The Motor Chums in Alaska: Rejected Passage

[Passage cut from The Motor Chums in Alaska on 21 January 1992]

T

he lads all took a moment to admire the airship they had just completed with much time and effort. “Well, what do you think of it, Ersatz?" asked Tom. Ersatz Simpson was a colored lad whose eccentricities of speech provided much amusement for the comrades.

“Ah think we shouldn’t hab done used dat numbah thuteen wiah,” said Ersatz darkly.

“Nonsense.” Tom laughed cheerfully at the colored lad’s supersti­tion. He might not have laughed so long, however, had he known how true these words would prove.

“Looky here, Marse Tom,” said Ersatz firmly. “Dat wiah jest ain’t big enough fo’ de ’mount ob current you wants ter put through it. And dat’s de trufe.”

“I’m sure the wire is just fine,” said Tom confidently. “And if we’d waited till after Orville Risley had launched his Octoplane, why, we’d never sell the tickets we sold for today.” Orville Risley, as readers of the earlier volumes in our series know, was a famed aviator and long-time foe of the Motor Chums.

“But are you really sure there's no danger?”

“What if the ship catches fire?”

These anxious questions came from Laura and Penny Fenderby, two sisters for whom Ned and Dick had a certain liking.

“There is nothing to worry about,” Tom assured the girls. “We’re just going to take the buggy out for a little spin and come right back. Nothing can go wrong.”

“That’s what you said when you wanted to fly that blimp to Mars,” said Laura.

“We almost made it,” objected Ned hotly. “We would have too, if we hadn’t run out of air.”

“Suppose the electricity went out?” asked Penny.

“The wiring is fine,” said Tom. “Number thirteen wire is good enough for what I want of it. There’s no danger of anything happening with the electrical system.”

“Unless Dick forgets to keep pedaling,” said the irrepress­ible Ned.

Decline and Fall

L

ooks like it’s time to say goodbye to freedom and greatness and all things good and beautiful as we bid a fond farewell to the last president of our republic and welcome in the first Kaiser of our new Amerikan Empire. As the Groper and the Golddigger take possession of the White House a host of stunningly incompetent people likewise prepare to move into positions they are manifestly unqualified for. A governor who ran his state into the ground is to ride herd on the Empire’s nuclear arsenal, a woman whose ignorance knows no bounds will take charge of educating Amerikan youth, a guy who doesn’t know if lead in drinking water is dangerous will keep our environment safe—what does this tell you? When the guys who’ve just taken over your airliner turn out to have no knowledge of how to land a plane it’s kind of a clue that they have no intention of bringing the thing down safely.

Given the level of incompetency in the incoming administration it’s a fairly safe bet that their Empire is not going to have the shelf-life of the Roman version, let alone the juggernaut that the Confucian bureaucrats kept going for century after century. How long before our favorite pussy-grabber flies the airship of state into the Trump Tower is anybody’s guess, but I’d guess sooner rather than later. Our best hope as passengers, I suppose, will be to go out like Flight 93 rather than (say) Flight 77, but it isn’t going to matter much to those of us who don’t survive the debacle. Personally I hope, like the anonymous reporter watching the Martian machines wade across the Hudson, to cover the whole terrible spectacle until I drop dead from the fumes, but I doubt I’ll be so lucky. Euthanasia’s too good for the likes of us. No, in the Groper’s Amerika it’s going to be a lingering dysthanasia—or a quick and painful oblivion.

This is the Old Rational Ranter, reporting from Sheol, signing off. Good bye—and good luck. We’re all going to need it.

Wind Chill

T

here are moments that—for whatever reason—stick with you. Flash memories fixed in form by some casual happenstance of time and space. Frozen snapshots or animated gifs that insist on installing themselves on your mental hard-drive. A winged Pegasus against a crystal blue sky. My infant brother pouring orange soda into blindingly white sand. A green bottle uplifted under an orange-colored sky. Colored leaves swirling in a circle on a concrete playground. Sunbeams shining through the curtains on the morning of my fifth birthday.

There’s got to be some sort of reason, some explanation, for why these particular memories get filed while others of more importance get thrown out as cerebral trash. If there is, I don’t know what it might be. What is the selection mechanism? It’s not obvious, whatever it may be. It seems arbitrary. Capricious. Pointless.

In one of these bits of frozen time I am walking home from school with my best friend Bruce on a hellishly cold winter Friday. A stiff wind is blowing in our faces; it cuts through my warm red parka-like jacket as if I was wearing nothing, and the cold is so intense I keep having to stop and turn my back to it. Bruce periodically turns and walks backward to keep the wind out of his face. At one of these points, about half-way home, when I was having serious doubts that we were going to make it, he said something to me that I have never forgotten: “It’s not the cold that’s so bad—it’s the way the wind blows it at you.”

