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diff --git a/24864-8.txt b/24864-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0a0b874 --- /dev/null +++ b/24864-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1287 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Great Potlatch Riots, by Allen Kim Lang + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Great Potlatch Riots + +Author: Allen Kim Lang + +Release Date: March 18, 2008 [EBook #24864] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GREAT POTLATCH RIOTS *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + THE GREAT + POTLATCH RIOTS + + By ALLEN KIM LANG + + + _Oh, leave it to the bureaucrats and + they'll figure out new ways to make + you buy more and more.... But there + was only one way the poor consumer + could rise up in his wrath._ + + +"I've sweated for months over the plans for this campaign," Captain +Wesley Winfree told the Major. "Just nod, sir; that's all I ask; and +I'll throw my forces into the field." + +"I admire your audacity, Winfree," Major Stanley Dampfer said, "but +don't you think we'd be wise to consolidate our current positions before +launching a fresh offensive?" + +Captain Winfree, straight in his scarlet-trimmed winter greens, tapped +the toe of one boot with his swagger-stick. "With all respect, sir," he +said, "I feel that if we do no more than hold the line, we're lending +moral comfort to the foes of prosperity. Attack! That's my battle-plan, +sir. Attack! And attack again!" + +Major Dampfer, seated behind Winfree's desk, stretched out his legs and +sighed. "You younger officers, men who've never in your lives tasted +defeat, are an inspiration and a trial to us old field-graders," he +said. "Captain, a project that failed could set your District back +fifteen years." + +"I realize that, sir," Winfree said. "I'm placing my career in the +balance. If I attempt this, and goof, ship me to the sticks, Major. I'd +rather spend the rest of my BSG years as a corporal, a simple Potlatch +Observer in a downstate village, than never to have embarked on this +campaign." + +"Young Napoleon must have been very like you, Winfree," Major Dampfer +mused. "Very well, lad. Brief me." + +"Yes, sir!" Captain Winfree marched over to the giant calendar that +covered one wall of his office and tapped his stick against the three +dates circled in red. "We've established this triangle of +strong-points," he said. "We control the second Sunday in May and the +third Sunday in June in addition to our first and most vital holding, +the twenty-fifth of December. I regard these three victories, sir, as +only beachheads, only the softening-up phases of a still greater +campaign. We must press on toward Total Prosperity." + +"How, Winfree?" Major Dampfer asked. + +"By adding three hundred and sixty-two days a year to our laurels, sir," +Winfree said, sweeping his swagger-stick across the face of the +calendar. "My plan is to make every consumer's birthday a Gratuity Day +for each of his Nearest-and-Dearest." + +Major Dampfer sat up straight. "Captain," he said softly, "this is +Thinking Big. This could lend billions a year to the Gross National +Product. It could mean a major break-through on the Prosperity front. +Are you really proposing that each consumer be required to give birthday +presents to the same people, and on the same scale, as he now gives Xmas +Gratuities?" + +"Precisely, sir," Captain Winfree said. "My staff has in the files the +birthdate of every consumer in the District. Enforcement of the new +quotas I propose will be no more difficult than the old: the same scale +of fines for non-compliance, the same terms of imprisonment for repeated +offenses will be imposed. The dates-of-destruction to be marked on +Birthday Gratuities will be set as the next Potlatch Day, plus one year. +Merchandise will be marked with the year-date precisely as is now done +for Xmas, Dad's Day, and Mom's Day gifts. Birthday-cards will be +addressed and sent from this office, just like Xmas cards." + + * * * * * + +Major Dampfer stood and drew on his uniform gauntlets. "May I assume +that you've covered the field public-relations-wise?" he asked. + +"Yes, sir," Captain Winfree said. "I've composed a slogan for this +year's drive in my District: 'Make the Magi Come the Year +'Round--Birthday Gratuities for All!'" + +"It sings, Winfree," Major Dampfer said. "I like it. Captain, you have +my nod. Carry on with this program. If you win the battle for this +District, I'll get you a desk in Washington and Divisional Command; +you'll help us tailor your plan to fit the entire nation." + +"Thank you, sir," Winfree said, grinning. "I won't disappoint you." + +"You'd best not," the Major said. He paused by the office door. "Captain +Winfree, the word is on the grapevine that you're planning to marry one +of the corporals in your office. That right?" + +"Yes, sir," Winfree said. "Peggy and I have set the wedding for +twenty-three December, the day before Potlatch. We'd be delighted +should your duties allow you to attend, Major." + +"I'll be there," Major Dampfer promised. "And as a little gift from the +Bureau of Seasonal Gratuities, Winfree, I order you to move out on your +new campaign that same day: twenty-three December." He raised a +gauntleted hand. "No, Captain! Don't protest that you'll be needed here. +Your work is strategy, not tactics. Your plans can be implemented by +your staff while you're off on your honeymoon." + +"Whatever you say, sir," Winfree said. + +"I'd be further gratified," the Major continued, "if you'd hold the +ceremony right here in your