“Do you ever feel you were wrong?”

  Voltan thought about that for a few seconds. “No, sir. I don't. I think rape should carry a stiff sentence. I think that if rape is proven, beyond any doubt—lie detectors, PSE machines, even hypnosis—I think the rapist should not only have to serve a tough sentence, but should be gelded like you would a bad stallion.”

  “I agree with you,” Ben said.

  “We gonna have soft laws in this area, Mr. Raines?” “I hope not. Clint? Why is everybody asking me these questions? No one has elected me to anything.”

  The rancher-Rebel smiled. “Well, you have been, kind of, in a secret way.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You're it, Mr. Raines.”

  And the words of Cecil came to him. “You're going to look up one day, Ben, and the job of leader will be handed to you. Like me, you won't want it, but you'll take it.”

  “All right, Clint,” he heard his voice say. “If I'm elected, I'll serve.”

  “You'll be elected, Mr. Raines.”

  “I'll be a tough law-and-order man.” He looked at the rancher. “Better warn the people of that.” “'Bout time somebody got tough in this country.”

  “Two thirds of the world's population dead,” Cossman said. “They think that's final. Here at home, over a hundred and fifty million, and still climbing.” He and his crew had been monitoring government bands.

  “What's the population of our three-state area?” Ben asked.

  “That, I can tell you precisely,” an aide said to Ben.

  Ben had been governor of the three-state area for almost six months, and he could not get accustomed to the title or the attention paid him.

  “Sixty-seven thousand, four hundred and twenty-two people,” the aide said. “Our final head count was completed yesterday afternoon.”

  “Umm,” Ben said. “I thought the preliminary figures were somewhat higher?”

  “They were. We lost twenty-seven thousand people in the first two months of ... ah—”

  “My taking office,” Ben finished it.

  “Win some, lose some, el Presidente,” Ike said. Outwardly, the only thing Ike took seriously was Megan and his farm/ranch. But Ike took the new government of the three-state area very seriously. He desperately wanted it to work. And he believed it would—given time. Time.

  “They just didn't believe they could conform or adapt to the tough law-and-order system we advocate,” Dr. Chase said. “And they didn't like what we're setting up in our schools, either.”

  “But"—the aide spoke—"on the other hand, we've got almost ten thousand people on the outside who want to come in. And the number is growing by a hundred a day. A decision has to be made on that, sir. Quickly.” “How many can we screen a day?”

  “If we really hump it ... maybe fifty. And that is pushing it.”

  “I don't want the screening relaxed. Each new person must be given a lie-detector test/PSE test as to background, criminal record, conformity. And the aptitude tests must still be given verbally, by race opposites. We've culled a lot of would-be troublemakers and bigots that way.”

  “Those lawyers with what's left of the ACLU are really raising hell about those tests, sir. And our laws.” The aide looked uncomfortable, for he knew only too well how Ben felt about the ACLU.

  Ben glared at him. “I thought I told you to get those bastards out of here.”

  The aide shuffled his feet. “Sir—they say we'll have to use force to get them out.”

  “Then use force. All that is necessary to remove them. They were not invited—are they ever? I don't want them in here.” Ben softened his tone. “Look, boys, I know they mean well, and they have done some good—back when conditions were more or less normal. But we don't have time for hairsplitting legal technicalities. We're not going to have it when our laws and legal system are finally drawn up; and that is being done this very moment.

  “You all know where we stand on issues. The people have voted on them, all over this three-state area. We've been holding town meetings since early last winter on the issues we'll live with. Now, ninety-one percent of the people agreed to our laws. The rest left. And that's the way it's going to be or you can take this governorship—that I didn't want in the first place—and I'll go back to writing my journal.”

  “Ben—” Dr. Chase said.

  “No!” Ben stood firm. “I came into this office this morning and there was a damned paper on my desk asking me to reconsider the death penalty for that goddamned punk over in Missoula.”

  “He's sixteen years old, Governor,” an aide said.

  “That's his problem. His IQ is one twenty-eight. The shrink says he knows right from wrong and is healthy, mentally and physically. He is perfectly normal. He stole a car, got drunk, and drove a hundred fucking miles an hour down the main street. He ran over and killed two elderly people whose only crime was attempting to cross a street ... in compliance with the existing traffic lights. He admitted what he did. He is not remorseful. I would reconsider if he was sorry for what he'd done. But he isn't. And tests bear that out. He has admitted his true feelings; said the old people didn't have much time left anyway, so what the hell was everybody getting so upset about? He's a punk. That's all he would ever be—if I let him live—which I have no intention of doing. If he puts so little emphasis on the lives of others, then he shouldn't mind terribly if I snuff out his.

  “So, Mr. Garrett,"—he looked at a uniformed man standing quietly across the room—"at six o'clock day after tomorrow, dawn, you will personally escort young Mr. Randolph Green to the designated place of execution and you will see to it that he is hanged by the neck until he is dead. The day of the punk ... is over.”