It was the very thing I was thinking about at the moment. The cold was manageable on its own, up to a point, but there was something about that goddamn wind that made it intolerable. Maybe that was the first time it had really been driven home to me the difference between just plain cold and the relentless cold of a chill wind. Maybe that’s why the remark stuck with me—I don’t know.

According to my best recollection there were two incidents of intense cold during my years at John Rogers, one in fifth grade and one in sixth. They were strange times; we were allowed to dress oddly to stay warm, even in violation of the dress code (girls could wear pants, for instance), and recess was indoors. The landscape became alien, like something on another planet; the ever-present puddles froze solid and the dirt path to school cracked under your feet as you walked on it. If my memory is to be trusted at all the first time I was caught unprepared; the second time I had thermal underwear, uncomfortable but warm.

A few years ago it occurred to me to wonder whether I might be able to establish the exact date of the incident, based on the handful of clues embedded in the memory itself. I mean such incidents were rare in Vancouver, and it being a Friday might help to limit it. That stiff wind blowing in our faces might be a clue, too—we walked east to go home, so I’m looking for a cold period with a significant east wind. I turned to the weather archives and started poking around.

Turns out that during my grade school years there were indeed two such episodes—one in January 1962 (fifth grade) and one in January 1963 (sixth grade). That much was gratifying, in that it matched what I recalled—but both of them started on a Friday, and both of them involved a stiff east wind. It was colder in 1963 (21° vs. 25°) but the wind was a bit stiffer in 1962 (25 vs. 18 mph), so that’s a wash. In my memory it was colder when we left school than when we came, but in 1962 it was about the same and in 1963 it was actually warmer.

But I’m going with wind over temperature, and voting for 1962. Besides, as I said, in 1963 I was better prepared, and had insisted on having thermal underwear. I was obviously not so equipped on that particular walk home. So, in that case, if my memory is to be trusted and the available information is correct and my deductions are sound, it was exactly fifty-five years ago today that this memorable (for whatever reason) incident occurred. 19 January 1962. At twenty-five degrees, with a wind of twenty-five miles per hour blowing in our faces, we would have felt at least ten degrees colder, I imagine. And, as my friend observed, it wasn’t the cold that was so bad—it was the way the wind blew it at us.

Pickled Wilderness

[A passage from The Motor Chums in Alaska, or, The Search for Incan Gold, written 18 January 1979]

T

he intrepid party now found itself in a wild and desolate region of mountainous aspect. Huge volcanoes flared intermittently in the distance, seemingly in answer to the spouts of water beneath the chums—the famous geysers of the Yellowstone country. So savage was the country that one could easily imagine that hordes of untamed Indians still roamed the land as in ages past. Not a sign of civilization was visible. Only the picnic benches, lights, marked trails and the gigantic Ferris wheel gave mute evidence that the hand of man had ever touched the region.

“This is Yellowstone National Park,” Harry observed unnecessarily, as usual acting as a guide for the expedition. “Founded in 1872 it is the oldest of all National Parks, and contains nearly 3000 acres of scenic beauty, wildlife, and geysers. Attempts to exterminate all dangerous animals from the park have yet to prove successful, but with the rapid removal of many of their natural defenses, such as the trees, and the building of many new roads, it will not be long before the result is assured. Soon the park will be made so secure that even children and the elderly will be able to enjoy the thrill of being in a real wilderness in perfect safety.”

Phil laughed. “A playground for the elite,” he said. “How many of the factory workers in Trenton or Montreal are ever going to visit this park?”

“If they worked their way to the top they would,” Ned pointed out.

“It does seem like a waste of good farmland,” said Laura, “Although of course it is rather pretty.”

They were interrupted by the sound of hissing air from above them and a howl of anguish from the control cabin. At once Harry moved to the front of the ship, arriving in time to see the control rods detach themselves from the free-spinning flywheels and fly through the canvas gasbag above. With that the ship began to settle rapidly.

Not one whit alarmed, Tom shut off the fuel-valves “to prevent an explosion” and short-circuited the alarm system “so as not to frighten the passengers.”

“What happened?” Harry inquired.

“How in the blue blazes am I supposed to know that?” demanded Tom. “I’m not a walking encyclopedia.”

“Well, the emergency parachute system appears to have activated itself correctly on this occasion,” Harry said. “We should land safely.”

“If we aren’t smashed on the rocks and don’t land in the river,” put in Mr. Kemp, “or get blown up by a geyser.”

“Don’t let the passengers hear you talk,” Harry cautioned him, “They’re nervous enough as it is.”