Headquarters Building. We of the BSG must +establish some traditions, Winfree; the other Services have a +century-and-a-half's lead on us in that field. So, if the lovely +corporal approves, we'll make yours a proper military wedding." + +"All this is very good of you, sir," Captain Winfree said. "I'm certain +Peggy will be pleased." + +"Good!" Major Dampfer said. "I'll handle all the details. Winfree, +you've got the quality we used to know as Old-Fashioned Intestinal +Fortitude, back in the day when a spade was called a spade and no +apologies about it. We need more men like you in the Bureau." He snapped +a salute. "Carry on, Captain; and Happy Potlatch!" + +"A Very Happy Potlatch to you, sir!" Winfree said, tossing back the +salute. "And a Merry Xmas!" + +Captain Winfree walked to the big window in the outer office to watch +Major Dampfer driven off in his sergeant-chauffeured, scarlet-and-green +BSG Rolls limousine. Then he about-faced without warning to glare at his +little command, the eight non-coms, the twenty-seven Other Ranks, the +four young lieutenants. They all sat silent, watching him as though +waiting for confirmation of an unpleasant rumor. Not a file-cabinet +stood open, not a typewriter was moving. "Listen, you people," Winfree +growled, pointing his swagger-stick like a weapon, not sparing even +Corporal Peggy MacHenery his anger; "We've got a Potlatch Day coming up, +the biggest ever. Now get on the ball, dammit! I don't want to see one +of you stopping for breath again till Xmas Day." The lieutenants and +sergeants flushed; the girl privates jumped their fingers onto +typewriter keys. "Corporal MacHenery," Winfree said, "bring your notepad +to my office." + + * * * * * + +Peggy MacHenery, Corporal, Bureau of Seasonal Gratuities, followed her +commanding officer and husband-designate into his office. "Close the +door, Corporal," Winfree said. Peggy did so, and took her chair next to +his desk, the pad open on her knee and her fountain pen at the ready. +"No dictation," Captain Winfree said. "Please forgive me for taking +valuable official time for a personal matter, Corporal; especially +after that little display of tyranny I just put on out there. Peggy, +Major Dampfer has ordered us to hold our wedding here at District +Headquarters. He'll bring in a transport loaded with BSG brass, fly in a +band to give us a send-off with pibrochs and marches and double-flams; +and he'll probably set up an arch of sabers for us to parade through. Do +you mind all this very much, Peggy?" + + * * * * * + +She snapped her notepad shut. "Daddy will be furious," she said. + +"Your dad is already so worked up about your marrying me, a BSG-man, +that a little extra anger won't even show," Winfree said. "I'm convinced +that he's teaching me fencing only in hopes I'll have a fatal accident." + +"Nonsense!" Peggy said. She tossed her notebook on the desk and stood to +take Winfree's hand. "Don't make Daddy out a monster, Wes. About the +other thing, the military wedding, I don't care. I'd marry you in a +beer-barrel, if you wanted it that way." + +Captain Winfree took the girl's free hand. "Peggy," he said, "you're the +greatest! Now the good news. Major Dampfer has approved my plans for +instituting Birthday Gratuity Quotas in this District. Aren't you glad +for me?" + +"Glad?" Peggy demanded, pulling away. "Wes, do you think the consumers +of this District will put up with another invasion of their pocketbooks, +let alone their private sentiments?" + +"Peggy, if you're going to gripe every time the Bureau raises the quotas +a notch," Winfree said, "you don't belong in that uniform you're +wearing." + +"Want me to take it off?" Peggy challenged, reaching for the top button +of her blouse. + +"No, dammit!" Winfree said. "But if you're going to discuss the +propriety of every decision I make, please have the grace to wait till +we're outside District Headquarters to do it." + +"Yes, sir; thank you, sir," Peggy said. She saluted. "Is there anything +more you want to chew me out about, sir?" + +Winfree saluted back, then growled at himself for the reflex. "Woman," +he said, "once we're married I want to see your request for discharge +lying here on my desk. How the devil can an officer run an organization +when one of the enlisted personnel, the corporal he's in love with, +persists in subordination?" + +"I can't quit," Peggy said. "We'll need my salary, Wes, if only to pay +off our BSG quotas. What with buying Xmas presents, gifts for Mom's Day +and Pop's Day, and sending Birthday Gratuities to every name on our +combined Nearest-and-Dearest lists, we'll be living on rice and soybeans +till you make Light Colonel. Quit? Wes, if you expect to eat regular +after we're married, you'd best put me in for sergeant's stripes." + +"Please, Peggy," Winfree asked. "We'll discuss this all tonight, off +duty, if I survive your father's swordplay. For now, please let letters +out to all District wholesalers, telling them of the Birthday Quotas and +the new dating procedures. Have one of the lieutenants open the _secret_ +files for you--it's all under 'Operation Nativity.' You can get at it +right away." + +"Very well, Captain, sir," Peggy said. "Happy Potlatch, sir." She +about-faced and marched out, banging the office door behind her. + +"Happy Potlatch be damned!" Captain Winfree said, flinging his +swagger-stick toward the calendar. + + * * * * * + +The MacHenery home was all gables and pinnacles and spooled +porch-pillars, very like an enormous wedding-cake, every horizontal +surface now frosted with a thin layer of snow. Captain Winfree tugged +off his