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By: M. Hanes
What the world may come to if the radical left take over the U.S.
Dear Mom,
I hope this gets to you. I'm sending this along the Underground, to keep it from the censors. I know you must be surprised to hear from me, especially in this ...furtive? fashion. It seems safer this way, since I committed the crime. I have to tell someone, and you're the only one I can trust. This is what happened.
I planned to make the Peace Corps my career, rather than just the mandatory four year stint. It gives people a chance to travel and see new things. I really wanted to see a city, and maybe go to a theater, or one of those big dance halls I hear about. So I worked hard and graduated in the top five in my class. It turned out that top operatives are always sent out to rural areas because the people who live there tend to become independent. To my horror, I was assigned to the Northern Territory of Australia. I was crushed, but determined to do a good job for the Cause.
The long voyage from Norfolk to Darwin was uneventful. I had plenty of time to study the local customs of the outback. There was some trouble at my destination: people were doing things behind the government's back, but Intelligence couldn't find out what those things were. The ingrates. People should be grateful to the Third Way Orthodoxy for saving the environment and for giving peace and prosperity to all. They should be happy to follow the Constitutional Law.
The ship was called Sea Wind. Her Plasdex hull and titanium masts made her both speedy and comfortable. The tofu was made fresh in the galley, supplied by the small, efficient hydroponics lab. She carried a cargo of opium, which is light, so it didn't impede our progress.
I enjoyed watching the beautiful fish, jumping in freedom and joy, safe from human depredation. The crew sometimes stopped to watch, too. The yearning expressions on their faces reflected their intense desire to swim free, like those fish. I've seen that expression before, on nature walks, when people admired the beautiful deer and plentiful rabbits.
I spent only one night at the Sea Wind's home port of Darwin, in the Corps barracks. I wished I had time to savor my first view of the big city, and wear my new uniform, but I had a strict deadline to keep, and the trip to Mid Point would take over a week. I didn't bother to unpack my bag. At first light, I was up and at the stables to pick up the mount issued to me by the Corps. I divided my belongings equally between both saddlebags and started out.
The morning was fine and relatively cool. The rainy season, legacy of the Republican industrialists, was about to start. I wasn't worried. Since the Third Way Orthodoxy ( TWO ) brought properity here, most unecessary roads were removed, and the rest were raised well above flood level and paved.
By mid-afternoon, I met my contact and escort, a former Corps officer named Crowell who's career was cut short due to unspecified "chronic illness". He was a big, strongly built man, with grey hair and keen-looking blue eyes. We greeted one another and introduced ourselves. I inspected him surreptitiously, but saw no obvious signs of illness.
Crowell told me about the local fauna and how to approach water without becoming a meal for the crocs ( a strange expression crossed his face when he said that ). He told me which inns brewed the best beer and showed me a few tricks for keeping venomous visitors away from our camp when there were no inns available.
I noticed at the beginning of our trip that Crowell was only forthcoming on matters concerning survival. Any polite conversation I tried to initiate about the Corps was greeted with a non-committal grunt. I chalked this up to painful memories of his thwarted career, and stopped talking about it.
I thoroughly enjoyed the trip down. The quiet and freedom, almost alone on the open road, was relaxing and invigorating at the same time. When my back ached from riding, I rode in the Crowell's wagon. The wildlife was abundent. We saw many kangaroos and wallabees. I also got to see koala bears and flocks of parrots and cockatoos. Crowell and I watched them all admiringly. An alltogether pleasant adventure.
We were a few km from End Point. I was riding in the wagon with Crowell. He was giving me some background info on the locals, and I was jotting possibly useful tidbits, like names and number of children. I was surprised that nearly all the adults, whether married or single, had the maximum allowance of two children. Even girls as young as 16. I was asking Crowell how this could be. The conversation was heating up because I felt Crowell wasn't being as forthcoming as he ought to be.
We were startled into silence by a THUMP! Crowell immediately stopped the wagon. We jumped off, and there, under the right rear wheel, was a poor little wallabee. I was near tears when we heard hoofbeats and voices, coming from the other side of a knoll in the road. I looked at Crowell's face. He looked terrified. If it was the Animal Rights Defendors, Crowell and I would both face stiff fines for negligence, and we would have five points apiece on our records. Priviledges would be taken away for 90 days, and we would be confined to quarters for weeks. My first mission would fail.
That's no excuse for what I did, I know. I lifted up the tarp and looked in the back of the wagon. There was an unlocked chest right in front of me. Lifting the lid revealed that it was half-full of blankets: an allotment for the community of Mid Point. I grabbed the little body. I didn't notice any blood. Hoping the little guy was just unconsious, I tossed him into the chest, closed the lid, and pulled the tarp back into place, just as three white-uniformed men broke over the knoll. It was the ARP's. Crowell must have saw what I did, because he relaxed and waved at them.
They stopped and asked for our papers and destination, which we provided. They became almost civil when they saw that I was a Corps operative. They asked why we were stopped and Crowell told them he'd run over a large rock in the road, then stopped to remove it and check for damage. I glanced under the wagon, and sure enough, there was a rock about the size of my head, lying right where the poor little wallabee had been just moments before. I kept my expression neutral, though. We politely declined their curt offer of help, and they left. Crowell picked up the rock and dropped it in the back of the wagon. He spread a little more dirt on the spot, to cover up any hair, while I kept watch.. You can't be too careful with those ARP's. I wish I always had a spotless uniform to wear, but we're allowed only one at a time, to prevent the locals from envying us.