Tom strode out and gave a brief explanation to the others. “We’ve decided to camp out to-night at the park, so as to make a few minor adjustments to the engine. We will be landing in a moment.”

This prophecy proved correct, as the ship abruptly came to a halt and then tilted to an angle, throwing the passengers against the walls.

“We landed in the river,” shouted Mr. Kemp. “I predicted this would happen!”

“Well, let’s go out and take a look at the park before sunset,” suggested Tom, “while I check the Rainbow II for damage.” This was done, and soon the young people were enjoying themselves in Father Sam’s own playground.

Tom and Harry, with the assistance of Ersatz, examined the ship carefully. Harry looked over the engine while Tom supervised Ersatz in inspecting the gasbag. Suddenly Ersatz raised a shout. “Dis am bery strange,” he exclaimed. “De bag am full ob little holes! Dere mus’ be t’ousands ob dem in dis ol’ canvas!”

“Can you see anything else?” Tom called.

“Birdshit!” the colored lad replied.

“And, by the way, Tom,” Harry interrupted, “the whole engine mechanism seems to be fouled.”

“With what?” Tom demanded.

“With feathers, and what appears to be some kind of excrement,” Harry told him. “I can’t be certain, of course, but I would say that it originated with birds.”

“Marse Tom,” said Ersatz, landing with a thump beside his chums, “Ah t’ink de birds am got it in fo’ us.”

“It’s one of the tests the legend spoke of,” said Mr. Kemp. “I knew better than to come along with you lads, but I did, and now we must all be punished. ‘To enter the gold city one must be pure of heart—one must be tested and found worthy, by ice, by capture, by wild beast.’ By wild beast.” He paused. “There are still beasts wild enough in Yellowstone Park, God knows.”

As if in conformation to these words a growl emanated from the ship. “Help, help, alretty!” came a cry. “A lion loose on de ship iss!”

“Lions are not indigenous to North America,” Harry nitpicked.

“Maybe he means a puma,” Tom suggested. “Where are the guns?”

“In the control cabin stores,” Harry replied. Further conversation was prevented by the sudden apparition of Franz Joseph fairly flying over the railing and landing in a heap about twenty feet away from the chums.

“A lion hass the control room overtaken! He iss pigger dan pig—de granfadder of all lions alretty!” he babbled breathlessly.

“Maybe we can entice him out with some meat,” suggested Tom. “It doesn’t seem sportsmanlike but without our guns we don’t really have that much of a choice.” 

“We have no meat, either,” said Harry. “We may be reduced to hoping he will leave the ship of his own accord.”

One of Those Dreams

[16/17 January 1993 note:]

“L

ast night”—literally yesterday afternoon some time—I dreamed one of those dreams that seem full of significance, and linger after even when you’ve awakened. It had all evaporated when I woke up, but fragments clung to my conscious mind like electri­cally charged dust. There was a place—a sort of space left over between two stores or something. There were places to sit and so on, and it was rather dark and gloomy. I noticed [a girl I’d known in high school two decades ago] was in the room, moving about, doing things. At some point we were seated close to each other and I felt her arm touching mine. I thought she didn’t know anyway, and I didn’t pull away because I valued that small shared warmth. Then she did or said something that made it clear that she knew we had this contact too. She said something about having spent a summer in Oklahoma as a teenager. I could­n’t figure out why she spoke of being a teenager as though it was some­thing in the past, and then it hit me that she must have turned twenty since we left school.

No Isaiah

[Passage from an untitled novel, written mid-January 1996:]

T

he prophet of the Dead Sea was as shaggy and unkempt as rumor made him, and for the life of him Joseph could not see what the people found in him. “He’s no Isaiah, that’s for sure,” A―― said under his breath before dismounting.

Still there was something unworldly about the scene; the gray-robed half-human shape knee-deep in water, the milling throngs on shore, the endless procession of men and women going up to the water’s edge to be shoved under and—they imagined—to be purged of their sins.

A―― advanced to the shore and shouted to attract the “prophet’s” attention.  The wild man’s eyes met his, examined him, dismissed him, all without an indication of his thoughts, and without interruption to the bizarre rite he administered.  A woman emerged from the water, her hair wet about her shoulders, shrieking incoherently.  “Glory to God in the Highest!” shouted somebody on one shore.

Joseph dismounted, following A―― reluctantly. What did the Temple authorities mean, sending him on this wild goose chase? He felt obscurely disappointed. What had he expected? Did he really think the heavens would open, that angels would appear, that a prophet had come to take away the world’s sins? He laughed at himself, but his laughter tasted bitter.