gauntlets, rang the bell, and stood straighter than usual to +withstand the hostile inspection of Kevin MacHenery, Peggy's father. + +Mr. MacHenery opened the door. Captain Winfree, although retaining his +smile of greeting, groaned inwardly. MacHenery was wearing his canvas +fencing outfit, flat-soled shoes, and carried a foil in one hand. "My +you are a gorgeous sight, all Kelly-green and scarlet piping, like a +tropical bird that's somehow strayed into the snowfields," MacHenery +said. "Do come in, Captain, and warm your feathers." + +"Thank you, sir," Winfree said, brushing the snow from his cap. He +peeled off his overcoat and hung it on the hall tree, sticking his +swagger-stick in one of its pockets. "Peggy busy?" he asked, hoping that +her appearance would preclude his being given another unsolicited +fencing-lesson. + +"After having spent two hours in the bathroom with a curry-comb and a +bottle of wave-set," MacHenery said, "my daughter has finally got down +to work in the kitchen. We have time for an engagement at steel in the +parlor, if you'd care to refine your style, Captain." + +"Just as you say, sir," Winfree said. + +"Your politeness offends me, Wes," Kevin MacHenery complained, handing +him a foil and a wire-mesh mask. "Slip off your shoes. It's a terrible +burden you are laying on the shoulders of an aging man, being so +well-spoken when he likes nothing more than an argument. Now assume the +_on guard_ position, Wesley." + +Winfree obediently placed his feet at right angles, raised his foil, and +"sat down," assuming the bent-leg position and feeling his leg-muscles, +still sore from his last session with MacHenery, begin to complain. +"You're holding your foil like a flyswatter," MacHenery said. "Here, +like this!" + +"None of that, Daddy," Peggy said, appearing from the kitchen. "I'll +not have you two sitting down to eat all sweaty and out of breath, like +last time Wes was over here." + +"She treats me like a backward child," MacHenery said. He took a bottle +from a shelf and poured generous dollops of Scotch into two glasses, one +of which he handed to Winfree. "Inasmuch as I disapprove of the coming +season," he said, "I'll offer you no toast, Captain." + +"You don't care even for Xmas?" Winfree asked in a tone of mild +reproach. + +"Ex-mas?" MacHenery demanded. "What the devil is this nor-fish-nor-fowl +thing you call Ex-mas? Some new festival, perhaps, celebrated by +carillons of cash-register chimes?" + +"_Christmas_, if you prefer, sir," Winfree said. "We in the Bureau of +Seasonal Gratuities get used to using the other name. We use the word so +much in writing that cutting it from nine letters to four saves some +thirty thousand dollars annually, in this District alone." + +"That's grand," MacHenery said. He sat down with his whiskey. "Simply +grand." + +"We could drink to a Happy Potlatch," Captain Winfree suggested. + +"I'd sooner toast my imminent death by tetanus," MacHenery said. + +"I'd like to taste this stuff," Winfree said. "Let's compromise. Can we +drink to Peggy?" + +"Accepted," MacHenery said, raising his glass. "To my Peggy--our Peggy." +He gave the whiskey the concentration it deserved. Then, "You know, +Wesley," he said, "if you weren't in the BSG I could like you real well. +I'd rejoice at your becoming my son-in-law. Too bad that you wear the +enemy uniform." + + * * * * * + +"The BSG is hardly an enemy," Winfree said. "It's been an American +institution for a long time. This is excellent whiskey." + +"We'll test a second sample, to see whether its quality stands up +through the bottle," MacHenery suggested. "For all we know, they may be +putting the best on top." He poured them each another. "Yes, Wesley, the +Bureau of Seasonal Gratuities has been with the American consumer quite +a while. Twenty years it'll be, come next Potlatch Day. You were brought +up in the foul tradition, Wes. You don't know what our country was like +in the good old days, when Christmas was spelled with a _C_ instead of +an _X_." + +"I know that a paltry twenty billion dollars a year were spent on +Xmas--sorry, sir--on Christmas Gratuities, back before my Bureau came on +the scene to triple that figure, to bring us all greater prosperity." + +"Your Bureau brought us the stink of burning," MacHenery said. "It +brought us the Potlatch Pyres." + +"Yes, Potlatch!" Captain Winfree said. "Potlatch Pyres and Potlatch +Day--childhood's brightest memory. Ah, those smells from the fire! The +incense of seared varnish; the piny smoke from building-blocks tossed +into the flames; the thick wool stinks of dated shirts and cowboy-suits, +gasoline-soaked and tossed into the Potlatch Pyre. My little brother, +padded fat in his snowsuit, toddling up to the fire to toss in his dated +sled, then scampering back from the sparks while Mom and Dad smiled at +him from the porch, cuddling hot cups of holiday ponchero in their +hands." + +"Seduction of the innocents," MacHenery said. "Training the babes to be +wastrels." + +"We loved it," Winfree insisted. "True, the little girls might cry as +they handed a dated doll to the BSG-man; while he prepared it for suttee +with a wash of gasoline and set it into the fire; but little girls, as I +suppose you know, relish occasions for weeping. They cheered up mighty +quick, believe me, when the thermite grenades were set off, filling the +night air with the electric smell of molten metal, burning dated clocks +and desk-lamps, radios and humidors, shoes and ships and carving-sets; +burning them down to smoke and golden-glowing puddles under the ashes of +the Potlatch Pyre. Then the fireworks, Mr. MacHenery. The