  “Yes, sir,” Garrett said. “It's about time some backbone was shoved into the law.” He left the room.

  Ben looked around him. “Any further questions as to how the law is going to work?”

  No one had anything further to say. Ben left the room to have lunch with Salina.

  “He's a hard man,” an aide said.

  Ike stood up and stretched. “Hard times, brother.”

  Chapter 18

  There were many who left the three-state area, but many more stayed and more wanted in. Some of those who came in also left after seeing what was happening, but most stayed. Life was not easy; rebuilding and conforming never is. Eighteen-hour days were not uncommon; there was a lot to do and everybody able was expected to work without whining about it.

  There were those who could not, or would not, as the case may be, accept or adapt to the new laws being written by the people; and many of those laws were not easy to follow, for the people had reverted back to what used to be known as a code of conduct.

  Violate that code, and one might find himself or herself in serious trouble. As one old-timer, long a resident of Idaho, said, summing up the new system (actually an old system), “Man's got two ways of gettin’ rid of leaves in his yard; smart man will rake them up, put them in bags, carry them to the dump where they'll be disposed of in a safe manner. Stupid man will set them on fire in his yard and not give a thought about the smoke blowing in his neighbor's window. Man does the latter now, he's liable to end up with a busted jaw. And there isn't a law on the books against it. Out there in the proper forty-seven, man don't have to think much about what he does. Here, you'd better damned well give it some thought—a lot of thought. I like it here. Peaceful. Once we got rid of the troublemakers. And it didn't take long.”

  Many roads leading into the three-state area were destroyed, deliberately, to prevent easy access. There were signs posted all along the borders, warning travelers that the laws in these states were very different from those to which they had grown accustomed, and justice came down very hard and very swiftly.

  The world still tumbled about in disorder and confusion and almost total disorganization. There were millions of people out of work and they did not know how to catch a fish or skin a rabbit or plant a garden. Gangs of thugs and punks and hoodlums roamed the country, stealing and raping and killing. All across the nation, from border to border, sea to sea, various groups of different ideological persuasions were breaking away and setting up little communities, sure their way was the right way—the only way. True, caring Christians; semireligious, demented fanatics; cult worshipers; and left and right-of-center organizations were establishing little governments. All would fail in only a few months as Logan's forces grew stronger; or they rotted from within. Only one would last for any length of time, and its concepts would never die.

  How hated Ben's system of government was did not come home to the people of the three states until late fall of the first year. Ben had stepped outside of his home for a breath of the cold, clean air of night. Juno went with him, and together they walked from the house around to the front. When Juno growled, Ben went into a crouch, and that saved his life. Automatic-weapon fire spider- webbed the windshield of his truck, the slugs hitting and ricocheting off the metal, sparking the night. Ben jerked open the door of the pickup, punched open the glove compartment, and grabbed a pistol. He fired at a dark shape running across his yard, then at another. Both went down, screaming in pain.

  A man stepped from the shadows of the house and opened fire just as Ben hit the ground. Lights were popping on all over the street; men with rifles in their hands appeared on the lawns.

  Ben felt a slug slam into his hip, knocking him to one side, spinning him around, the lead traveling down his leg, exiting just above his knee. He pulled himself to one knee and leveled the 9-mm, pumping three shots into the dark form by the side of the house. The man went down, the rifle dropping from his hands.

  Ben pulled himself up, his leg and hip throbbing from the shock of the wounds. He leaned against the truck just as help reached him.

  “Get the medics!” a man shouted. “Governor's been shot.”

  “Help me over to that man,” Ben said. “He looks familiar.”

  Standing over the fallen man, Ben could see where his shots had gone: two in the stomach, one in the chest. The man was splattered with blood and dying. He coughed and spat at Ben.

  “Goddamned nigger-lovin’ scum,” he said. He closed his eyes, shivered in the convulsions of pain; then died.

  Badger came panting up, a robe over his pajamas, house slippers flapping. “God, Governor! Who is he?”

  Ben stood for a time, leaning against the side of the house. Salina came to him, putting her arms around him as the wailing of ambulances drew louder. “Do you know him, Ben?” she asked.

  “I used to.” Ben's reply was sad. “He was my brother.”

  PART THREE

  THE SWIFT YEARS

  Chapter 1

  The death of Carl Raines probably did more to ensure the immediate survival of the three states than any other single act. It shocked Logan when the news finally reached him, and Logan, like most people who heard the story, reasoned that if a man believed so strongly in an idea he would kill his brother ... that man had best be left alone. And for almost five years, the Tri-states, as they were referred to, were left alone.

  The world, and especially America, began to take shape and resume order, law, and some stability. In America, with the drafting of young men now in its fourth year, and the replacing of ranking officers with men who were loyal to Logan, the military was perhaps the strongest in the world. Acting under orders from Logan, the military, systematically, state by state, began crushing those people who had established their own forms of government. The nation was once more whole— almost—whether the people involved wanted it, or not.