Now, abruptly, the “prophet’s” eyes met his, and something extraordinary did happen. It was as if he was being examined inside and out; he felt as though his spirit, even his soul, were being examined coldly, dispassionately, by an Intelligence beyond this world, alien and unnatural. As if the sediment of his mind were being stirred up, Joseph felt forgotten sins rise to the surface of his memory and flood him with shame and a sense of overwhelming desolation. He could no longer feel the solid earth under his feet, the rasp of robe against his skin. All reality seemed to be sliding away from him and then—

—and then it was nothing, just the dirty-robed “prophet” and his deluded flock wallowing in the river Jordan. The man gave him an ironic half-smile before returning to his business. Joseph felt embarrassed, humiliated, as though caught masturbat­ing in public. To cover it he strode forward angrily. He was on official business of the Temple, of Yahweh’s House on earth, and no fraud of a prophet was going to keep him by some sort of shell game.

A man officiously blocked his way. “Excuse me,” he said belligerently, “If you’ve come to be baptized, you’ll have to wait your turn. And if you’ve come for anything else, you’re wasting your time as well as ours.”

“And just who are you?” Joseph wanted to know.

“My name is Andrew bar-Zebedee, and I’ve been appointed by the Baptist himself to keep the crowds in order,” said the other man. “More to the point, however, is who you are. Or should I say perhaps, who you think you are.”

“I am Joseph Bar-nabas, and I am sent on important business from the Temple to talk with John, called the Baptist,” said Joseph, nettled. “Will you be so good as to inform him of my arrival?”

Andrew stared at him a moment, apparently consulting some internal manual, then spun on his heel and waded out into the river. He spoke quietly to the Baptist, who nodded, and then raised up his hands for silence, motioning the next candidate to wait. “Friends,” he announced, “we have important visitors.”  Joseph thought there was an odd emphasis on the word important, but could not tell what it was. Was the Baptist being ironic? Was this a code word of some sort? There was a collective inten­sity in his audience which suggested something of the sort, but there were nuances here beyond him.

Coastal Storm

[Passage from my journal, 15 January 1974]

A

bout 12:47 a.m. PDT—This entry is unique in several ways, concern­ing the circumstances of writing it. (1) It is the first entry this year. (2) It is the first time I have written a journal entry in Daylight time in winter (due to the so-called energy crisis). (3) This may be the first entry I have ever made by candlelight. (4) It is probably the first time I have ever writ­ten while lying on a sleeping bag in a bathroom, certainly the first time in Yachats. (5) It is the only time (so far) that I have made an entry while suffering back trouble miles from human aid, (6) and it is possibly the only time I have made an entry while a raging windstorm whips around the house, hammering at the doors and windows and screaming through any chinks it finds.

The last weather report for the area that I heard predicted: 20–40 mph winds, with rain, increasing to 40–60 mph winds Monday to Tuesday, with gusts up to 75 mph, decreasing to ?–25 mph Tuesday. It is windy in San Francisco and Portland, but only raining in Seattle.

The power went off at 10:20 pm Monday and is still off. Last time I checked the phone was still working, so I guess it’s a general power failure, not just here. I doubt they’ll do any­thing before morning, though.

I heard from various family members earlier, before the power quit. Nothing new. Hope the phone line doesn’t go, al­though I think it’s buried under the road. There  were power failures last night too, but not here.

So far wind not bad. Keeps stopping (i.e., going about 10–25?? mph, so it doesn’t rattle the windows or make noises), with occasional bad spells. S–SW direction it originates. Cats calm, haven’t brought the dog in. By the letter of the prediction we should be already to the bad part but I have no confidence in that reasoning. If it does hit 60, with gusts up to 75, I’m in for an interesting night, or morning.

For the hell of it, let me mention that Daylight Saving Time has made for peculiar changes. The sun doesn’t begin to rise until eight, and even at nine the sky is not fully lit. I can’t say we’re really compensated by having it set later; it is still dark at dinner time. But it is a refreshing change. I wouldn’t object if they made it permanent (though I would have when I was going to school), just so they quit hopping back and forth every six months. Setsu Butsu Horseshit.

Have been on heavy nostalgia trip recently, no sense to it. Time: 1967–1969. Place: Hudson’s Bay High School. And for what? For nothing. For experience, is the best reason, but it’s not a real one.

Read No Time for Sergeants, The High School Freshmen, other Motor Chums type books, Casebook on Declaration of Independence, Morse Style book, and no doubt others, as well as portions of my own novel yesterday and to-day. (7) This is the first entry I have made after completing a novel.

Horseshit. Horseshit, horseshit horseshit. Horse­shit. Horseshit horseshit horseshit horseshit, horseshit horseshit horseshit. Horseshit horseshit horseshit. Horseshit horseshit, horseshit horseshit horseshit.

