Текст книги "Ancient Shores"

Автор книги: Jack McDevitt

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

The president’s political alarms over the North Dakota business had been sounding all winter. His advisors had told him not to worry. It was just a crop circle flap, the sort of thing to stay away from, to deflect at press conferences. A chief executive who starts talking about flying saucers is dead. No matter what happens, he is dead. That was what they said. So he had kept away from it, and now it was blowing up. The stock market today had dropped 380 points.

“They’re already calling it Black Wednesday,” said Jim Samson, his treasury secretary. Samson was now trying to pretend he’d been warning the President all along to take action.

It was a turbulent time. There were six wars of strategic interest to the United States being fought with varying degrees of energy, and another fifteen or so hotspots. Famine was gaining, population growth everywhere was shifting into overdrive, and the UN had all but given up the dream of a new world order. The American transition from an industrialized economy to an information economy was still creating major dislocations. Corruption in high places remained a constant problem, and the splintering of the body politic into fringe groups that would not talk to each other continued. On the credit side, however, the balance of trade looked good; the long battle to reduce runaway deficits was finally showing positive results; racism, sexism, and their attendant evils seemed to be losing ground; drug use was way down; and medical advances were providing people with longer and healthier lives. Perhaps most important for a politician, the media were friendly.

The truth was that Matt Taylor could not take credit for the latter trends any more than he could be blamed for the former. But he knew that whatever else happened, he had to have a strong economy. If he lost that, the dislocations accompanying the evolution through which the western world was now passing were going to get a lot worse. He could not allow that. He was not going to stand by and watch hordes of homeless and unemployed reappear on the American scene. No matter what it took.

“A blip,” Tony Peters said. “These things happen.”

Peters was chairman of the president’s Fiscal Policy Council. He was also an old ally, with good political instincts. Of the people who had come up with him from Baltimore to the White House, no one enjoyed a greater degree of Taylor’s confidence.

“Tony,” the president said, “it’s only a blip if there’s nothing to it. What happens if they really have a metal up there that won’t break down or wear out?”

“I agree,” said Samson. “We need to find out what the facts are here.”

Peters frowned. “As I understand it, Mr. President, it’s not a metal.”

“Whatever.” Taylor pushed back in his chair and folded his arms. “They can make sails out of it. And they can make buildings. The issue is, what happens to the manufacturing industries if they suddenly get materials to work with that don’t break down periodically?” He shook his head. “Suppose people buy only one or two cars over a lifetime. What does that mean to GM?” He took off his glasses and flung them on the desk. “My God,” he said, “I don’t believe I’m saying this. All these years we’ve been looking for a way to beat the Japanese at this game. Now we have it, and it would be a catastrophe.”

Taylor was short and stocky. He wore nondescript ties and well-pressed suits that were inevitably last year’s fashion.

“Mr. President,” said Peters, “it’s all tabloid stuff. No one is going to be able to mass-produce supermaterials.”

“How do you know? Have we looked into it?”

“Yes. Everybody I’ve talked to says it can’t happen.”

“But we have samples.”

“We saw a lot of lightning before we learned how to put it into a wall switch. What we need to do is get everybody’s mind off this thing. Pick one of the wars, or the Pakistani revolution, and start sounding alarms.”

There was this about Tony Peters: He was the only person Taylor had ever known who seemed to understand what drove economies, and who could make that insight clear to others. He also knew the Congress, the power brokers, and the deal makers. He was an invaluable aide to an activist president. But Taylor knew his chairman’s limits. To Peters, experience was everything. One learned from it and applied its lessons succinctly, and one could never go far wrong. But what happened when you ran into a problem that transcended anything you’d seen before? What good was experience then?

“I want you,” said Taylor, “to talk to some of the people who’ve been out there. Top people, right? Find out what’s really going on. What the risks are. Not what your experts say can’t happen.”

Peters stared back. “You’re not serious,” he said. “We shouldn’t get anywhere close to this thing, Mr. President. We start asking questions, and it’ll get around.”

“Try to be discreet, Tony. But goddammit, the markets are in the toilet. Find somebody who understands these things and get me some answers. Definitive ones. I want to know if that thing is for real. And if it is, what’s it going to do to the economy.” He felt tired. “I don’t want any more guesswork.”

17

We walk by faith, not by sight.

