consumer Consumer Protection Protection Agency. Now there is a way to fight back when the bureaucrats try to strip you of your purchasing power. The CCPPA. We do so much more than protect consumers. We mend broken hearts."
Now comes the news. They are trying a different format. Little Luke, the twelve year old midget who normally gives the mid-day report, is seated between Bertram Mertz and Svelte Sydney. Bert the Mert is informing you that Little Luke is here to give you "selected shorts." Svelte Sydney cautions the precocious child against "telling tall tales." Suddenly a terrible thing happens. The boom-man is attempting to lower the overhead microphone so that Little Luke can speak into it when he gets a tremor in his hand and pushes the lever so far that the microphone comes down all the way, striking Little Luke on the bridge of his nose with such unexpected force that the child is knocked unconscious. Immediately, his stories are distributed to his fellow anchors and a life-size replica is placed in his seat. This dummy, marketed to capitalize on Little Luke's enormous popularity, has a big smile on its face, so it will be awhile before anyone realizes that it isn't the real Luke. Meanwhile, the news must go on.
"Our lead story," Svelte Sydney is telling you, "is about an athlete whose body has been exhumed to see if he had ever taken drugs." The mention of the word "body" makes Sydney a bit nervous. She glances over at the dummy beside her and shudders ever so slightly, but does not lose her place or her composure. "This is just a beginning," Sydney finishes the story. "The Society for Good Sports has brought suit to have every athlete who ever died exhumed to test for drugs."
Now it is Bert the Mert's turn. "From the State Department comes word of a new policy. The idea, said to be the Secretary's own, is to 'Say it with Cards!' Starting tomorrow, every official piece of correspondence coming from the State Department will be typed on a card. That's right: a card. No more letterhead stationery. Diplomacy, thy name be Hallmark. Luke."
There was a powerful hush. Bert the Mert had forgotten he was supposed to go back to Sydney. The camera focused briefly on Luke's smiling dummy face then broke for an extemporaneous commercial, during which the producer had the boom-man replaced with someone else. "He's drunk as a skunk!" the key grip reported. "He's a junkie if you ask me!" the best boy postulated. The go-for was of the opinion that he was hallucinating. The truth, that he had a slight palsy, got lost in this thick swirl of speculation. Meanwhile, even as the boom man was being rushed out, the word came back from Washington Hospital Centers, where Little Luke had been taken. It was not good. The blow to the nose had killed the little lad instantly. "He never knew what hit him," the coroner's report stated.
"But he was alive when he left here!" the producer insisted.
"No, he wasn't," the paramedics explained. "It's just, with someone so small, it's not always easy to tell right at first. But he was dead as a doornail the second that mike hit him. Split his skull like a pea."
"But it hit his nose - I saw it myself!"
"On so little a guy, the nose and skull are practically the same thing."
"But he had a very high forehead for someone that small."
"It was the make-up," the paramedics insisted. "In reality, his little nose was just a hair away from the crown of his head."
"So what do we do now?" the producer called his staff to inquire. It boiled down to two options: find a look-alike or get a replacement. The look-alike won out - even though the station had conducted a Little Luke Look-Alike contest just last month and not one single little person was found meeting the criteria. Still, the decision was made and that was that (besides which, the sponsor insisted upon the look-alike). The producer was on his way out, he intended to get an advance from the bank to finance the search, when the news came over the wire.
"The United States of America is bankrupt. Stop."
"No point in going now," he said. "Of all the rotten luck!"
But as it turned out, it wasn't rotten luck at all: the nation's misfortune proved a boon for the Evening News. Not merely because it boosted their ratings, either. Little Luke, popular as he was, got lost amidst the ensuing panic and no one gave him another thought. His dummy was thrown in the garbage; a gang of youths fished it out to use in voodoo rituals, which temporarily brought the real Little Luke back as a zombie, only to get run over by the self-same ambulance that once carried his little carcass to the hospital.