KOMET KOHOUTEC FIZZLES OUT

In a thundering blaze of glory, President Nixon today de­clared that full scale rationing will be unnecessary as long as the oil companies continue to make a profit. “Power to the peo­ple,” he said, “is entirely unnecessary at this time.”

A spokesman for the nation of Assyria today proclaimed, “There is no reason for the continued existence of Israel today. The only block to the shipment of oil is the refusal to accede to our request for the 553 border with the Jewish State.”

Hopes for the release of Henry Kissinger proved premature. That story in a moment.

So you want to know, what can I do about the energy crisis? Well, I’ll tell you.  First, turn off all your heaters. This alone will result in a great saving of power. Then, drain all the gas out of your car, and take the bus to work, or walk. Finally, burn your furniture to keep warm. Remember, it’s up to you to conserve energy. You caused this mess, you can stop it. Message brought to you in the public interest by Exxon-Arco conglomerate.

4:37 a.m. PDT—Power still out. The storm, such as it is, is abating, or so it seems; the lights, such as they aren’t, remain dark, of which I am certain. Daylight is still four hours or so away; my head hurts; I have eaten; I shall attempt to sleep until light—real light—comes.

9:45 a.m. PDT—I have slept no more than two hours. The storm continues, albeit with less vigor. Though another gust like that last one inclines me to the theory that it is not declining at all, but rather hiding, awaiting its moment to pounce.

Nothing happens. The power, having returned fitfully for about fifteen seconds on two occasions, is still off. The cats chase each other as if demented. Little Cat plays with my pen even as I write this.

Mudslides, Rockslides, Floods, Evacuations, High Winds. Roads blocked, power out—the radio is a cheerful bastard. The winds are scheduled to decrease this afternoon and evening. No mention of when power is expected to return.

A frog croaked briefly last night, possibly enjoying the water. He stopped quickly, though.

Twenty Years Gone By (Updated Repost)

I

 dreamed of my father again last night [I wrote ten years ago]. We were standing in the kitchen of the old Fourth Plain House—actually gone much longer than he has been—and I was explaining to him about this set of glasses I’d bought, now much the worse for wear. “It was actually a set of twenty-four glasses originally,” I told him.

Bryce—my father—looked at me in mock-horror. “And there are only nine of them left now?” he said. “What have you been doing with them?”

“I bought them when you were dead,” I told him. That whole business came back to me in a flash, when the hospital had lost him somehow, and had claimed he was dead to cover up their mistake. (For some reason my subconscious seems to have evolved this theory to account for Bryce’s occasional appearances in my dreams.) “A lot of things happened while you were dead, and some of them were pretty hard on our glasses.”

“Electricity is all around us,” he said, or something like that.

We called him “Bryce,” I guess because our mother did, though I don’t really know. Once when we were kids—five and six, maybe, or somewhere in there—our mother took us aside—my brother Bryan and me—and suggested that it was kind of odd that we called her Mom and him Bryce. “People might think he’s not really your father. Do you really want that?” Well, no, we didn’t. Bryan and I talked it over for some time, and finally came to the conclusion that the only fair thing was to call our parents Ruth and Bryce, which we did from then on. Many many years later Bryan recalled this incident, and said ruefully, “You know, I think we were supposed to choose Mom and Dad.”

Bryce was born in Wyoming in the 1920s, but grew up mainly in North Powder Oregon and Grand Junction Colorado. He went to school and joined the Boy Scouts. He displayed his interest in applied science by accidentally blowing up the school bell, and his fellow scouts were arrested for stealing cars, but at least he was in there pitching. He talked his mother into buying a radio in the display window at Sears by appealing to her sense of thrift—it was on sale for two dollars off, I think he said. The case was up in the attic for many years, until my brother’s kids threw it out.

Radio fascinated him. He listened to radio shows I never heard of, for the most part, though there were some familiar ones. Our Miss Brooks. Vic and Sade. He built radios, and listened to short wave broadcasts.

When he left school he drifted up to Portland to work at the docks and wait to be drafted. The army took him in spite of his appalling vision, and he spent the war—WWII—on a hospital ship named Marigold that plied the Pacific from Honolulu to Japan. He was there playing baseball when Japan surrendered.

Post war he set out to be a writer, turning out several short stories and about a fifth of a Kaufmannesque play, as well as attending community college for three years. While there he met Ruth (later to be my mother). The two of them were married and settled down to teach in a one-room schoolhouse in the Colorado mountains. Well Ruth taught; I’m not sure what Bryce did.