fireworks! The +BSG-man touching a flaming torch to the fuses of the mortars; a sizzle +and a burst; the Japanese star-shells splitting the sky, splashing +across the night's ceiling, scattering from their pods, blossoming into +Queen Anne's Lace in a dozen colors of fire." + +"Fire and destruction," MacHenery said. "There's your holiday for +children--fire and destruction!" + +"You missed it, sir," Winfree said. "You don't understand. Potlatch is +a wonderful day for children, a glorious introduction to the science of +economics. The boys light Roman candles, shooting crimson and orchid +and brass-flamed astonishers into the clouds. A soft fog of snow makes +fuzzy smears of the pinwheels, of the children racing, sparklers in +both hands, across the frozen lawn. Dad lights the strings of +cannon-crackers--at our house they used to dangle from a wire strung +across the porch, like clusters of giant phlox--and they convulse into +life, jumping and banging and scattering their red skins onto the snow, +filling the air with the spice of gunpowder. + + * * * * * + +"The high-school kids come home from their Potlatch Parties ..." + +"Wreckage and mayhem," MacHenery grunted. "We used to throw the same +kind of parties when I was a tad, but they were against the law, back +then. We called 'em chicken-runs." + +"But nowadays, sir, those Potlatch Parties contribute to the general +prosperity," Winfree explained. "Used-car lots used to border all the +downtown streets, anchors on progress. Now those dated cars are +smashed, and used for scrap. The high-school drivers work off their +aggressions ramming them together. And there's no mayhem, Mr. MacHenery; +the BSG-man assigned to Potlatch Parties strap the kids in safe and make +sure their crash-helmets fit tight. It's all clean fun." + +"Morally," MacHenery said, "Potlatch Parties are still chicken-runs." + + * * * * * + +Peggy came back, as sleek and crisp as though cooking were an expensive +sort of beauty treatment. "Supper will be ready in five minutes," she +said. "If you tigers will wash up ..." + +"We'll drink up, first," her father said. "This man of yours has been +feeding me BSG propaganda. I'm not sure I have any appetite left." + +"What started you hating the Bureau of Seasonal Gratuities, Mr. +MacHenery?" Winfree said. + +MacHenery poured them each a drink. "You ever read Suetonius, Wes?" he +asked. + +"No, sir." + +"Yours is a generation of monoglots," MacHenery sighed. "It figures, +though. There's no profit in having today's youth read the clinical +record of another civilization that died of self-indulgence, that went +roistering to its doom in a carnival of bloat." + +"Doom?" Winfree asked. + +"Doom richly deserved," MacHenery said. "Old Suetonius describes, for +example, an instrument that accompanied dinner-parties during the reigns +of the last few Caesars. It was a device that accomplished, two thousand +years ago, the function of our proud Bureau of Seasonal Gratuities. A +feather, my boy. A simple goose-quill." + +"I don't understand," Winfree said. + +"I'd be hurt if you did, Captain," MacHenery said. "I've set my mind on +explaining the point. Now you see, Wes, the late Caesars were pretty +good consumers of everything but petroleum, we having that edge on them. +They spread a mighty fine table. A gourmet would bring to Rome caviar +from the Caucasus, peaches from Majorca, and, for all I know, kippers +from Britain. Picture it, Wesley: cherries served in golden bowls, +heaped on the snow trotted down from mountain-tops by marathons of +slaves. A dish called The Shield of Minerva was one of their greatest +delights; this being an Irish stew compounded of lamprey-milt, +pike-livers, flamingo-tongues, and the tiny, tasty brains of pheasants +and peacocks; eaten while viewing the floor-show of strip-teasing +Circassian girls or--Galba's invention, this--elephants walking +tight-rope. Grand, Wes. No meals like that at the supermarket; no shows +like that even on the television." + +"But the feather?" Winfree prompted. + +"Ah, yes," MacHenery said. "The moment our noble Roman had eaten his +fill he'd pick up the feather next to his plate and, excusing himself, +adjourn to the adjoining vomitorium. A few tickles of the palate, and +his first meal would be only a lovely memory. He'd saunter back to his +bench by the table again, ready to set to with another helping of +Minerva's Shield." + +"Disgusting," Winfree said. + +"Yes, indeed," MacHenery agreed, smiling and fitting his fingertips +together. "Now attend my simile, Captain. Unlike those feathered Romans +of the Decadence, we moderns settle for one meal at a sitting, and let +it digest in peace. We have instead our more sophisticated greeds, +whetted by subtle persuasions and an assurance that it's really quite +moral to ransom our future for today's gimmicks." + +"Prosperity requires the cooperation of every citizen," Captain Winfree +said, quoting an early slogan of the BSG. + +"Your artificial prosperity requires us, the moment we're sated with +chrome chariots and miracle-fiber dressing-gowns and electronic magics, +the minute our children have toys enough to last them through the age of +franchise, to take in hand the feather forced upon us by regulation of +the Bureau of Seasonal Gratuities and visit the parish Potlatch Pyre, +our modern vomitorium, to spew up last year's dainties to make +belly-room for a new lot," MacHenery said. + +"Daddy!" Peggy MacHenery protested from the living-room doorway. "What +sort of table-talk is that?" + +"Truth is the sweetest sauce, Peggy," MacHenery said, getting up from +his chair. "What delights have you cooked up for us, child?" + +"Your favorite dish, Daddy," Peggy said, grinning at him. "Peacock +brains on toast." + + * * * * * + +The next two weeks were too busy for Captain Winfree to partner Kevin +MacHenery on the fencing-mat. He was double-busy, in fact; planning the +biggest Potlatch Day in twenty years at the same time he started the +wheels of his project to make birthdays Gratuity Days for every consumer +in his District. + +The girls, assisted by two of the male sergeants, had decorated the +District Headquarters till it glittered like a child's dream of the +North Pole. Against one wall they'd placed the Xmas tree, its branches +bearing dozens of dancing elves, Japanese swordsmen, marching squads of +BSG-recruits, prancing circus-ponies; all watch-work figures busy with +movement, flashing with microscopic lights, humming little melodies that +matched their motions. A giant replica of the Bureau's cap-emblem--the +Federal eagle clutching between his talons a banderole bearing the +motto, _'Tis More Blessed to Give Than Receive_--had been mounted on the +center wall, the place of honor. Beneath the eagle stood a bandstand +draped in bunting, ready to accommodate the Bureau of Seasonal +Gratuities Brass-Band-and-Glee-Club, the members of which were to fly in +from Washington to grace the bridal day with epithalamiums and martial +song. + +The big work, the eight-hours-a-day and after-supper-overtime work, was +the preparation for Potlatch Day, the festival that meant to the BSG +what April Fifteenth means to the Internal Revenue Service. Cases of +fireworks piled up in the brick warehouse next door to Headquarters. +Sawdust-packed thermite grenades were stacked right up to the perforated +pipes of the sprinkler system. _No Smoking_ sign blossomed a hundred +yards on every side. The blacklists, naming consumers who'd withheld +dated gifts from the Potlatch Pyres of earlier years, were brought up to +date and distributed to the Reserve BSG Officers in each township of +Winfree's District. These holdouts, it was safe to assume, would be +under surveillance on Potlatch Day. Cold-eyed sergeants and lieutenants +would make note of the material each of them consigned to the flames, +and would cross-check their notes with Nearest-and-Dearest lists to make +sure that all post-dated Mom's Day and Dad's Day gratuities, all of last +Xmas's gifts, had been destroyed as required by BSG ordinance. + +Meanwhile letters piled into Captain Winfree's office, thousands of them +each time the Post Office truck stopped outside Headquarters. Several of +these were penned in a brownish stuff purported to be their authors' +lifeblood; and all voiced indignation against Schedule 121B, Table 12, +which set minimum levels of cost for the birthday gratuities they'd have +to give each of the fifteen persons on their Nearest-and-Dearest lists. +Hundreds of protests were printed in the vox populi columns of District +newspapers, recommending every printable form of violence against agents +of the Bureau. BSG practice was to regard with benign eye public outcry +of this sort. No consumer in Winfree's District, immersed as he was in +the debate over Birthday Gratuity Minima, could possibly plead ignorance +should he be apprehended in violation of these new regulations. + + * * * * * + +Finally, it was two days before Xmas, Potlatch Day Minus One. +Phone-calls had rippled out from District Headquarters, calling all BSG +Reservists to the colors, assigning them to Potlatch Duty in the +townships or patrol in the city; telling each officer and non-com where +and when to submit his requisition for pyrotechnical devices, gasoline, +thermite bombs, and pads of BSG Form No. 217-C, "Incident of Consumer +Non-Compliance." And the day was even more than this. It was the day +Captain Wesley Winfree was to wed Corporal Margaret MacHenery in the +sight of God, man, and the glitteringest crowd of BSG brass ever +assembled outside Washington. + +By noon the typewriters in Headquarters were covered and shoved with +their desks behind folding screens hung with pine-boughs. Every wheel in +the District motor pool was on the highway from the airport, shuttling +in the wedding-party. The bride, closeted in an anteroom with a gaggle +of envious bachelor-girls, was dressing herself in winter greens, her +chevrons brilliant against her sleeves. Peggy had pinned a tiny +poinsettia to her lapel; strictly against Regulations; but who'd have +the heart to reprimand so lovely a bride? The minister who was to +perform the wedding, a young captain-chaplain of BSG, paced amongst the +hidden desks, memorizing the greetings he'd composed to precede the +formal words of wedding. The guests came laughing through a corridor of +potted pines into the District Headquarters, where they were greeted by +the BSG Band-and-Glee-Club's rendition of the Bureau's official anthem, +"I'm Dreaming of a White Potlatch." As though it had been arranged by +Washington, snow had indeed begun to fall; and the tiers of overcoats +racked in the outer hall were beaded with melted flakes. + + * * * * * + +The groom, wearing his dress greens--the winter uniform worn with white +shirt and a scarlet bow-tie--was still trapped behind his desk, hardly +conscious of the joyful noises from beyond the door. "They haven't +shown?" he bellowed into the telephone. "Don't fret your head about it, +Sergeant. Those Reservists will damned well be on duty tomorrow morning +or we'll have their cans in a courtroom before dark." Slam! An anxious +girl Pfc tiptoed in. "Sir, a consumer's delegation wishes to