Hollywood is an All Volunteer Army (42 page)

“Are you getting any of this? Are you understanding? The world is divided between the Haves and the Have-nots. Always has been. The natural order of things. The Haves used to need the Have-nots. To lift the bales, tote the barges, buy tickets in volume, and fill up steerage so that the Haves could ride in comfort in First Class. But less and less the Haves are going to need the Have-nots. The Haves have learned to control their numbers, educate their young, share the wealth—among the deserving. The Have-nots have learned nothing. Pushing their resources beyond the limits. Pushing their masses into our lands. Pushing disaster.

“This is not a maybe. This is a certainly. The war between the Haves and the Have-nots is coming. It is not a class war. It goes beyond class. Beyond race. All Haves create themselves equally. All Have-nots stew in resentment equally. The war is coming.

“I am here to recruit you into the army of the Haves.”

~ * ~

Max took a sip of his brandy, giving us a moment to digest what he had been saying. Another moment to reflect on it. He savored the drink with his eyes closed. The smallest of smiles moved across his lips. He looked contented. With the brandy? With his performance? He had a commanding charisma; there was no doubt about that. Powerful in a one on one, or small group situation like this. He might not have been effective in a large crowd, I suspected. Too many people to make love to at one time, too much spreading of the wealth. A good politician is not always a good campaigner. A good campaigner is not always a good politician. The best of both are the ones who recognize it, and concentrate effort where their strengths lie.

No one spoke. No questions. No quips. Just anticipation. All eyes were on Max. Waiting for the intermission to end.

Max opened his eyes and took in everybody in one sweeping glance.

“Do you like statistics? Of course you do, everybody does. Some people think statistics are boring, but they're not, are they? They're fascinating. Like two-headed sheep and albino midgets. Look how perverse these are:

“In 1825 there were one billion people on this planet. One billion! Abbie is that a lot? One billion?”

“Well,” Abbie said, “I'd like just one dollar from each one of them.”

“Yes, I bet you would, and if I could arrange it, Abbie, it would be yours. A billion dollars! I would love to wrap it up neatly and hand it to you, but that's not my purpose—at the moment.

“1825—one billion people. A quarter of a century before, that great pessimist, Malthus, saw it coming. ‘Whoa!' Malthus said, England alone is crawling with too many people. ‘Look out!' he yelled, we're crawling all over ourselves, chasing the few loaves of bread available for the many; death and destruction, death and destruction is the only fate of mankind!”

Max had raised his voice here to a near shout, gesturing with both arms thrust up into the air; his hands wide open to the saints above. Not in supplication. The saints just happen to be in the way.

Max's arms came down slowly as his whole body settled more comfortably in his chair. Then he quietly continued.

“Mankind fooled him, or rather, the smart, bright, crafty, and talented among mankind did. We found clever ways to draw out of the earth enough to feed on. We were happy. We prospered, and we were fruitful.

“So—1925: Two billion people. 1976: Four billion people. 1990: five point three billion people. One dollar from each, yes Abbie? One dollar from each? 2025, only a quarter of way through our Twenty-first Century: eight and a half billion people. 2050? Ten to fourteen point five billion people!

“Malthus was right! Just premature.

“Here's another statistic. Between now and 2025 ninety-five percent of population growth will be in the Non-developed Nations.

“Do you see the problem? The Haves really could have the Twenty-first Century of our dreams. The Haves have the intelligence, the self-control, and the ingenuity to build a bright and shining future. The Have-nots hardly have the wherewithal to build mud huts. The Haves, with a few exceptions, almost all live in the Northern Hemisphere. We used to call it Western Civilization. That which gave birth to you and I. Can't call it that now. The Japanese, the South Koreans, who knows, maybe the Chinese, have joined us. Are the Russians far behind? But what is their key to membership? Adaptation of the principals of Western Civilization. Which is why the Arabs, despite those with riches, may never be able to join.”

His cigar flared upon inhalation. A billow of smoke followed.

“Have you ever heard the Tokyo String Quartet play Mozart, by the way? Marvelous.

“So now we are, the North, and we could have our lovely Twenty-first Century—”

The stone turned to steel.

“If it wasn't for, the South.

“One would love to see them pick themselves up by their bootstraps. Africa, South America, the nations of Islam, but they hardly have the boots for it.

“Billions of them down there. Would you like a dollar from each one of them, Abbie?”

Abbie knew not to answer. So Abbie didn't.

“That's not much more than what many of them make in a week. Lousy markets down there. Just lands of diminishing resources, crawling with people, both resentful and envious of us, streams of them flowing north, up from Africa into Europe, for example, or up Latin America into the good ol' U S of A. Not that there won't be plenty left behind to continue polluting the earth to death.

“You all know what I am talking about. You are bright, intelligent people. Jolts and jars and smashes in the social life of humanity are coming. They cannot be prevented. Two world wars in the Twentieth Century? The Twenty-first will be nothing but world wars. The only question is what kinds of wars? Armed conflicts: North against South? Islam against the rest of us? The Haves against the Have-nots? Environmental conflicts: Hole in the ozone layer, and yet too much ozone? No clean water? No fresh air? Global warming on top of all that? Natural conflicts: Nature against Man? Diseases against Man? The Elements against Man?

“Any one brings us close to Doomsday. Any two in combination, practically assures it. In a whimper or in a bang? Whatever! “The Twenty-first Century is going to be a bitch!”

Max looked around to all of us. He smiled a great big, broad smile. “Hemlock, anyone?”

“No,” Lydia spoke up, “but I would like some more brandy.”

“Of course. Sheila?”

Sheila practically ran over to Lydia and refilled her glass. Everyone else offered up their snifters for more.