The President came on TV in an effort to reassure the public. "If worse comes to worse," he explained, "we can always sell off some of our holdings. And we've just acquired some very valuable property South of the Border which some cartel might care to purchase. So even though we're flat broke, there's no cause for alarm. I can always get somebody to doctor the books if absolutely need be. You just won't be able to buy or sell anything for awhile, that's all. Once this crisis blows over, it'll be 'business as usual' again. You have my word on that."
The President's words, well-chosen as they were, seemed not to restore too much public confidence. The stock market began a precipitous decline and, indeed, might well have crashed had it not been for Asa, who, one evening, was out walking with the little woman.
"I do wish so much I'd gotten a card for poor Carol," Ava said as they strolled along.
"Was it them who perished in the volcano?" asked Asa.
"I don't know - the State Department never called back. But it wouldn't hurt to have sent one just in case. You know how unlucky my poor sister always was, so a sympathy card is never out of place with her."
Just then Asa saw something which made him stop cold in his tracks - something which saved the Western World from financial collapse. He saw a penny lying in the street. He went and retrieved it.
"What is it?" asked Ava.
"A penny," replied Asa.
"What's it doing there?"
"That's what I want to know. If we're bankrupt, why is money still moving?"
"Maybe that penny was always there," Ava speculated in her quaint feminine way.
"No, it wasn't," said Asa, "or someone would have discovered it before now. I'm going to get to the bottom of this. It's starting to look like the fiscal crisis we had back home. If you recall, that all started with a rumor."
Mayor Edward Back was addressing the Highland Park City Council on a Thursday morning regarding the budget when he excused himself to go to the bathroom. He had had bowel trouble of late. When he got to the bathroom he found it occupied so he walked across the street to the gas station. Their restroom, however, was deplorably unsanitary, so he went next door to the diner. Their toilet was clogged, so he tried the library. Their bathroom was reserved for handicapped only, so he hurried down the street to the laundromat. Their toilet was for the use of employees only; so, in desperation, he went into the woods, but a pack of snarling dogs drove him out. The limits of his tolerance all but reached, he got in his car and drove home, just making it in time.
Meanwhile, his disappearance began to assume ominous proportions. Where was Mr. Mayor? why had he taken so long just to go to the bathroom? what, if anything, was he up to? and what was he trying to hide? And why all of a sudden, just when he was about to give the annual fiscal report? It began to look as if the Mayor had absconded with the town's money. They called his home, but there was no answer: he was in the bathroom and couldn't get to the phone. They voted to put out an all-points bulletin. The press got wind of it.
Action-Reaction, the late breaking news. Sponsored by Everything Evangelical, the flea-market God Himself would shop at if He needed anything. Big Nick the sportscaster demonstrating how to spot an athlete who has just snorted coke. Reenie the big-eyed weather girl cautioning you to think twice about taking a dip in Lake Michigan until the squalls have passed.
"Today's headline: Mayor Back accused of embezzling the city treasury. New taxes proposed to recoup the losses. The Mayor was reportedly spotted in Tijuana, Mexico. It has not been decided yet if his vacation will be paid for by the city."
The newspaper carried an even more damaging headline: Mayoral connection to Mexican drug smugglers hinted. It was suggested that the executive washroom in city hall was the delivery point. Apparently the smugglers first took the drugs themselves, in Mexico, then, upon arriving at Highland Park, made for city hall where they urinated. The urine was taken to an "undisclosed location" where the drugs were then retrieved. A court injunction barred the Mayor from using any bathroom in Highland Park until the investigation was complete. And no Mexican would be allowed to enter the executive washroom. Asa was asked to fill in as acting mayor.
Eventually, the whole brouhaha was discovered to be a mistake, all based on rumor and innuendo. Regrettably, the court forgot to rescind its injunction against Mayor Back, who lay in a coma due to complications of constipation and fluid retention.
Now, in the nation's capital, having just discovered proof positive in a vagabond penny that, in fact, the United States of America is anything but bankrupt, Asa thinks he detects the foul scent of rumor. And where there's rumor, can innuendo be far behind? - a question Asa is at this very moment putting to the President.