speak with +you about the new Birthday Quotas." + +"Tell them they're stuck with it," Winfree snapped. "Hand these around +that delegation, Soldier," he said, shoving a stack of Schedules 1219B +across his desk toward the girl. "Tell that bunch of complainers I'll +keep this District's economy healthy if I have to jail every consumer in +it." + +The phone rang again. "It's me, Wes, Peggy." + +"Darling, I'm busy," Winfree said. + +"Didn't you write our wedding-date on your appointment list?" she asked. +"It'll only take a quarter-hour." + +"Don't marry anyone else," Winfree said. "I'll be right out." He hung up +the phone and stood at the mirror in his closet to check his uniform. +Then he picked up his silver-trimmed dress swagger-stick and marched out +into the main office to meet the chaplain, and his wife. + +Major Stanley Dampfer, glorious in his dress greens, a Sam Bowie belt +equating his belly and supporting the side-arm holstered by one big hip, +slapped Winfree on the back as he entered the hall. "At ease!" the +Major shouted, then glanced contritely toward the two BSG colonels who'd +been talking the loudest. "Gentlemen, ladies: I want to present the +founder of this feast, the brightest star in the Bureau's firmament, the +young genius of Birthday Gratuity Quotas. I refer, of course, to Captain +Wesley Winfree!" + +[Applause, shouts, a few ribald remarks from the officers nearest the +bar] + +"I just want to tell you all," the Major went on, his arm heavy across +Winfree's unwilling shoulders, "before I relinquish this fine young +officer to his new commander, a corporal ..." + +[Laughter] + +"... that here's a man who's going places. Look well at Captain +Winfree's face, friends. You will see it yet on the cover of _Time_, +above a pair of stars." + +[Applause] + + * * * * * + +The Major freed Captain Winfree, the guests settled down into their +folding-chairs, and the chaplain opened his BSG _Book of Authorized +Ceremonies_. He and the affianced couple stood alone together in a +moment of silence. He opened the service. "Dearly beloved, we are +gathered together here ... + +"... Margaret, wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded husband ... so long +as ye both shall live? ... by virtue of the authority vested in me by +the Corps of Chaplains, Bureau of Seasonal Gratuities, I pronounce that +you are Man and Wife. Amen, and Congratulations!" + +The first wedded kiss, and the stag-line demanding its similar +perquisite. Kevin MacHenery seized his son-in-law's right hand. "I wish +you both fifty happy years, Wes," he said. "I hope you'll see the light +soon, and spend most of those years in decent mufti." Major Dampfer +shouldered Mr. MacHenery aside to tug Winfree and his new wife toward +the mountain of gifts, covered like a giant's corpse with a sheet, +standing by the base of the Xmas tree. The Major triumphantly pulled a +ripcord, and the sheet dropped away. Beneath it were dozens of boxes and +bundles and bottles, wrapped in scarlet and green and silver and gold. +"Open them!" some guest prompted from the end of the hall. + +"Why open them?" Corporal Mrs. Peggy Winfree asked. "Anyone got a match? +We'll have our Potlatch Pyre right here and now, burn them right off +instead of waiting a year." + +"The lady jests," Major Dampfer assumed. "Wedding-gifts, Corporal, +aren't subject to Potlatching." + +"Goody," Peggy said. + +"I'll have some of the enlisted guests carry these gratuities out to +your car," the Major said. "You can unwrap them during your honeymoon." +He chuckled. + +Towing his bride with his left hand, accepting handshakes with his +right, Captain Winfree shouldered his way through the mob of brass and +chevrons to the door. His car, adorned with a _Just Married_ sign that +completely obscured the rear window, trailing strings of shoes and empty +milk-tins, stood at the end of a corridor formed by two face-to-face +ranks of BSG Officer-Candidates. The OCS-men wore dress greens and +Academy helmets, and about the waist of each hung a saber. Consumers +stood gray and inconspicuous behind the two rows of uniformed men, +silent, unsmiling, like onlookers at an accident. Captain Winfree looked +over this civilian crowd. Each person wore, pinned to a lapel, perched +in a hatbrim, or worn like a corsage, a small white feather. "We'd best +hurry, Peggy," he said, urging her toward the gantlet. + + * * * * * + +The Officer-Candidates, on a signal from Major Dampfer, snicked their +ceremonial sabers from their scabbards and presented them, blade-tip to +blade-tip, as an archway. The BSG Band-and-Glee-Club, playing and +singing, "Potlatch Is Comin' to Town," stood in the doorway. Captain +Winfree, clasping Peggy's gloved hand tightly, led her through the +saber-roofed aisleway as rapidly as he could. "What's the rush, Wes?" +she asked. "We'll get married only once, and I'd like to see the +ceremony well enough to be able to describe it to our eventual children, +when they ask me what it was like." + +Winfree opened the door of their car. "We'd better get out of here," he +said. "I smell a riot brewing; and I don't want you to have to describe +that to our children." + +Peggy scooted into the car just as the District Headquarters building +burped out a giant bubble of smoke. An arm reached out to Winfree's +lapel and tugged him back from the car. "You're going nowhere, buddy," a +civilian growled at him. The man, Winfree saw, was wearing the +ubiquitous white feather in his lapel. As Winfree shook himself free +from the civilian, the arch of sabers above them collapsed. The +BSG-OCS-men were tossed about in a mob of suddenly screaming consumers, +waving their weapons as ineffectively as brooms. Fragments were spun off +the whirl of people, bits of BSG uniforms torn off their wearers and +tossed like confetti. A huge pink figure, clad in one trouser-leg and a +pair of shorts, smeared across the chest and face with soot, dashed +toward Winfree, waving a .45 pistol. "Stop this violence!" he screamed +at the consumers in his way, leveling his pistol. "Maintain the peace, +dammit! or I'll shoot!" + +"That idiot!" Winfree said. He slammed the door of the car to give Peggy +a little protection, then scooped up a handful of snow from the gutter +to pound into a ball and toss like a grenade at the back of Major +Dampfer's neck. The Major's boots flew out from under him, and he +landed belly-down in the snow, burying his pistol's muzzle. The gun went +off, flinging itself like a rocket out of his hand. Winfree snatched it +up. "Blanks!" he yelled, waving the .45. "He was only going to shoot +blanks." + + * * * * * + +Three more civilians, wearing the white-feather symbol on their +overcoats, advanced toward Winfree. Together, like partners in a ballet, +they bent to build snowballs, then stood and let fly. Winfree ducked, +found one of the dress sabers ignominiously sheathed in snow, and drew +it out. He retreated toward the automobile, the saber raised to protect +Peggy. "Stand back," he shouted. "I don't want to bloody-up this clean +snow." + +Another mitrailleusade of snowballs connected, knocking off Winfree's +cap and sending a shower of snow down his collar. The Headquarters +building was burning so well that it served as a warming bonfire to the +tattered BSG personnel. A squad of civilian youngsters was chasing Major +Dampfer down the street, pelting the huge target of his backside with +snowballs. + +The BSG Band-and-Glee-Club, covering their nakedness by pooling their +rags, were a musical rabble. Kevin MacHenery, carrying a saber captured +from one of the BSG-OCS-men, shouted to a tuba-player, the bell of whose +horn had been dimpled by a hard-cored snowball. "Play the National +Anthem," he yelled. The player, chilly and terrified, raised the +mouthpiece of the tuba to his lips and, looking fearfully about like the +target of a test-your-skill ball-throwing game, puffed out the sonorous +opening notes. One by one the other players, a flute behind an elm tree, +a trumpet hidden in the back seat of a parked limousine, a snow-damaged +snare-drum, joined in; gravitating towards one another through the +suddenly quiet crowd. Winfree, like the other men, civil and BSG, stood +at attention; but as he felt Peggy's arm slip through his he spoke out +of the corner of his mouth. "Get back to the car, Peggy," he said. +"Drive like hell out of this chivaree. I'll meet you at your dad's +place. Now git!" + +"You think maybe I had my fingers crossed when I promised to have and +hold you?" she asked. "You're my man, Wes. If you get beat up, I want my +eyes blackened to match yours." + +The anthem drew to a close just as a new instrument, the siren of a +firetruck, joined in. "Stop that truck!" one of the insurgent consumers +shouted. "Don't let 'em touch our fire." + + * * * * * + +The mob went back into action in two task-forces; one dedicated to the +extirpation of the BSG-men currently available, the other clustered +around the firetruck, thwarting the fire-fighters' efforts to couple +their hose to the hydrant. One youngster, wearing the black leather +jacket and crash-helmet of a Potlatch Party, ran from the fireworks +warehouse with a thermite grenade. Pulling the pin, he tossed the +sputtering bomb through a window of the burning building. "Stop him!" +the white-helmeted fire-chief shouted. + +"Stop him, hell!" a consumer replied. "Man, we got a rebellion going. +Don't you guys try to throw cold water on it unless you'd like to be +squirted solid ice with your own hose." + + * * * * * + +The fire-chief, his hands raised in despair, turned to his colleagues. +"Stand by, boys," he said. "Nothing we can do till the cops get here to +quell this bunch." + +"Pretty, isn't it?" one of the firemen remarked, dropping the canvas +hose. "We never get to see a building burn all the way. Think of all the +papers in there, file-cabinets full of government regulations, lists of +all our birthdays, quota-forms; all curling up and turning brown and +reaching the kindling point. Nice fire, Chief." + +The fire-chief faced Headquarters, a new look replacing his anxiety. "It +is kind of pretty," he admitted. He turned to the consumer ringleader. +"OK with you if we throw a little water on the fireworks warehouse?" he +asked. + +"Sure," the man said. "We don't want to blow up the old home-town; we +only want to put the BSG out of business." His band of consumers stepped +back from the yellow fireplug to let the firemen hook up their hoses, +toggle on the pressure, and begin playing water over the blank face of +the fireworks warehouse. + +Captain Winfree was buried in hard-fisted civilians, all seemingly +intent on erasing him as the most familiar symbol of the Bureau of +Seasonal Gratuities. Winfree bobbed to the surface of the maelstrom for +a moment, waving his saber, and shouted, "MacHenery! Get these jokers +off my back before I'm knee-deep in cold meat." He thwacked another of +his assailants across the pate with the flat of his blade. + +MacHenery, using his saber as a lever, pried himself a path through the +crowd. As he reached Captain Winfree, he raised his saber. The crowd +about the two men retreated. "These folks have suffered a lot from you, +Captain," MacHenery