  East of the Mississippi River, the nation was as one—no pockets of resistance left. And there was no longer any area known as New Africa. Cecil, knowing there was no way he could win against division after division of military might, quietly pulled down the flag of New Africa and told his people the dream was dead.

  Most of the blacks chose to remain where they were, farming the land, working the reopened factories. But the experience had been bitter for Cecil. Cecil and Lila, Pal and Valerie, and about a hundred more blacks left the South and headed west, to the Tri-states. Ben immediately named Cecil as his lieutenant governor and Pal the secretary of state.

  “Won't that irritate a large number of people out here?” Cecil asked. “Naming blacks to high positions?”

  Ben had smiled. “You don't know the caliber of people living in the Tri-states.”

  “You've been practicing selective population?” Pal asked.

  “Yes,” Ben answered. “Amazing how much trouble you can avoid by doing that.”

  “And amazing how illegal it is.” Cecil's reply was dry.

  “Maybe out there.” Ben jerked his thumb, indicating the area outside Tri-states. “But not in here.”

  “Kasim has decided on guerrilla warfare,” Pal said. “He's got several thousand men and women behind him, and there are lots more who quietly support what he's about to do. It's going to be bloody, Ben, for there is a lot of hate in that man.”

  “It's going to be bloody here, too,” Ben said. “Someday.”

  Of the hundreds of towns and cities that once stood in the Tri-states, many were destroyed, having first been picked over; whatever could be used was labeled and stored. The area was returned to land. The residents, if any, were moved to newer, nicer homes and apartments and told to maintain them. There would be no slums in the Tri-states.

  The people were pulled together for many reasons: to conserve energy, to stabilize government, for easier care, and to afford more land for the production of crops, as well as to afford better protection for the people in health care, police, fire, and social services.

  The elderly, for the first time in their lives, were looked after with care and concern and respect. They were not grouped together and forgotten or ignored. Careful planning went into the population centers. Young, middle-aged, and elderly were carefully grouped together in housing and apartments. Those elderly who wanted to work, and could work, were encouraged to do so. They could work as long as they wished, or until they tired, and then could go home. The knowledge of older citizens is valuable and vast, and Ben knew it. Older citizens can teach so many things—if only the younger people would listen. In the Tri-states, they listened.

  In order for this to work, the pace had to be slowed, the grind eased, the honor system restored; the work ethic, in both labor and management, renewed. It was.

  Here, for the first time in decades, there was no welfare, no ADC, no WIC, no food stamps, no unemployment; but what there was was jobs for all, and all adults worked. Everyone. Those who would not, because they felt the job offered them was beneath their dignity, or because of laziness, apathy, and/or indifference, were escorted to the nearest border and booted out. They were told not to come back. If children were involved, they were taken from the people and immediately adopted.

  It was harsh treatment, and by American standards, totally unconstitutional. But if Ben worried about the legality of it, the worry was not evident in his day-to-day living.

  Ben took particular care in the defense of the Tri-states. Heavy artillery was ready to roar; defensive and offensive were tactics worked down to a fine state of readiness. Bunkers and hidden positions were stocked and checked and maintained. Roads and bridges could be wired to detonate, if and when it became necessary, in only a few hours. Radar hummed twenty-four hours a day. Radiocontrolled antipersonnel mines were ready to be placed. Tanks were in abundance, and their crews were highly trained. The armed forces of the Tri-states ranked among the best in the world, their training a combination of Special Forces, Ranger, SEAL, and gutter-fighting. Every resident of the Tri-states, male and female, between the ages of sixteen and sixty was a member of the armed forces. They met twice a month, after their initial thirty-week basic training, and were on active duty one month each year. And the training was a no-holds-barred type. Any interference with the day-to-day activities of the Tri-states would be met with brutal and savage retaliation and Hilton Logan knew it. Logan hated Ben Raines, but that hatred was tempered with fear.

  “It would cost us much more than it's worth to take the Tri-states,” the Joint Chiefs told Logan. “Raines has the equivalent of seven divisions—all combat-ready and prepared to fight to the death. His people are better trained than ours. Leave Raines alone, Mr. President. For if we didn't kill them all, every man, woman, and child, they'd group and fight as guerrillas, and we'd have another civil war on our hands. The only way we could possibly defeat Tri-states at this time is with the use of nuclear weapons, and that is totally out of the question. Another two to three years ... maybe. But not now. Not without it costing us dearly.”

  Tri-states was left alone.

  The government in Richmond, the police, and federal agents watched all that was going on in Tristates, watched it with awe and consternation, and to some degree, envy. Ben had gathered his people, of all backgrounds, all races, and molded them into a highly productive society, virtually free of prejudice, and totally devoid of crime. And what irritated Logan the most, was that Ben had the best people; the best doctors, the best scientists, the best computer programmers, the best farmers, financial planners, and so on down the line. And Ben's society was working. That irritated Logan constantly.