–II Corinthians 5:7

Al Easter was the most aggressive shop steward the Dayton, Ohio, subsidiary of Cougar Industries had ever known. The rank and file joked that managers did not go out alone at night, fearing Al might be roaming the streets. Management cautiously sought union advice on any decision that could be construed as a change in work conditions. And they tended to be very lenient with the workers. Even Liz Mullen, who’d been caught taking staplers, computer disks, and assorted other office supplies home, where she’d been running an independent retail operation, had survived. She’d gotten a reprimand when she should have been fired and gone to jail.

Al’s most effective tactic was the threat of the instant response. He was quite willing (or at least management believed he was, which amounted to the same thing) to call a work stoppage or slowdown to protest the most trivial issue. No attempt to warn a recalcitrant employee or to revise a work schedule was immune to reprisal, should Al consider principle at stake.

The steward made no secret of his view that everyone in management was on a power trip and that only he stood between the vultures in the executive suite and the well-being of the workers.

He was not empowered by the national union to act in so arbitrary a manner, but their occasional formal rebuffs were halfhearted and hypocritical. They knew who held the cards in Dayton. When Al announced a slowdown or called the workers out, everyone in the plant responded as one person. The National Affiliated Union of Helpers, Stewards, and Mechanics might get around several days later to chiding him, but in the meantime he would have made his point.

Management tried on several occasions to promote him. Double his money. But he wouldn’t take it. “They need me,” he’d told plant manager Adrian Cox, “to keep you and the rest of your crowd from eating them alive.” Yeah. Adrian knew the real reason: Al liked power too much to give it up. And no mere supervisor at Cougar possessed the kind of power Al had.

The shop steward disliked Cougar’s managers both personally and on principle. He made it a point not to be seen in their company, save when he was bullying them. It came, therefore, as an uncomfortable surprise when Cox’s secretary notified him that Al had arrived downstairs and was on his way up.

Cox’s first reaction was to take a deep breath. “Did he say what he wanted?”

“No, sir. Janet asked him, but he just walked past her.”

Moments later Al strolled through Adrian’s outer defenses and walked into the inner office while the intercom buzzed a late warning.

It was a spacious office, with framed awards and certificates of appreciation and a couple of expensive oils that his wife had picked out. Cox sat behind his mahogany desk in sunlight softened by an array of potted palms. It annoyed him that the shop steward pretended not to notice all this. Al advanced into the center of Cox’s Persian carpet, insolently neglecting to remove his cap, and leveled his gaze at the plant manager. “Mr. Cox,” he said, “I assume you’ve seen what’s been happening in North Dakota.”

Al was a little man, round, long out of shape, with uncombed thinning hair. His belly pressed against his greasy shirt, and a stained handkerchief was stuffed into his breast pocket. It was all part of the act.

“The UFO?” Cox felt instant relief that there was not a problem on the floor.

“Yeah.” Al dropped into one of the wing chairs. “What are we doing about it?”

Cox leaned forward. “About what?” He knew what was coming, of course. There had already been talk in the boardroom and with corporate about the materials that might emerge from the Johnson’s Ridge discovery.

“About a tougher tire.” Al rocked back and forth. “What happens to Cougar if the industry begins to produce tires that will run two hundred thousand miles?”

“That won’t happen,” said Cox.

“I’m glad to hear it.” The man’s eyes never blinked.

“What do you want me to say?” asked Cox. “All I know is what I see on the TV.”

“Yeah. Me, too.” Al’s face had no range. The only emotion it ever revealed was sarcasm. “You know I’ve always said that we should work together more. After all, we have the same objectives. A healthy company means good jobs.”

Cox couldn’t resist smiling. “I couldn’t agree more, Al.”

The steward scowled. “If this stuff can do what they’re saying it can, there won’t be any tire and rubber business in this country in another three years. If I were sitting in your chair, I’d have somebody up there making an offer.”

Cox frowned. “Offer? To do what?”

“To buy them out.”

Cox stared at Al. “There’s no need to panic,” he said finally. It felt like a weak response, but he couldn’t think what else to say.

Al shook his head. “If the worst happens, you’ll wind up getting a government bailout. There’ll be hard times, and the company will go Chapter Eleven. But you’ll do fine. You’ll vote yourself a bonus and complain about the business cycle. Along with everybody else up here. The rank and file will get walked on, like they always do. In the end, they won’t get nothin’.”

