ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? by Harvey Ardman Read Free Book Online Page B

not
before we have added $10 billion to our revenue stream."
"There are the Arabian discoveries," Minister Sandoval warned.
"Yes, but it will be years before they can be fully exploited, and who
knows if the estimates are accurate."
Sandoval considered this. "The NAU is debating nuclear power, your
Excellency. If we raise the price of oil, we will encourage its
proponents."
"I just want to give them a sharp little squeeze, Minister," El
Presidente said, grinning, his voice gruff. "I want to remind their
new President of their dependence—without frightening them too much, of
course."
Minister Sandoval anxiously tugged at his mustache, then stopped when he
realized what he was doing. "Still," he said, "I am
concerned."
El Presidente fixed his single eye on his subordinate and the gap
between his eyebrows—two bushy black caterpillars—closed significantly. Among
his associates this was considered an unmistakable evidence of vexation.
"On the other hand," Sandoval hastened to say, "Your plan should
raise the revenue you mentioned quite easily."
Garcia smiled, then stretched mightily, the medals on his uniform tinkling
musically. "Good. Then we are agreed."
"Yes, El Presidente , of course."
"Issue the order, Minister Sandoval."
"Certainly, your Excellency."
Garcia made a motion with his fingers, as though he were brushing lint from his
perfectly-pressed uniform. Sandoval stood, offered something between a bow and
a nod and awkwardly backed out of the room. He stepped right into the path of a
middle-aged bureaucrat, with heavily-gelled glossy black hair, a somewhat
portly fellow, who generated an aura of considerable self-importance. This one
wore a spotless white silk suit
"Watch yourself, old man," said Mr. Silk Suit. He looked into Presidente Garcia's office. "Are you ready for me?" he asked with an
obsequious smile.
Garcia trained his good eye on his new visitor. "Ah, Minister Villarreal.
Yes, yes, yes. Come in. Take a chair."
Trade Minister Villarreal did as he was told, planting himself in the same,
straight-backed wooden chair Petroleum Minister Sandoval had just vacated.
"Where is the report?" Garcia asked. "You did bring the report,
didn't you?"
"Yes, of course. Of course." Villarreal nervously slipped a hand into
his inside jacket pocket and came out with a couple of printed pages, which he
handed to El Presidente .
Garcia slipped on a pair of heavy horn-rimmed glasses, which magnified both his
eye and his eyepatch. He studied the report carefully, chewing his lower lip,
frowning. "This stinks," he growled. "You promised— promised —much
more.”
"Yes, your Excellency, I know," Villarreal said, "but I have a
good explanation."
"I sincerely hope you do."
"On the plus side, we have increased manufactured goods exports by 2.3%,
and profits by 4.5%," Villarreal said. "This is short of the 10% I
promised, but as you know, we had an usual number of hurricanes in the Gulf
this fall. Acts of God."
Garcia leaned back in his ergonomic desk chair, which perfectly supported his
bulk and its peculiarities, and mulled over what his trade minister had told him.
"You had better keep a tighter rein on God this coming summer," he
warned. He tore the report in half and handed Villarreal both pieces.
"I'm sure we will do better this year," Minister Villarreal said.
"Is that your promise?" Garcia asked.
"Well, yes. Certainly," Villarreal said. "Although if we had
ports on the Atlantic..." He stopped with
he saw Garcia's expression tighten up. "Will that be all, Presidente Garcia?"
El Presidente observed his minister for several disquieting minutes.
"For now," he said.
Villarreal departed. The back of his silk suit was accordioned with
sweat-generated wrinkles. El Presidente noticed this and smiled.
Ten minutes later, another person approached Garcia's door—Hector Herrera, Mexico's
director of central intelligence, a slender, well-dressed man with delicate
features and a neat goatee. He was wearing sunglass with tiny, oval