said. "Think maybe they're due to see a little +bloodshed?" + +"OK by me," Winfree said, panting, "if you don't mind shedding it." He +raised his saber in salute--the only fencing-movement he'd become +proficient in--and jumped into a crouch. MacHenery closed, and the two +blades met in a clanging opening. Peggy's father, for all his handicap +of twenty years, was a fencer; Winfree, in his maiden effort as a +sabreur, used his weapon like a club. He allemanded about MacHenery, now +and then dashing in with clumsy deliveries that were always met by the +older man's blade. + +Those firemen not immediately concerned with spraying the warehouse +wall mounted the racks of their truck to watch the duel. BSG-men and +-women, huddled close to the warmth of the burning building, watched +unhappily as their champion was forced to retreat before MacHenery's +technique. "He'll kill him!" Peggy shouted. She was restrained from +trying to break up the fight by two burly consumers. + + * * * * * + +Winfree, trying a gambit he'd seen in one of MacHenery's books but had +never before attempted, extended his saber and flew forward toward +MacHenery in a flèche. MacHenery caught Winfree's blade on his own and +tossed it aside. He brought back his own weapon to sketch a line down +the Captain's right cheek. The scratch was pink for a moment, then it +started to bleed heavily. The crowd shouted encouragement, the +BSG-troops groaned. "Keep cool, Wes," MacHenery whispered to his +opponent as they dos-à-doed back into position. "I have to make this +look fierce or they'll insist on lynching you." + +"Don't make it look too good," Winfree panted. "Cover yourself--I might +hurt you out of sheer clumsiness." His chin and throat were covered with +blood, now; blood enough to satisfy the most indignant consumer. The +moment the measure was set again, Winfree lunged, trying to slip his +blade beneath MacHenery's guard to strike his arm. His foible met the +flash of the other man's forte, and his blade bounced aside like a +sprung bow. + +MacHenery slammed his saber into Winfree's, spinning the weapon out of +his hand into the crowd. He lunged then, delivering his point against +Winfree's chest. Peggy, released from her captors, burst from the crowd +to throw herself against her father. "Stop it, Daddy!" she pleaded, +"please stop!" + +MacHenery raised his saber in salute. "All right, Pocahontas," he said. +"Take your John Smith home and patch up that cut. It's no worse than +what he gets shaving." He turned to the crowd, his saber still raised in +salute. "Potlatch is over forever!" he shouted. + +Urged by a delegation of music-loving consumers, the tubist raised his +ravaged horn. The other members of the BSG Band-and-Glee-Club gathered +round him, all ragged, some with one eye closed by a purple fist-mark; +and they began, on the tubist's signal, "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen." +The District Headquarters building, gutted, was glowing like an +abandoned fireplace. The firemen joined the singing as they coiled their +hoses. The Potlatch Riot was over. + +Winfree led his wife to their car. The _Just Married_ sign was still in +place, but the car's train of shoes and milk-cans had been ripped off to +furnish ammunition in the fight. "Let's go home, Peggy," Winfree said. +"I yearn for a fireside and some privacy." + +Kevin MacHenery spoke from the back seat. "You deserve them, Wes," he +said. + +"What are you doing here?" Peggy demanded, twisting to face her father. +"After you cut up my Wes you should be ashamed to show us your face." + +"I want to apologize for that unfortunate necessity," MacHenery said. +"But if I hadn't scratched him, Peggy-my-heart, the mob might have done +more radical surgery. I saw one consumer with a rope, trying different +knots." + +"Apology accepted," Winfree said. "Now, if you don't mind, Mr. +MacHenery, Peggy and I'd like to be alone." + +"Of course," MacHenery said. "First, though, I'd like to present you a +decoration to commemorate your part in this skirmish, Wes." He took the +little white feather from his hatbrim and attached it to Winfree's +tattered, blood-stained tunic. + +"What's this for?" Winfree asked. + +"For services rendered the Rebellion," MacHenery said. "I've often +wondered why it's only the Tom Paines and the Jeffersons who get honored +by successful rebels. There's many a revolution, Wesley, that would have +failed except for the dedicated tyranny of the men it overthrew." + +"I don't understand, Daddy," Peggy protested. + +"Wes will probably explain to you sometime how he brought this all on +himself," MacHenery said, opening his door to get out. "Now I expect you +two have other things to talk about. Thank you, Captain Winfree, for +playing so excellent a George the Third to our rebellion." + +"Thank you, sir," Winfree said, raising his hand in salute. "I wish you +a Merry, nine-letter Christmas." + + +THE END + + + + +Transcriber's Note: + + This etext was produced from _Amazing Science Fiction Stories_ + September 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that + the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling + and typographical errors have been corrected without note. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Great Potlatch Riots, by Allen Kim Lang + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GREAT POTLATCH RIOTS *** + +***** This file should be named 24864-8.txt or 24864-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/8/6/24864/ + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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