Cox’s skin crawled. “Al.” He tried to sound forceful but knew his voice was shaking. “Al, you’re overreacting. None of this is going to happen.”

“Yeah. Well, if I were you, I wouldn’t just sit around up here hoping it’ll all blow over.”

April cleaned the icons with a couple of damp cloths. Each lit up when she touched it, with the exception of the smoke, which stayed dark no matter what. But there were no special effects at the grid. She interpreted it to mean that there had to be something on the grid to produce the lights.

Near the pit she found a seventh icon. Bigger than the others, it resembled a kanji character. Like the smoke, it stayed dark when she touched it.

Marie McCloskey had always been able to feel the imminence of the divine presence. There had never been a time, not even during her most difficult days—when the news had come of Jodie’s death in the wreck on I—29, when her husband had first assaulted her, when they’d told her she had diabetes—there had never been an instant when she had not been aware that Jesus walked beside her. That sure and certain knowledge had carried her through all these years and had brought her, in spite of everything, an inner peace that she would not trade for any of life’s more tangible assets. Marie McCloskey was a fortunate woman.

She came to Fort Moxie to visit her sister, and she would not ordinarily have shown any interest in the events atop Johnson’s Ridge. But the town, which had been so quiet and orderly in past years, was overrun with tourists and salesmen and journalists and college students and busloads of people from all over North America. So it was natural that her curiosity would be aroused, and anyhow her sister’s husband, Corky Cable, wanted to go see the Roundhouse. They drove out and got in the line of cars over on Route 32. They rode up one side of the escarpment, cruised past the odd green building that looked like a fancy salt cellar, and rode down the other side, talking about Martians the whole time. It didn’t mean anything special to Marie or to her sister, but Corky raved about it.

They had dinner in Walhalla at the Cat’s Eye, and afterward drove back toward Johnson’s Ridge. It was dark now, a cold, crystal night with silent stars and no moon and a few wisps of cloud. They were riding three across the front seat in Corky’s Mazda when they rounded a curve and saw the soft green glow at the top of the ridge.

“Look at that,” said Marie’s sister.

Corky would have pulled off somewhere so they could watch, but the road was lined with cars. Instead he slowed down and crept along at about twenty.

To Marie, there was something supernatural in that quiet radiance. As though God himself had provided a lighthouse for His lost children. A reassurance that He was still here.

Oddly, she had felt nothing when she’d been alongside the structure two hours earlier, in broad daylight. But now the full weight of its significance caught her.

“We can see it all the way out to the border,” said Corky. He was a customs inspector at the Fort Moxie border crossing, and that statement was exaggerated. The border was too far away. But tonight it seemed possible. Tonight everything seemed possible.

“Slow down, Corky,” Marie said.

Corky was already creeping along, and some headlights had come up behind them.

Marie’s sister said, “I wonder what causes it. Maybe it’s made of phosphorous.”

Marie began to see an image. If you backed away a little bit mentally, stayed away from the details, and looked just so, you could make out a woman’s face. And she knew the woman.

“It’s the Virgin,” she said.

Arky Redfern ushered his guest to a seat, sat down behind his desk, and smiled politely. “Dr. Wells,” he said, “what can I do for you?”

Paxton Wells was a tall, lean man with a gray mustache and a manner that would have been aristocratic had he not been burdened with oversized ears. “Mr. Redfern,” he said, “I understand you represent tribal interests on Johnson’s Ridge.”

The lawyer nodded.

“I have an offer to make on behalf of the National Energy Institute.” He released the catches on his briefcase, searched inside, and withdrew a contract. “We would like to have permission to investigate the power source in the Roundhouse.” His eyebrows rose and fell, signaling, Arky thought, a fair degree of stress, which otherwise did not evince itself in Wells’s manner. “There’s a possibility we might be able to develop some of the technologies in the building. If indeed there are any technologies that can be adapted. We don’t know that, of course.”

“Of course,” said Redfern.

“Nevertheless, we would be willing to offer a substantial sum of money for the property and assume all the risk and expense of developing it.”

“I see.” Redfern picked up the document.

“We can offer a million dollars,” Wells said. He underscored the amount and left himself slightly breathless.