A succession of places follow: Portland, where Bryce went to radio school and his first child (me) was born; Moscow, where he was fired for Thanksgiving; Artesia, where he scanned the skies for flying disks and his second child (Bryan) was born; Vancouver (very briefly); Portland again, where he was living when his third and last child was born, Vancouver (sixteen years); and finally Portland (twenty years). KSVP, KHFS, KKEY, KXL, KOIN, KGW, KWJJ, KOBP—I’m sure I missed some—the radio stations came and went over the years, but he was always working at one or another—and sometimes more than one at a time. When I was extremely young I used to hear him on the radio—when he signed off it meant he would be home soon.

For most of his life he stuck to engineering. He designed facilities, build boards, changed lights. In the wind and snow and dead of night he would be out at the station, keeping it on the air or getting it back on the air, as the situation demanded. He stuck with radio for decades before finally getting into television.

He liked earthquakes, volcanoes, plagues, and venomous animals. (I have a childhood memory of him nonchalantly turning over a black widow spider to show us the red hourglass underneath.) Diseases especially fascinated him. “Mad cow disease,” he would muse. (I think he liked the sound of the name.) “Now that’s a threat to the food supply. We ought to be looking for it. Avian flu in Asia again … hantavirus in upstate New York … and the marmots are dying.” That was the news for him.

I don’t know what his religious views may have been. If he had any, he chose not to share them with me. There is an often-told story about a dialog between him and a Catholic priest who was trying to convert him. The subject was faith. Everybody has faith in something, said the priest. He pointed to a door across the room. “For example, you believe that’s a door, don’t you?” To which my father is supposed to have replied cautiously, “Well, it looks like a door from this side.”

I once asked him what he thought about life after death; he said he hadn't thought about it. I gave him the choice between an afterlife and going out like a candle. He said that if he had to choose, he thought it was more likely that we went out like candles.

He died twenty years ago today, on 14 January 1997, at 6:11 in the morning.

Silence is Golden (repost)

[Posted here on 13 January 2008, nine years ago today]

O

ne of the things that irritate me—and there are many—is the way certain people seem to think that they are privileged to do things to others that would annoy the hell out of them if the situation were the other way around. Like distributing bibles at school, for example. People who would be horrified if their little angel came home from school carrying her brand new Koran or The God Delusion under her arm claim to see no problem with sending other people’s kids home with a Gideon Bible. “But it’s the Bible,” they exclaim, with much arm-waving and gesticulation, as though that somehow made things better. Maybe so, but remember, it's somebody else’s Necromonicon, and their horror is no different from your horror.

Not that I have a lot of sympathy with people who want to be protected from running into ideas they may find uncomfortable. There are lots of them out there, and one way or another we all have to develop thick hides to protect us from somebody else’s notions of reality.

But there are many times when a little peace and quiet are appropriate, and as a bus rider myself, I feel strongly that people should be prepared to shut up rather than disturb other passengers. This especially applies to people who seem to think that it is appropriate to read from their chosen text, whether it be from the Bible or from a syndicated advice columnist, in a loud carrying tone, just in case there are people at the other end of the bus who can’t hear it.

Which brings me to this story: A Fort Worth woman is claiming religious discrimination because she was asked not to read to her children from her Bible in a loud voice while riding the bus. When she refused to desist a supervisor came and escorted her off the bus, then drove her and her children to their church, allowing her to read on the trip as loudly as she liked. This woman is now demanding an apology. “She said in her mind, what happened this past weekend was religious persecution, and she refuses to go along for the ride.” Her representative, a person from the Liberty Legal Institute, proclaims:

I’m extremely shocked that a bus driver would pull over and take time out of his busy schedule in order to kick off a lady and her two kids while they’re trying to read the Bible on their way to church…. They should be ashamed of that.

Richard L. Ruddell, president of the bus company, however, sets the matter straight:

It was not what she was reading, it was the very loud and disruptive volume. She was asked to lower her voice, but refused. Other passengers on the bus were looking to the driver for proper enforcement of the rules.

This driver acted in a very courteous and professional manner to properly deal with the situation. The T, as a public transit authority, has no policy against reading any type of material on the bus. Only when behavior of a passenger reaches an extreme volume, such as in this case, is a supervisor called.

On this same excursion into Internetland I turned up this story:

BEIJING - A Chinese Christian businessman has been released from detention after police grabbed him from his home in the early morning hours over a month ago, says his wife. Zhang Jing said her husband, 37-year-old Shi Weihan, was set free on January 4 after being held in a cell for 37 days, the legal limit in China before formal charges have to be filed. He was arrested on November 28, while his two young daughters cowered in their bedroom, for “illegally” publishing Bibles and Christian literature for distribution in home churches. His family had been worried he would be sentenced to at least five years.

Now that sounds more like persecution to me.