Crowell was silent the rest of the trip. He looked thoughtful. As for me, after the shakes wore off all I wanted to do was sleep. We got to the cluster of dusty buildings. Crowell stopped at the small inn where I was assigned, pointed out the TWO meditation center, took my bag inside, nodded and left. He never said a word, though he started to a couple of times. I signed in, dragged my bag and myself upstairs to my room and fell into bed, clothes, boots and all.
It was dark when I woke, about two hours later. I shook the worst of the dirt off my uniform and washed in the basin of tepid water. Then I remembered. I was a criminal. Ah, but a criminal with a job to do. I told myself to act natural and know one would know. I wondered what Crowell had done with that stupid wallabee.
I decided that food would improve my mood, and went down to the common room. The tofu was not fresh, and I was sure that my allowance of 150 ml was short. The bread and salad greens were fresh though. I looked up to scan the room...and there was Crowell. He invited himself to sit down and with no preamble blurted: "Why'd you do it?"
Visions of blackmail and plea bargaining ran through my head. Pasting on what I hoped was a casual expression, I said something like "Do what?". He grinned and signaled the waiter, calling for two "specials". He ignored my protest that I already had my dinner allotment. Told me it was a local speciality, and I just had to try it. Turfweight, they called it. Well, I had to get to know the locals and their customs.
Turfweight turned out to be very thin, large slices of a peculiar tofu, covered in brown sauce and served over a biscuit. It's texture was grainy, tough in some places, but tender enough to melt in your mouth in others. The taste was rich and incredibly satisfying. I felt as though I had been craving this stuff all my life without knowing it. The meal was like an epiphany.
The waiter explained that it was made from soy and some native roots to give it that grainy texture. I found this local food so much better than the usual allotment that I asked to waiter for the recipe so I could take it back to headquarters with me. He muttered something about needing permission to divulge that information. I was sure I'd eventually get that recipe, so I dropped the subject. Crowell disappeared and stuck me with the bill. I didn't mind: the food was good. I had one week to produce results. I went upstairs to bed and had a very restful night.
I overslept and missed breakfast. The first thing on my agenda was to meet the Spiritual Advisor at the TWO meditation center. He was a short, slightly plump, jolly looking fellow. It occured to me that all of the people I'd seen in End Point seemed very...content, though few were fashionably gaunt. There were no pinched faces, and no desperate, yearning expressions. I thought they must be At One with their environment. This jolly-looking little man must be a very good SA indeed. The congregation was large and attended regularly.
The SA cheerfully assured me he'd make available any information I required. The communal gardens were diligently kept, but the soy fields were small, due to the fact that irrigation was barred in this area. That must be why turfweight was made with roots: to stretch the soy. The SA liked turfweight too, but didn't know how it was made. He explained the number of children by saying that the people of End Point simply loved children. The number was not illegal, so I dropped it. I was getting restless. The man's cheerfulness was getting on my nerves and I hadn't had breakfast.
I left the Center and stopped at a few houses, to introduce myself and get aquainted. Everyone seemed content. All the residents had two kids. They said they liked kids. Well, I like kids too. By lunch I had the distinct feeling there was something I'd missed. Breakfast. I'd missed breakfast, of course.
Lunch was a huge sandwich stuffed with that strange local delicacy, turfweight. Delicious. Feeling much better, I went out into the heat to observe the locals. Nice bunch of people. Beyond an advanced culinary technique and the maximum allowed number of children, I could see nothing wrong. I stepped into the shade and pulled a dusty, three page list of Constitutional rights from an equally dusty pocket. I then compared my impressions of the locals to this list. I must not judge a sixteen-year-old for giving birth to a child. Everyone has the right to have children out of wedlock. Oops...unless turfweight made me sick or was made with animal products, I had no right to badger anyone for that recipe. Darn.
The people, though not talkative, saluted respectfully when they spoke to me, so I couldn't fault that. I went into the local trader's. He saluted when I walked in the door. Canned and dried legumes. My dusty uniform was scratchy and made me itch in the heat. The relative coolness of the room was a relief. An assortment of clothing. I wished briefly that I had had permission to bring a change of clothing. Blankets. My list of rights showed that to simply ask the owner how many children he might have was a violation of his privacy. Bottled water and soy milk. Everything in order. I'd just have to spy on him later. I bought a bottle of water, thanked the proprietor, and left.
The next few days passed. The man who ran the trading post had two teenaged boys. I made a point of ordering turfweight at least once a day. I hoped to discern the ingredients by astute tasting. I wished I could take a sample back with me for chemical analysis, but it would never keep for a week in the heat. How unfortunate that I was sent here to look for signs wrongdoing by the locals. A change in diet was doing wonders for my outlook, and I'm sure it have benefitted many others. The TWO Center was packed every evening. My time was up.
Crowell accompanied me on the return trip. He didn't know how how tufweight was made. Only the innkeeper knew that, he said. Back in Darwin, I made my slim report to my superiors. I assured them that no direct questions had been involved ( that would have been a human rights violation ), and all information was gathered using the approved techniques of spying and eavesdropping. I didn't mention the unfortunate wallabee. After all, there were plenty of wallabees, and one less wouldn't hurt, I hoped.
I committed two crimes, actually: one in hiding the dead wallabee to avoid punishment, and another in not disclosing my crime to my superiors. The first would have been uncomfortable and inconvenient, but the second would have cost me my job. Maybe even prison.
My mention of the marvelous turfweight was received with polite, slightly amused interest. I felt silly. The Corps provides people with a chance to see the world and ensure that all people strive toward True Enlightenment. Of course I would run into distinctive local delicacies from time to time. I fervently hope so.
THE END