The Last President: A Novel of an Alternative America by Michael Kurland, S. W. Barton
Authors: Michael Kurland, S. W. Barton
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HAS SERVED WITH THE PRESIDENT IN VARIOUS CAPACITIES SINCE THE PRESIDENT FIRST CAME TO WASHINGTON AS A CONGRESSMAN IN 1948.
IT IS NOT ANTICIPATED THAT EITHER BOHR OR CARMICHAEL WILL HAVE ANY DIFFICULTY IN THEIR SENATE CONFIRMATIONS. (MORE)
EDITORS: BOHR AND CARMICHAEL BIOS FOLLOW. CONTINUED
83MPS
ANGELES OVER LABOR DAY WEEKEND LAST YEAR WAS ATTENDED BY OVER THREE THOUSAND PERSONS. THE THREE DAYS OF SCI-FI REVELRY INCLUDED SUCH HAPPENINGS AS
BUST IT
BUST IT
BUST IT
85MPS
B U L L E T I N
FIRST LEAD RALPH SCHUSTER
WASHINGTON, 12:30 (MPS)—RALPH SCHUSTER, A REPORTER FOR THE WASHINGTON POST, WAS FOUND DEAD IN HIS APARTMENT THIS MORNING. SCHUSTER APPARENTLY COMMITTED SUICIDE BY PUTTING THE BARREL OF A SMALL CALIBER REVOLVER IN HIS MOUTH AND PULLING THE TRIGGER. A NEIGHBOR HEARD THE SHOT AND TELEPHONED THE POLICE, WHO WERE THERE IN MINUTES. THEY FORCED THEIR WAY INTO THE APARTMENT AND FOUND SCHUSTER’S BODY ON THE LIVING ROOM COUCH. HE LEFT A NOTE, THE TEXT OF WHICH HAS NOT BEEN RELEASED AT THIS TIME, BUT IT IS BELIEVED TO STATE THAT HE WAS DRIVEN TO HIS ACT BY “THE PRESIDENT’S MEN.” WHAT HE MEANT BY THIS IS NOT KNOWN.
SCHUSTER WAS ON THE CITY DESK OF THE POST, WHERE HE HAD BEEN FOR THE PAST THREE YEARS.
(MORE)
Kit Young groaned and rolled over in his sleep, throwing what was left of the bedclothes onto the floor. An unappetizing sort of man , thought Miriam, looking down at his twisted form, half child and half ape. I can’t for the life of me figure out why I’m so fond of him. She prodded him with her index finger. “Wake up, my love,” she said softly, “the bird is on the wing!”
Kit opened one eye and stared fuzzily up at her. “He’ll freeze his ass off,” he said. “It’s cold out there.” He groped around for a minute, his hand encountering nothing but rumpled sheet, then he sat up and opened his other eye. “What have you done with the blankets?” he demanded.
“They’re on the floor where you threw them.”
“Did no such thing,” he said. “What time is it?”
“Almost one. Want some orange juice?”
“That’s what I like about you,” Kit said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “You’re always ready with a kind word and a glass of orange juice. I don’t know how anyone can be so damn cheery in the morning.”
“How would you know what I’m like in the morning?” Miriam said sweetly. “You’ve never been awake in the morning.”
Kit considered this. “I’ll take a shower. When my blood sugar gets high enough I’ll join in this repartee.” He stood up and staggered into the bathroom. “Any clean towels?” he called out as he closed the door.
“On the rack,” she yelled through the door.
“Um!” he called back. Then the water went on. Miriam went out into her kitchen and busied herself preparing brunch: Nova Scotia salmon, bagels, cream cheese, thin slices of Bermuda onion. She broke five eggs into a bowl and whipped them up, then set her French enameled frying pan on a low fire and hoped the butter wouldn’t burn before Kit got out of the shower.
Miriam found that she enjoyed the mornings when Kit stayed over with her for themselves, and not just as echoes of the night before. She would get up before Kit—no great problem—and prepare an elaborate breakfast. On days when he wasn’t working and slept until early afternoon, she would prepare an even more elaborate lunch. Perhaps she was finally developing the nesting instinct, and any day now she’d start going all soft inside at the thought of tiny feet and wet diapers and four a.m. feedings. Well, she certainly hoped not. She and Kit had a very good thing going: they enjoyed each other’s company, they respected each other, they turned each other on, they were good in bed together, and they never argued about money. It would sure be a shame to spoil all that by getting married.