Count Marko on the Generation Gap

O

n 12 January 1970 “Count Marko” wrote in the Columbian: “Young people today, and free-loading foundation-grant-grabbing adults, delight in perpetuating the myth that all of today’s problems with adolescents are the result of a ‘generation gap.’ As if there hasn’t always been a generation gap, no matter which centu­ry one researches. … Now, suddenly, when a parent forbids a son or daughter to do something, or go somewhere, it’s considered a ‘generation gap’ and a reason for the spoiled brats of today to have nervous breakdowns, or join roving bands of unwashed hip­pies. ... Without a generation gap civilization would come to a disastrous halt.”

[From a clipping I saved for some reason. I must admit the concept of the count doing research, especially research in another century, rather boggles the mind.]

The Motor Chums at Large: To the Secret Police

[A further passage from The Motor Chums at Large, originally written in January 1973.]

T

om and his companions paused briefly outside Ingram’s office in the great Secret Police Complex, for it was apparent that the agent was in conference. “Look here, Senator,” he was saying, “I don’t think it would be wise for you to continue in your attempt to have our budget cut. I have here a duplicate of the SP file on your activities —” Ingram caught sight of the Motor Chums. “Excuse me, Senator,” he said, “I see I have an important appointment.

The Senator brushed angrily past our heroes. “You’ll pay for this,” he hissed. Tom looked at him coldly and led the way into the office.

“Good to see you, lads, good to see you,” boomed Ingram heartily.

“I hope we interrupted nothing important,” said Harry politely.

“No, that’s just Morton of the damn F.S. Steel faction worried about the great expense of our operations—but what he really wants is the SP out and Guardians Unlimited’s WPA in. Well, we can handle him. If we let the public know of his Cuban interests there’d be a howl you could hear from Balto-Slavia. No, this is just a feeler—it’s Roosevelt that’s the real danger—But I’m talking shop. Lads it’s good to see you. That was a fine bit of work you did, breaking up that Canadian Resistance Unit.”

“What Canador Resistor Eunuch?” asked Dick.

“Surely that was the Rowdy Boys,” observed Harry, “in The Rowdy Boys with the Border Bandits if memory serves. It was suppressed by order of—”

“Yeah, that was the Rowdy Boys,” agreed the secret policeman, “Was it the Arizona Indian uprising? Or the Pittsburg coal-mine strike?”

“We assisted you in finding that Gallic aviator who crashed in the swamps of Nueva Hispania,” Harry reminded him. “You got the Croix de Gaulle for it.”

“Had to give it back,” Ingram recalled. “Can’t accept a decoration from a foreign power. Say, where’s that colored lad of yours?”

“He’s around somewhere,” evaded Tom.

“Too bad he isn’t here,” regretted Ingram. “After all, it was really due to him that we found Monsieur LeFrog at all. Well, what brings you lads here this time?”

“Sir,” replied Tom, “We’ve discovered a plot of some kind against the President!”

“Well, we’re always interested in plots,” proclaimed Ingram warmly, “That’s what we’re here for. I don’t suppose you know which plot this one is?”

“Sir?” inquired Harry.

“Is it the Mexican assassination plot? Or the WPA undermining plot? Or the DOI vilification plot?”

“We believe several prominent Industrialists are involved,” stated Harry, “but the only one we’re certain of is Senator Baxter.”

“And Orville Risley,” put in Ned.

“The famed aviator?” frowned Ingram.

“Exactly,” agreed Harry, “and loath as we are to believe it, it seems several of our schoolfellows are involved. Their names are Clarence Ashton, Ben Hangdog, and Alphonse Notochord.”

“You’d better tell me the whole story,” observed Ingram grimly.

This Tom did, telling of their observations and discoveries in a manner that would have made even a professional detective wince. When he came to the point where the machinations of the conspirators had him arrested, Ingram started.

“You say the evidence fell into the hands of the Freemarket Police Company?” he demanded sharply, “Is that an F.S. Steel affiliate?”

“It’s a local company,” replied Harry, “But I believe it has Protection, Inc. connections.”

“That’s good,” Ingram said, “We’ll get Standard Oilco’s co-operation in this. If we can’t wrest those papers loose—” He turned to the telephone. Through the device he communicated the information given him by the chums to another office in the complex, then turned back to the Motor Chums. “We’ll have what’s in our files on Baxter, Risley and the rest in about half an hour. In the meantime, how’d you like a tour of the place?”

To this the chums assented, and soon they were thoroughly enjoying themselves in seeing the inner workings off the police force which is responsible for protecting the internal security of the Federated States.

“This is an interrogation room,” explained Ingram, “Here enemy agents, saboteurs, and other scum are questioned as to their illegal activities.”

Tom examined the chrome-plated interrogation0booths with professional interest. “Seems to me there could be some improvements made. Look,” he pointed, “the electroshock controls—they’re too far away from those for the vice-grip.”