"No, Asa," the President replies, "it can't. It'll undoubtedly turn up too. God only knows where."
"You might try the State Department," Asa suggests.
"You think they leaked the rumor?" the President asks.
"All I know is, I've had no response to my original inquiry, so I can only assume the worst," Asa candidly admits.
The President immediately put his Secret Service to the task of ferreting out the source of the rumor, but to no avail. Neither the CIA nor the FBI had any better luck. Then, in desperation, the President called Asa again.
"Any ideas?" he asked.
"Well, Mr. President," said Asa, "as I see it, the rumor could only have been started by someone on drugs. I strongly recommend you have everyone in the government tested - the sooner the better."
"I think we'll go with that, Asa," the President agreed. "And, once again, you're a saint. That's all I can say: you're a saint."
The very next day everyone in the government was tested for drugs. So startling were the results that only the nightly news could do them justice; so let's take a quick look.
The Nightly News. When you're too tired to concentrate on the prime-time movie of the week, but not quite tired enough to go beddy-bye. Brought to you by Sakins and Ammons, the home-builders with the bio-engineer's touch. We get deep down inside your lot to learn its every secret. No molecule is too small to escape our attention. You'll know - before you build - exactly how fast your grass will grow and whether the weeds will become a problem. Sakins and Ammons: we don't just build houses, we breed them.
Special reporter Klein Washerman, back from assignment in India, where he studied with the Brahmins, is reporting the results of yesterday's massive drug test of all government workers.
"We have a culprit!" Klein the Stein announces, so please listen carefully. "We have a culprit." He then goes on to explain that "Yesterday the government tested its entire work force in an effort to determine precisely who started the rumor that the United States was bankrupt. Drug abuse: that's what they were tested for, because that alone explains how anyone could have initiated so viciously irresponsible a rumor. Whoever did it had to be on drugs. So to save time, everyone was tested. There are, of course, certain sticky areas - gray areas, if you will. We have with us the President of the Legal Morality League of George Washington University, Dr. Saul Camp. Dr. Camp: is it ethical, what was done? Is it legal?"
"Klein, it's like this: morally, the end justifies the means. Our League just ruled that this morning. So to answer your question: yes, it is ethical, as of this morning. Determining who started that rumor far outweighs anybody's so-called 'right to privacy.' Besides, if you have nothing to hide, why would you object? Isn't your country's well-being more important to you than your personal rights? To a good American it is."
"Thank you, Dr. Camp. And what was the result of the testing? Well, as we said: we have a culprit. From Sheboygan, Wisconsin came the vial of urine that tested positive. The urine belonged to an obscure program analyst with the State Department, on assignment to the Bureau of Statistics. Her name - that's right: it was a woman who started the rumor, we know that now for sure; her name is Carol Ballou. She has been arrested and charged with sabotage and espionage. She is, we're told, being held without bond in the maximum security prison. We'll have more tomorrow morning on the A.M. Hour, because we don't want to keep you up too late: tomorrow's a work day. So good night, from all of us to all of you."
"So," mused a stunned Ava upon hearing the report, "my sister is a saboteur."
"I'm afraid so," said Asa. "If you recall, she always did favor her left side."
"That's true - you're very observant," Ava complimented her husband. "And the South American trip was just a decoy?"
"To cover up her subversive activities."
"What do we do now?" asked Ava. "Will this come back to haunt us? A subversive in the family?"
"We'll have to petition the court to change the birth records. We cannot allow the taint of un-Americanism to come that close to us. From this day forth, your sister is dead."
"Oh, I'd better go to Hallmark before it closes and get a sympathy card," said Ava, looking at the clock on the wall.
Barely fifteen minutes later a dejected Ava came back. "Did you get the card?" asked Asa.
"No," replied Ava sadly. "They were closed. The sign in the window said 'Closed at 6.' What do you suppose it means?"
"I don't know. But it wouldn't hurt to check into it. I'll give Commerce a quick call."
"Oh, would you do that? That would be so nice. It certainly would ease my mind."
"I'll do it right now," promised Asa. "It never hurts to ask."