The lawyer flipped methodically through the pages, stopping occasionally to examine an item that had caught his attention. “I see,” he said, “you would get all rights for development and use.”

“Mr. Redfern.” Wells leaned forward and assumed an attitude that he obviously thought was one of friendly no-nonsense sincerity. “Let’s be honest here. This is a crapshoot. NEI is willing to gamble a lot of money on the off chance that there’s something usable on the ridge. We don’t know that to be the case. Nevertheless, in everyone’s interest, we’ll assume the risk. And the tribe can just sit back and collect. One million dollars. To do nothing.”

Redfern folded the contract and handed it back. “I don’t think so,” he said.

“May I ask why? What can you lose?”

The lawyer got out of his chair. “Dr. Wells, I’m quite busy today. If NEI wants to make a serious offer, you know where to find me.”

“Aren’t you overstepping your authority, Mr. Redfern? I would think your responsibility is to consult your employer.”

Redfern let Wells see that he was not impressed. “I believe I understand my responsibility, Dr. Wells. Now, I hate to rush you—”

“All right.” Wells leaned back in his chair. “You drive a hard bargain, Redfern. To save us both time, I’ll go right to the bottom line. I’m authorized to offer two million.”

Redfern glanced up at his father’s bow. There were times, he thought, when he regretted that they’d given up the old ways.

18

A man without money is a bow without an arrow.

–Thomas Fuller, Gnomologia

During the two years he’d served on the city council, Marv Wickham had never seen more than a dozen people attend the monthly meeting. But tonight was different. Fort Moxie’s total population of nine hundred twenty-seven must have been at city hall, where they overflowed the spacious second-floor meeting room and spilled out into the corridors. (The presence of the New Agers to whom the mayor had rented the lower-level auditorium did nothing to alleviate matters.) They were still coming in when the council president, Charlie Lindquist, launched the evening’s proceedings.

There were several routine items on the agenda: a zoning ordinance request, a proposal to issue highway improvement bonds, and a suggestion that Fort Moxie participate in a consolidated school scheme. But the issue that had drawn the crowd, and which Lindquist consequently scheduled last, would be a request that the city approve a demand that the Johnson’s Ridge excavation site be shut down.

Lindquist, who considered himself the town’s Solomon, guided the deliberations methodically through the preliminaries. At twelve minutes past nine he gave the floor to Joe Torres, a retired farmer now living in town.

Torres, reading nervously from a sheet of paper, described the chaotic conditions existing in Fort Moxie. Traffic had become impossible. There were drunks and fights and crowds of hoodlums. Visitors were parking their cars everywhere. They were overflowing the restaurants and stripping the supermarket so that ordinary citizens had to drive eighty miles to Grand Forks. They were even drawing lunatics with bombs, like the one who had taken out the Tastee-Freez the day before. “I know it’s good business for Mike and some of you other boys, but it’s pretty tough on the rest of us.”

Agnes Hanford stood up. “We need to take advantage of this while we can. In the end, the whole town’ll be better off.” Agnes’s husband owned the Prairie Schooner.

Joe shook his head. “That’s easy for you to say, Agnes. But it’s getting worse. And I think we need to do something.” As if to underline his argument, they heard an automobile roar past, horn blaring, radio shaking the building. “If we allow this to go on, we’re going to have to hire some police officers.” Historically, Fort Moxie had received what little law enforcement support it needed from Cavalier. “I therefore propose,” he continued, reading again, “that the council demand that the persons digging on Johnson’s Ridge cease and desist. And that the structure known as the Roundhouse be demolished.” He looked around. “Torn up and hauled away,” he added.

Lindquist recognized Laurie Cavaracca, who owned the Northstar Motel. Laurie had lived in Fort Moxie all her life. The motel had been built by her father in 1945, after he came back from the Pacific. Laurie was now sole owner and manager. “We have eight units at the Northstar,” she said. “Until two weeks ago, we never had consecutive days in which I could turn on the NO VACANCY sign. Now there is never an empty room. We are booming. Do I like the problems that we are currently having in Fort Moxie? No, of course not. None of us does. But the solution isn’t to close down and crawl back in our holes.” Her voice sounded a little fluttery at first, but she gained confidence quickly. “Listen, people,” she said. “Most of us have stayed in Fort Moxie because we were born here. We love this town. But the economy has always been touch and go. Now, for the first time in anyone’s memory, we have a chance to make some real money. And not just the store owners. Everyone will profit. Healthy businesses are good for everybody. For God’s sake, don’t kill the golden calf.”