“And I would kill for a cigarette,” Lydia complained.

“Sorry,” Max said as he placed his cigar in his mouth. “Don't keep any around. Carcinogenic, you know. But I understand your meaning: What's the use? If the world is going to hell in a hand basket, why not indulge in every death dealing, but enjoyable vice we can afford. After all, it is only money. It is only life. Both fairly fragile and ephemeral things at best.”

The stone and steel returned.

“Unless we are vigilant in our protection of them.”

Brett, who sat next to Max, seemed agitated. He had a jaw on a well oiled hinge, so it's not surprising his had dropped the most.

 
“But—but, well, shouldn't the government do something about it—or the UN maybe?” Brett asked.

Max turned to Brett disbelief featured prominently on his face, and broke out into a rapid-fire series of choppy laughs.

“Government! Governments are passé. Governments are useless. Governments have only two real functions. One is to collect taxes. The other is to fill in potholes. The first being a habit that needs to be controlled. The second being a duty they seem to ignore. Governments have National anthems but no real National purpose. Because there is no purpose to being a nation anymore—it's a boarder-less world. Haven't you heard? Twenty-four hour electronic worldwide movement of currencies: Buy, sell, transfer. Worldwide trading on stock exchanges; twenty-four hours a day, the rise and fall of fortunes. Worldwide communication on the Internet, twenty-four hours a day, speech more free than it's ever been, and all this zipping across borders as if borders didn't exist—because, for all practical purposes, they don't.

“There will soon be only three currencies that matter. The Dollar. The Yuan. The Euro. How soon after that will it come down to two? How soon after that will it be only one? Which one will be transcendent? Or all three might just crash. Then will it be currency credits issued not from the banks of nations, but from stock exchanges? But no matter what you call it, it will still be Wealth, and in the final analysis it will be issued by the wealthy to the wealthy for the wealthy.

“It's Wealth that runs the world, not nations, and right now the wealth of the world is in the control of globalized corporations. You know it and I know it. You—” Max referred to the five “All of you, in one form or another, work for such corporations, and they work for their stockholders, but their stockholders have put their trust in fund managers. Fund managers are the new representatives of the people, but only the people who hold stock. It's no longer One Man One Vote, folks. Whether that one man is a dictator whose one vote is the only vote that counts or whether that one man is one of many, each equal in their one vote. So don't tell me, Brett, that governments are going to solve the problems of the Twenty-first Century.”

“Well, then,” Brett was desperate for an answer, “the corporations should, uh, get together then and—”

“Corporations are faceless entities that compete. They share mutual interests, but none strong enough to get them to drop their single minded Purpose of Profit to band together to solve any but their own localized problems. Like the fading governments, corporations are too visible to probing eyes attached to critical minds. Not to mention that often, global corporations are headed up by egomaniacal, popinjay champions of self-aggrandizement, who are so busy jumping from spotlight to spotlight, they never really have time to peer into the dark corners of the Future.”

“I assume.” It was time for Henderson to speak up. “That there is an organization that does peer into the dark corners, and that you are a representative thereof.”

Max cocked his head as he looked at me.

“You're very smart,” he said, “for a man who spends all day in his briefs.” Max laughed at his own poor joke. “You are, of course, correct.”

Max paused as his smile dropped. He took in a long breath through his nostrils and returned his concentration to the five plus Lydia, where often his eyes fell.

“There is a quiet crew of people who either all have wealth, or work for wealth, or are sympathetic towards wealth as the protector of culture, who have banded together into what we call—the Enclave. For indeed, that is what it is going to take to protect us. Some of these people may be heads of large corporations, but their loyalty is to the Enclave. Some of these people may be from our finest think tanks and universities, but they do their real thinking for the Enclave. Some of these people may be in politics, working with the ineffectual governments, but in actuality, working for the Enclave. Some may be in Law Enforcement. Some may be in—law infringement. There are the religious among us, and the thoroughly pragmatic. We have representatives of Old Money, Recent Money, and Very, Very New Money.

“We call ourselves a quiet crew because none of us seek the limelight. All of us have made a personal decision to serve—and save—our civilization. All of us, each in their own way, are hugely influential within their sphere. Through our actions, agreed upon by all, we work to influence governments and corporations and other entities of power—power from the mild to the toxic—to make the right decisions; to take the right action that will help us prevent a disastrous turn of history or, as I said, at least diminished the impact of that turn. We are not Pollyannas. The jolts and jars and smashes are going to come. The question is how virulent will they be? Not to Mankind. We don't give a shit about, ‘Mankind.' We care only about our civilization. The Enclave is dedicated to the preservation of our civilization.

“To succeed—we need your help.”

Max was now looking directly into Lydia's eyes and she was looking into his.

“Yours, Lydia,” he continued, “and yours, Brooke,” he said starting a survey, “and Abbie, yours too.” He turned to his right and put his arm around Brett. “And Brett's, we will need Brett's help.” Then he turned to look past Sara to Thad. “And Thad's, of course. Most definitely yours, Thad.”

All thought about this for a second, with a solemnity not often found outside of monasteries in remote locations. Then Thad quietly stated:

“You know, I'm about ready to close a deal on a project in which a mutated version of the AIDS virus, irradiated to the size of squirrels, attacks San Francisco, destroys it, then heads south towards Los Angeles. How exactly am I supposed to help preserve civilization?”

Max seemed delighted with the question.

“A better question than you can imagine, Thad, but first things first. Thad, in your climb up the Show Biz ladder, have you ever kissed ass?”

Thad's head moved back slightly, more shocked by this than by anything else he had heard all evening.