“And there are no footpedals for the centrifuge,” spoke Ned, not to be outdone.

“For that matter,” murmured Harry, “those Durham cuffs are really obsolete. They’re too easy to break out of.”

“Well,” laughed Ingram, “You lads are one too many for me. You really ought to try your hand at the invention of an interrogation device of your own. (And it may be said here that Tom did just that in a future book of this series, to be entitled The Motor Chums and their Electric Branding Iron, or Alger High’s Football Victory.)

“Of course, interrogations are not the only way we have of obtaining information,” Ingram explained. “Local agencies supply us with much of value, as do informers, our own agents, and our latest addition to the arsenal of crime fighting—this.”

The agent held in his hand a device little larger than an ordinary Motor Chums volume.

“Say,” exclaimed Harry, “that’s a Wilshire 240-B, capable of picking up ordinary conversation and transmitting it up to two hundred yards!”

“And a great help it’s been,” said the secret policeman, “All over America such devices protect the ordinary citizen against socialists, pederasts, anarchists, and others who would destroy all America stands for. Chances are, where ever you happen to be in this great land of ours, you are within shouting distance of a State or Federal agent. If people only knew what we were doing for them they would be less critical of our methods. Of course Wilshires are actually outdated now, though many are still in use. Generally we prefer the more up-to-date Simpson.”

“Say,” objected Tom, “What’s all this about getting information? I thought the Secret Police was for catching spies and busting up dope rings.”

“Of course,” replied Ingram, “but we can’t do all that without first collecting and sorting the necessary information. The files—and there are thousands of them—are kept in a sub-basement for safety. To give you an idea of the amount, let me say that they would fill up ten monuments the size of the Burr memorial, and that another monument would be needed in five years.”

“Wow,” exclaimed Ned, “That’d make Ben Hangdog green with envy.”

“Who’s Ben Hangdog?” asked Ingram.

“He’s just the school sneak,” explained Tom, “He keeps files on everyone at Alger High.”

“Say,” suggested Ned, “Suppose some foreign agent got into the files? Isn’t that a danger to the F.S.?”

“We have means of preventing that,” replied Ingram. “For your protection the files are tended by agents who are sealed in, and so can never leave. To make their escape impossible, their legs are surgically removed before entry is allowed.”

“If that doesn’t beat all,” exclaimed Ned, “The government’s thought of everything.”

“Just about,” admitted Ingram.

They had only time to witness part of an interrogation of a WPA agent before Ingram was called back to his office. Back they went, eager to see what light might be shed on the mystery by the files of the Secret Police.

They spread out the files on the office floor, and be

[At this point there is a page missing in the MS. Mr. Ingram and the Motor Chums find out that Alphonse Notochord is in Washington to attend an airmeet flying Orville Risley’s plane, and they conclude that the plot is connected with certain strange workmen that have been seen at the White House attempting to bypass certain equipment]

… installed for the President’s protection. Bryan is in danger. With the aid of an airship we could smash this subversive ring and expose it to the light. Lads, your country calls you. Will you answer?”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Tom.

“It’s a mean-spirited fellow that would turn down his country,” pointed out Ingram.

“It’s not that,” said Tom indignantly, “But the Star Rambler is in the shop, and it will cost a lot to get it in the air again.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Ingram assured him. “Just send the bill to the government.”

“Will the government pay the bill?” asked Ned.

“I don’t know,” admitted the other, “It depends on the Mexican situation. Tell you what, though. I’ll make you Special Agents Extraordinary, which entitles you to government expense accounts. Here,” and he handed the cardboard squares across to the chums. “Just fill in your names, and you’ll be all right. There’s an extra one for the colored lad, if he shows up.”

“All right,” said Tom, “We’ll do it.”

“Good,” rapped Ingram, “If we can break this, it’ll put us one up on Beveridge and his Department of Imperialism. Now, your first assignment will be to scout out the airmeet tomorrow and report on the Notochord lad.”

“Right,” said Tom, saluting snappily.

“One thing I am curious about,” put in Harry, “Why can’t the President tell us of these mysterious White House activities?”

“Yeah,” Ned supported him, “Bryan lives there.”

Ingram looked annoyed. “President Bryan is a busy man,” he observed, “It wouldn’t be proper to bother him.”

“But what if it’s an assassination plot?” asked Harry.

“Well lads,” chuckled Ingram, “There are reasons of state—” He stopped and banged his fist on the desk. “No,” he exclaimed, “I’ll tell you lads the truth. But I’ll have to swear you to secrecy.”

The lads swore.

“All right,” said Ingram, “This hasn’t left the offices of this building, and no-one outside it but the Cabinet, the Vice President, and the immediate family knows.”

His voice sank to a whisper. “President Bryan has gone insane.”