Free The Fellowship of the Hand by Edward D. Hoch Page A

prisoner.”
    “All right,” Jazine agreed. “So what do we do now?”
    “Report to President McCurdy,” Carl Crader said promptly. “As yet he knows nothing about this secret election business, nor does he know about Jason Blunt’s underground computer complex. I also have something of a message for him, from Blunt.”
    “The President’s not going to like it,” Jazine predicted.
    “You don’t have to tell me that.”
    “He’s especially not going to like all this tampering with the FRIDAY-404 computer, just four weeks before election day.”
    Crader knew that Earl had a good point. President McCurdy, running for reelection against the former governor of Ontario, would be concerned that the affair might raise questions about the accuracy of the computerized tally. “All right, Earl, let’s tackle that problem before it even arises. Can you get Lawrence Friday to fly to Washington with us this afternoon and help reassure the President?”
    “I can get him if he’s willing to leave his animals.” Jazine reached for the vision-phone. “But this time I’ll try calling him. No more trips to the zooitorium for me!”
    “Ask him to be here at one. We’ll take the rocket-copter down. With luck he’ll be back by four.”
    “Right.”
    Crader buzzed for Judy. “Phone the New White House, Judy. Try to clear a one thirty appointment with the President for myself, Earl, and Lawrence Friday. Tell them it’s urgent.”
    Crader had never met Lawrence Friday before, though he recognized the slender, stoop-shouldered man at once from his holograms. “Sorry to take you away from your animals,” he said by way of greeting.
    “No, no.” Friday waved away the apology. “It was a slow day anyway. And one doesn’t get a summons to the New White House every day.”
    The flight from the top of the World Trade Center to the copter pad at the New White House took just twenty-five minutes, which was good time. They were kept waiting only a few moments before being ushered down the sterile steel corridors to the presidential lounge. Though the bombproof nature of the building had been necessitated by the bombing of the original White House in 2018, the metal walls still reminded Crader unpleasantly of Jason Blunt’s underground city.
    President Andrew Jackson McCurdy was a man of the people. Like his famous namesake two centuries earlier, he ruled the party with an iron fist and was a vigorous spokesman for the wishes of the voters. And yet, for all of that, there was something almost wise and fatherly about President McCurdy. He had just enough gray in his hair to contrast sharply with the string of boyish chief executives who’d preceded him, just enough fire in his speech to excite the voters one more time.
    “How are you, Carl?” he asked, stepping forward to greet them. “Good to see you again. And Earl … And Professor Friday, I believe. I’ve been an admirer of your work for some time.”
    “Thank you, sir,” Friday replied.
    “I hope you’re going to get me reelected next month!”
    “I hope so too. The FRIDAY-404 is ready for those returns!”
    “Good, good. Now, Carl—just what was so urgent?”
    They sat down and Crader began. “You aren’t going to like this, sir.”
    “Try me.”
    “The FRIDAY-404 system has been used by a private group to hold some sort of election. The balloting took place last week—on October first—involving upwards of eighty thousand persons throughout the USAC and overseas.”
    “What? What are you talking about, Carl?”
    “A secret election.”
    “For what?”
    “Possibly for a shadow government to replace the legal government of the USAC.”
    “But how could such a thing be? How could they gain access to the system?”
    “They didn’t gain access to each individual voting machine, of course, but they did manage to tie into the regional relay stations, and through them to the orbiting satellite we use. The data on the secret election apparently was then fed