Now that Kit had left CIA and gone to work directly for the President, their one great source of argument was
IT IS NOT ANTICIPATED THAT EITHER BOHR OR CARMICHAEL WILL HAVE ANY DIFFICULTY IN THEIR SENATE CONFIRMATIONS. (MORE)
EDITORS: BOHR AND CARMICHAEL BIOS FOLLOW. CONTINUED
83MPS
ANGELES OVER LABOR DAY WEEKEND LAST YEAR WAS ATTENDED BY OVER THREE THOUSAND PERSONS. THE THREE DAYS OF SCI-FI REVELRY INCLUDED SUCH HAPPENINGS AS
BUST IT
BUST IT
BUST IT
85MPS
B U L L E T I N
FIRST LEAD RALPH SCHUSTER
WASHINGTON, 12:30 (MPS)—RALPH SCHUSTER, A REPORTER FOR THE WASHINGTON POST, WAS FOUND DEAD IN HIS APARTMENT THIS MORNING. SCHUSTER APPARENTLY COMMITTED SUICIDE BY PUTTING THE BARREL OF A SMALL CALIBER REVOLVER IN HIS MOUTH AND PULLING THE TRIGGER. A NEIGHBOR HEARD THE SHOT AND TELEPHONED THE POLICE, WHO WERE THERE IN MINUTES. THEY FORCED THEIR WAY INTO THE APARTMENT AND FOUND SCHUSTER’S BODY ON THE LIVING ROOM COUCH. HE LEFT A NOTE, THE TEXT OF WHICH HAS NOT BEEN RELEASED AT THIS TIME, BUT IT IS BELIEVED TO STATE THAT HE WAS DRIVEN TO HIS ACT BY “THE PRESIDENT’S MEN.” WHAT HE MEANT BY THIS IS NOT KNOWN.
SCHUSTER WAS ON THE CITY DESK OF THE POST, WHERE HE HAD BEEN FOR THE PAST THREE YEARS.
(MORE)
Kit Young groaned and rolled over in his sleep, throwing what was left of the bedclothes onto the floor. An unappetizing sort of man , thought Miriam, looking down at his twisted form, half child and half ape. I can’t for the life of me figure out why I’m so fond of him. She prodded him with her index finger. “Wake up, my love,” she said softly, “the bird is on the wing!”
Kit opened one eye and stared fuzzily up at her. “He’ll freeze his ass off,” he said. “It’s cold out there.” He groped around for a minute, his hand encountering nothing but rumpled sheet, then he sat up and opened his other eye. “What have you done with the blankets?” he demanded.
“They’re on the floor where you threw them.”
“Did no such thing,” he said. “What time is it?”
“Almost one. Want some orange juice?”
“That’s what I like about you,” Kit said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “You’re always ready with a kind word and a glass of orange juice. I don’t know how anyone can be so damn cheery in the morning.”
“How would you know what I’m like in the morning?” Miriam said sweetly. “You’ve never been awake in the morning.”
Kit considered this. “I’ll take a shower. When my blood sugar gets high enough I’ll join in this repartee.” He stood up and staggered into the bathroom. “Any clean towels?” he called out as he closed the door.
“On the rack,” she yelled through the door.
“Um!” he called back. Then the water went on. Miriam went out into her kitchen and busied herself preparing brunch: Nova Scotia salmon, bagels, cream cheese, thin slices of Bermuda onion. She broke five eggs into a bowl and whipped them up, then set her French enameled frying pan on a low fire and hoped the butter wouldn’t burn before Kit got out of the shower.
Miriam found that she enjoyed the mornings when Kit stayed over with her for themselves, and not just as echoes of the night before. She would get up before Kit—no great problem—and prepare an elaborate breakfast. On days when he wasn’t working and slept until early afternoon, she would prepare an even more elaborate lunch. Perhaps she was finally developing the nesting instinct, and any day now she’d start going all soft inside at the thought of tiny feet and wet diapers and four a.m. feedings. Well, she certainly hoped not. She and Kit had a very good thing going: they enjoyed each other’s company, they respected each other, they turned each other on, they were good in bed together, and they never argued about money. It would sure be a shame to spoil all that by getting married.
Now that Kit had left CIA and gone to work directly for the President, their one great source of argument was
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