“Goose,” someone said. “It’s a golden goose.”

“Whatever,” said Laurie. “This won’t last forever. We should milk it while we can.”

“Meantime,” said Josh Averill, rising with his usual dignity, “they’re going to kill somebody, the way they race around the streets. What happens then?”

“This town has never had two dimes to rub together,” said Jake Thoraldson, whose airport had suddenly become a hub. “What’s the matter with you people? Can’t you stand a little prosperity?”

“Prosperity?” howled Mamie Burke, a transplanted Canadian who worked for the railroad. “What kind of prosperity is it to have all these people running wild? Joe’s right. Close it down.”

Arnold Whitaker, the self-effacing owner of the Lock ‘n’ Bolt Hardware, argued against the proposal. “I can’t see,” he said, “where anyone is being hurt by current conditions.”

That remark infuriated Morris Jones, a ninety-year-old postal retiree known around town primarily for his interest in electric trains. Two inebriated Canadians had driven a pickup into Jones’s den, demolishing a forty-year-old HO layout. Jones sputtered and shook his finger accusingly at Whitaker. “Attaboy, Arnie,” he said, “take care of yourself. Don’t worry about anybody else.”

The vote to demand a shutdown passed by a majority of eighty—seven. Floyd Rickett volunteered to head up the committee that would write the draft.

Lindquist took him aside when opportunity offered. “Keep it reasonable, Floyd,” he said. “Okay? We don’t want to offend anybody.”

The rain beat incessantly against the windows of the Oval Office. It was a sound that tended to heighten whatever emotion the president was feeling. Today he didn’t feel good.

A copy of the Washington Post lay on his desk. The headlines reported civil war in India and famine in the Transvaal. They also revealed the results of a new poll: “60% Think Roundhouse Is Related to UFOs.” An additional twenty percent thought it was a government project. Eight percent believed it was of divine origin. The rest didn’t know or hadn’t heard of Johnson’s Ridge.

Tony Peters sat disconsolately in his chair, one leg crossed over the other. “Almost everybody thinks there’s a government cover-up,” he said. “But that’s inevitable. We might as well get used to it.”

“Did you see the signs outside?” There were roughly six hundred pickets on the circle. Come Clean on Johnson’s Ridge, the posters read. And Tell the Truth About the Roundhouse. “So what is the truth? What do we know?”

Peters uncrossed his legs and got up. “We’ve talked to a dozen people in as many fields who have either been there or had access to the test results. They’re all having a hard time accepting the notion that it’s extraterrestrial, but there’s nobody who can provide a satisfactory alternative explanation.”

“I don’t think we care about where it came from or how it got there.” Taylor took a deep breath. “My concern is, where do we go from here? What kind of power does the place use?”

“No one’s had a chance to look. All they’re letting people do now is walk around inside. Guided tours.”

“Okay.” Taylor pushed back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. Crunch time. “Prospects, Tony. What are we facing?”

“Hard to say, Mr. President.” Peters scrunched his face up, and pockets of lines showed at the corners of his mouth and eyes. “The experts do not agree about our ability to reproduce the new element. But they do agree that if we can, any products made from it will not decay.”

“Will they wear out?”

“Yes. Although most of these people think they’ll be a lot tougher than anything we have now.”

Taylor sighed. He would talk to his economists, but he knew what that would mean to the manufacturing interests.

“Something else, sir. Did you know someone saw the Virgin Mary out there last night?”

The president’s eyes rolled toward the ceiling. “What next?” he asked.

“Seriously.” Peters grinned, a welcome shift in the tension. “It was on CNN ten minutes ago. Woman saw a face in the lights.”

The president shook his head. “Goddamn, Tony,” he said. “What about the market? What’s going to happen today?”

“The Nikkei got blasted again. And I’m sure the slide will continue on Wall Street.”

Taylor pushed himself wearily to his feet and looked out the window. The grass was green and cool. Days like this, he wished he were a kid again. “We have to get a handle on this, Tony.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Before it gets out of control. I want to take it over. There should be a national security provision or something. Find it.”

“That might be tricky,” he said.

“Why?”

“My God, Mr. President, it’s Indian land. If it were just some farmer, yeah, we could declare a health hazard or something. But this is Sioux property. We try to move in, there’ll be a heavy political price. Your own people won’t like it, and the media will beat you to death with it.”

Taylor could feel the walls closing in. “I don’t mean we should simply seize it. We can recompense them. Buy them off.”

“Sir, I think our best strategy is to wait it out. Not get stampeded into doing something that’ll come back to haunt us.”

Taylor was by nature inclined to act at the first sign of trouble. But he’d been around politics long enough to know the value of patience. And anyway, he wasn’t sure of the right course. He didn’t like the idea of maneuvering Native Americans off their land. That had a bad taste. And it was bad politics. But so were collapsing markets.

“It’ll blow over,” Peters assured him soothingly. “Give it time. We may not really have a problem. Let’s not create one. What we need to do is concentrate on Pakistan.”

“Pakistan?”

“No voters in Pakistan. But a lot of people are getting killed. Make another statement. Deplore the violence. Maybe offer to act as an arbitrator. It looks as if it’s going to play out soon anyway. Both sides are exhausted. We might even be able to get credit for arranging a settlement.”

The president sighed. Peters was a hopeless cynic, and it would have been easy to dislike him. It was a pity that American politics degenerated so easily to such blatant opportunism. Even where good people were concerned.

Arky Redfern grew up near Fort Totten on the Devil’s Lake reservation. He was the youngest of five, the first to collect a degree. That his siblings had pursued early marriages and dead-end jobs had broken the heart of his father, who’d promised to do what he could to support any of his children seeking a higher education. Redfern was given his father’s bow to mark the occasion of his graduation from the law school at George Mason University.

He had also received encouragement from James Walker, one of the tribal councilmen, who had remarked proudly that the government no longer had all the lawyers. Redfern was fired with the idea of becoming the defender of the Mini Wakan Oyaté, as the Devil’s Lake Sioux called themselves in their own language. (The term meant People of the Spirit Lake.) He’d passed the bar exam on the first try, and he returned to North Dakota to establish a practice writing wills and overseeing divorces, which paid reasonably well. He also became the tribal legal representative, which didn’t pay so well. But it had its rewards.

At about the time Matt Taylor was looking for a course of action, Redfern was taking Paxton Wells into the reservation to make a new offer in person. Wells, wrapped in a somber mood, had apparently decided that the lawyer was hopelessly against him and had given up all efforts to placate the younger man. He sat staring moodily out the window at the flat countryside.

It had finally turned warm. Piles of melting snow were heaped along the side of the road, and there was some flooding.

The tribal chambers were located in a blue brick single-story structure known as the Blue Building. Old Glory and the flag of the Mini Wakan Oyaté fluttered in a crisp wind. Redfern pulled into the parking lot.

“This it?” said Wells, gazing at the open countryside stretching away in all directions.

Redfern knew Wells’s type: Unless he was dealing with those he knew to be his superiors or those in a position to injure him, he wore an air of restrained selfimportance. That attitude was in place now because he perceived the lawyer as no more than a means to an end, a guide to the Sioux equivalent of a CEO. That was, of course, a mistake.

They climbed out of the car, and Redfern led the way inside.

The Blue Building was home to the post office, the Bureau of Indian Affairs, the Indian Health Service, and the tribal offices. Redfern let the tribal secretary know they were there and headed for the chairman’s office.

James Walker would not have been easy to pick out of a crowd. He was less than average height, and might have struck Wells as a man more likely to be at home in a grocery store than in a council hall. There was no hint of authority in his mien or his voice, nor was there a suggestion of the steel that could manifest itself when the need arose. His eyes were dark and friendly, his bearing congenial. Redfern believed Walker’s primary strength lay in his ability to get people to tell him what they really believed, a talent as rare among Native Americans as among the rest of the population.

Walker rose from his desk as they entered and offered his hand to his visitor.

Wells took it, pumped it summarily, commented on how happy he was to have a chance to visit the reservation, and sat down.

The office was decorated with tribal motifs: war bonnets, totems, medicine wheels, and ceremonial pipes. A bookcase and a table supporting a burbling coffee pot flanked the desk. Sunlight flooded the room.

Wells cleared his throat. “Chairman,” he said, “I represent an organization that would like to help the tribe achieve prosperity. Great possibilities are opening before us.”