Interface

WAKE UP AMERICA! The so-called election of the president is a SHAM controlled by the MEDIA MANIPU­LATORS who have turned Cozzano into a ROBOT by planting a CHIP IN HIS HEAD that receives secret coded transmissions from SATELLITES. These same MEDIA MANIPULATORS have also put BRAIN WAVE MONITORS on average people's wrists disguised as DICK TRACY WRISTWATCHES.

One day I will be recognized as the hero I am for uncovering this secret conspiracy. Then you, the Washington Post, will be exposed for what you are: A TOOL OF THE CONSPIRACY that helps to control people's brains by putting out BIASED SO-CALLED NEWS.

You will be hearing from me again soon, I am sure.

Sincerely,

Floyd Wayne Vishniak

51

The Cozzano campaign was a third-party effort, which meant that it had to fight for every voter and every state. It had gotten off to a relatively late start in July and hadn't really gotten rolling until August; then Cozzano had suffered in the polls for a couple of weeks from his surprising choice of Eleanor Richmond as ru

Since then, Cozzano had crushed everything in his path. In city after city he strode up to the microphones, utterly relaxed and con­fident, shrugging off his aides, ignoring the notes and tele-prompters, and spoke. The words poured out of him effortlessly. He wasn't speaking to the journalists; he seemed to be speaking directly to the American people. In his homburg he looked like a figure from the middle of the century, like one of the men who had defeated Hitler and charted the course of empires and alliances. Compared to the sniping, weasely sons of bitches who had been leading America for the last few decades, he seemed like a throw­back to the days when leaders were leaders, when there was such a thing as a great man. He looked as if he would have been right at home at the Yalta Conference, sitting with Roosevelt, Churchill, and Stalin. Whether he was meeting with foreign leaders or tipping a hotel doorman, he conducted himself with surefooted dignity and gentlemanly grace mixed with a kind of earthy, scab-knuckled vigor.

He did not seem to be ru

Mary Catherine didn't know a lot about presidential politics, but she knew it was significant when they ended up in Boston for an overnight stay. Massachusetts never went to anyone except Demo­crats; the fact that Cozzano was there meant that it was now up for grabs. It meant that her father was heading for a fifty-state sweep.

They stayed at a magnificent hotel along the waterfront with a huge arch that opened up like a gateway on Boston Harbor. This was, of course, Ogle's choice; the arch made a great backdrop for television appearances, and the proximity to the harbor made it easier to bash the Democrats on environmental issues.

The campaign had rented out a floor of suites. Mary Catherine and William A. Cozzano shared a two-bedroom suite, which was normal. She came straight from the airport and got settled in while her father hit a number of campaign stops, including tours of some high-tech firms in Cambridge.

The Cozzanos traveled with a lot of luggage, which was an easy thing to do when you never had to carry it yourself, and you had your own airplane. Not all of it was clothing. Some of it was equipment that Mary Catherine had bought for use in her father's therapy. Early in the campaign this had been simple stuff, like wads of stiff putty that Cozzano would squeeze in his left hand to develop strength and dexterity. By this point in the campaign, late in September, he was way beyond the putty-squeezing stage. He was now almost completely ambidextrous. In fact, he could sign his name with both hands at the same time. The left-hand signature looked similar to his pre-stroke version, albeit bigger and lazier. The right-hand signature was completely unfamiliar, though she had to admit it looked more presidential.

They had flown into Boston's Logan Airport from a string of campaign appearances in Arizona. Mary Catherine had insisted that since it was going to be a long flight, Dad should write her a letter, and he should do it with his left hand. He had grumbled at this suggestion and tried to find ways to avoid it, but she had insisted, and finally he had buckled down to the job, ejecting all journalists and aides from his private cabin and sitting down with the big fountain pen gripped securely in his left hand and a pad of lined paper on his lap, writing the letters carefully, in block capitals, one at a time like a schoolboy.

She had left him alone to the task. But when she came back an hour later, he was typing on a laptop computer.

"Dad!"

"Peanut," he said, "it was driving me crazy. I thought my head was going to split open."

"But you need to work on your right-hemisphere-"

"Spare me the neurobabble," he said. "Please observe that I am typing. I am typing a letter to you. And I am using both hands."

Now, alone in the hotel, she turned on Dad's laptop and opened up the file named "Letter to MC."

Ddeeaarrest 3Maarryee Ccaattheerine,

3As eyqowuals claentter sle3e my therapy is progressing well. I have you to thank

wfaovres rtahveage gdraedast sbterlifdreese I have made since you signed onto the

tcearmapfaeiegn. wlrtcs whealsl been a constant joy having you with me. As you

hdaavde pfreoabrasbly naovteirceeed Ibad carmew having some involuntary twitches in the

fdiandgers aodfres emwye left hand, but under your super­vision I have no doubt

tgheatt stchriasbble small problem will clear up sooner or later and then I can

tgeoll b3aeclk to my old southpaw ways. I hope that this letter is long

eenroausgeh Ifeotrter me to receive at least a gentleman's C.

Yxoxuxrs affectionately,

ydoaudr Father

She spent a while looking it over. The letter consisted of eleven lines. The first few words of each line were garbled, but she could usually puzzle them out from the context. For example, the word campaign at the begi

Terafee didn't mean anything. If you said it fast, it almost sounded like therapy. While Mary Catherine was typing it into the new window, she noticed that all the letters were on the left hand side of the keyboard.

The letter complained of involuntary twitches in the fingers of the left hand. As he was typing, Dad much have noticed his left fingers pounding out a few unwanted letters and been unable to control it.

It was interesting that the twitches only occurred toward the begi

Dear[est] Mary Catherine

As you can see my therapy is progressing well. I have you to thank for the great strides I have made since you signed on to the campaign. It has been a constant joy having you with me. As you have probably noticed I am having some involuntary twitches in the fingers of my left hand, but under your supervision I have no doubt that this small problem will clear up sooner or later and then I can go back to my old southpaw ways. I hope that this letter is long enough for me to receive at least a gentleman's C.

Yours affectionately,

your Father

The letters that had been typed by the "involuntary twitches" of William A. Cozzano's left hand read as follows: