The illuminatus! trilogy by Robert Shea, Robert Anton Wilson Page A

are we going to get our troops out of Laos?” a reporter from the
New York Times
asked quickly; but a man from the
Washington Post
asked just as rapidly, “And when are we going to get our troops out of Costa Rica?”
    “Our Present Plans for Withdrawal are going Forward according to an Orderly Schedule,” the President began;
but in Santa Isobel itself
, as Tequilla y Mota underlined a passage in Machiavelli,
00005 concluded a shortwave broadcast to a British submarine lying 17 miles off the coast of the island:
“The Yanks have gone absolutely bonkers, I’m afraid. I’ve been here nine days now and Iam absolutely convinced there is not one Russian or Chinese agent in any way involved with Generalissimo Tequilla y Mota, nor are there any troops of either of those governments hiding anywhere in the jungles. However, BUGGER is definitely running a heroin smuggling ring here, and I would like permission to investigate that.” (The permission was to be denied; old W., back at Intelligence HQ in London, knew that 00005 was a bit bonkers about BUGGER himself and imagined that it was involved in every mission he undertook.)
    At the same time, in a different hotel, Tobias Knight, on special loan from the FBI to the CIA, concluded his nightly shortwave broadcast to an American submarine 23 miles off the coast: “The Russian troops are definitely engaged in building what can only be a rocket-launching site, and the Slants are constructing what seems to be a nuclear installation….”
    And Hagbard Celine, lying 40 miles out in the Bight of Biafra in the
Lief Erickson
, intercepted both messages, and smiled cynically, and wired P. in New York: activate MALIK AND PREPARE DORN.
    (While the most obscure, seemingly trivial part of the whole puzzle appeared in a department store in Houston. It was a sign that said:
    NO SMOKING. NO SPITTING.
    THE MGT.
    This replaced an earlier sign that had hung on the main showroom wall for many years, saying only
    NO SMOKING
    THE MGT.
    The change, although small, had subtle repercussions. The store catered only to the very wealthy, and this clientele did not object to being told that they could not smoke. The fire hazard, after all, was obvious. On the other hand, that bit about spitting was somehow a touch offensive; they most certainly were not the sort of people who would spit on somebody’s floor—or, at least, none of them had done such a thing at any time since about one month or at most one year after they became wealthy. Yes, the sign was definitelv bad diplomacy. Resentmentfestered. Sales fell off. And membership in the Houston branch of God’s Lightning increased. Wealthy, powerful membership.
    (The odd thing was that the Management had nothing at all to do with the sign.)
    George Dora awoke screaming.
    He lay on the floor of his cell in Mad Dog County Jail. His first frantic, involuntary glance told him that Harry Coin had vanished completely from the adjoining cell. The shit-pot was back in its corner and he knew, without being able to check, that there would be no human intestines in it.
    Terror tactics, he thought. They were out to break him—a task which was beginning to look easy—but they were covering up the evidence as they went along.
    There was no light through the cell window; it was, therefore, still night. He hadn’t slept but merely fainted.
    Like a girl.
    Like a long-haired commie faggot
    Oh, shit and prune juice, he told himself sourly, cut it out. You’ve known for years that you’re no hero. Don’t take that particular sore out and rub sandpaper on it now. You’re not a hero, but you’re a goddam stubborn, pigheaded, and determined coward. That’s why you’ve stayed alive on assignments like this before.
    Show these redneck mammyjammers just how stubborn, pig-headed, and determined you can be.
    George started with an old gimmick. A piece torn off the tail of his shirt gave him a writing tablet. The point of his shoelace became a temporary pen. His own