Novels by Alan Winter

Novels by Alan A. Winter

"Snowflakes in the Sahara"
Chapter One
"Aldous Fromm can't pull it off," Jeremy Steel said to Lute Aurum, "Fromm's a long shot at best. We can't count on him winning. Even if he does, who's to say he'll get our job done?"
The two moguls were standing in the basement of Lute's Institute of Humanetics, an inspirational empire jump-started by Jeremy Steel's millions.
"That's why I brought you here," Aurum said. "Watch. The show's about to begin; then you'll be convinced."
Lute Aurum felt that he could not have picked a better pigeon than Texas's Governor Fromm. Four words spoken by Fromm, "I need your help," catalyzed Lute's long dormant scheme.
The men studied Aldous Fromm through a one-way mirror. For now, the governor twitched in his straight-backed wooden chair as his "monitor" prodded him across the plain Formica table. During the Korean War, this one-on-one exchange had been called brainwashing. But here, in the bowels of Aurum's Institute, it was the penultimate step to self-realization.
The monitor was a slight man who had clearly worked on bulking up to an MP's physique. His hair was cropped to a drill sergeant's buzz and matched his military dress: the Institute's unisex standard issue, a green Polo shirt and mustard-colored khakis.
Monitors were faceless drones. They did Lute's bidding like the flower vendors who stood on the city street corner for eighteen-hour stretches, selling wilted roses in the name of Reverend Moon. At the Institute for Humanetics, monitors were the teachers and administrators who kept Lute Aurum's juggernaut rolling.
Jeremy Steel didn't like the mental bashing process he was watching. He thought Humanetics - as a belief system - was a waste. In fact, Jeremy Steel didn't believe in anything. As far as he was concerned, "belief" weakened.
Power was a different story. He loved power as much as any man had ever loved anything. Over the five years he had known Aurum, Jeremy had observed that all his hocus-pocus was designed to deliver power.
So what if Humanetics drove a spike into its subjects' psyches? "Timetracks" and "enturbulated" were futuristic words Aurum made up purposefully to confuse those who sought his help. The weak-willed, the emotionally lost, and the aimless could never realize that Humanetics's twelve steps toward self-realization were nothing more than classic mind-fucking at its best.
Only when Jeremy found himself at a small dinner with John Travolta and Tom Cruise did he begin to take the magnetic quality of Aurum's work seriously. The actors had raved that they owed their successes to Aurum and Humanetics. Even their wives believed. These Hollywood stars straightened Jeremy out. Humanetics was not some cabal led by a glassy-eyed guru who hypnotized his followers. No, Lute Aurum was special; he was someone Jeremy Steel should get to know. Jeremy took their advice.
Jeremy was hooked the moment he met Lute Aurum. At the onset, Jeremy had thought Lute might be one of the few men in the world he could not lead. But in time, Steel's offer and delivery of cash to help build Humanetics's headquarters into a global force, altered that opinion. His manipulation of the IRS to grant Lute's extraordinarily profitable enterprise the tax-free status of a church bonded the two men.
"Bonding" was Lute's word, not Jeremy's.
Anyone who did business with Lute Aurum had to be "audited" by the process Aldous Fromm was now undergoing. The timetracks of every enturbulated soul had to be erased. Not Jeremy Steel. His cash bought him a free pass to the world of Humanetics. Not that Jeremy would ever have tolerated Humanetics's pussy-whipping demands. Masters of the Universe didn't kowtow to anyone. There, standing shoulder to shoulder, Jeremy knew he was Lute's equal. Lute thought otherwise.
Now, the only thing that mattered was to determine how worthy a convert Aldous Fromm would become.
Lute turned away from the mirror and slipped his right hand into the pocket of a loose-fitting Nehru-styled jacket. He purred as he withdrew his pet tarantula, cupping it in his palm.
"Why do you always carry that thing around?" Jeremy asked, trying to mask his fear.
Lute stroked the back of the Antilles pinktoe with the tip of his index finger. In the world of tarantulas, the pinktoe was small, only an inch-and-a-half long. Lute raised the arachnid to eye level and mouthed a kiss at the spider.
Jeremy squirmed.
Aurum sliced his hand through the air; Jeremy jumped back into the cinder block wall with a bone-rattling thwack. His arms and legs flayed against the wall. He never took his eyes off the pinktoe. Jeremy hissed, "Get that thing away from me."
Lute made a shushing sound. "You should know when to pick your battles." He caressed the pinktoe's short hairs. "Save your childhood terrors for another day. This little fellow is as harmless as our governor."
It took all of Jeremy's willpower to stay in the room with Lute and his pinktoe, but he wasn't going to let Lute Aurum get the upper hand, no matter what. He cleared his throat, gulped, and then spoke, never taking his eyes off the little beast. "We've got too much riding on this to make a mistake."
"Are you forgetting Fromm came to me? After today, he's mine."
Lute stepped back.
Jeremy eased off the wall.
Lute cocked his head to the side, signaling ever-so-subtle twitches of his lips and brows that sent waves of anticipated pleasure to the pinktoe. The pinktoe moved a leg and Aurum hummed happily. Lute fished into his left pocket and brought his closed fist toward the spider.
Jeremy heard a chirp.
The tarantula?
Transfixed, Jeremy saw Lute tighten his fist in a practiced squeeze and drop a damaged, but still-breathing, cricket next to the hungry arachnid. The pinktoe's forelegs grabbed dinner.
While the tarantula was occupied with its meal, Jeremy was able to collect his thoughts. "Just because Fromm's got a pedigree second to none, doesn't mean he's got what it takes. He's raw and untested. The only reason the Longhorns voted for him was because he wrangled a deal for the Texas Rangers to stay in Arlington. That doesn't qualify him to run the country. Christ, I'm better suited for the job than he is."
"You want to be president?"
"I'm not the issue. Fromm is. Besides, you and I both know power is not in the hands of the person occupying the Oval Office. It rests with the puppeteers. Standing here, as far as I can tell, your Texas governor will never play in Peoria…and we need someone who will."
Jeremy Steel was used to having his way. When he talked, everyone listened. At six-three and a decade younger than Lute, he was a poster-boy for success wrapped in two thousand dollar suits. His slicked-back dirty-blond hair and billboard-smile were trademarks. The Post and the Times claimed he had more chutzpah than Bill Clinton, which was more evident once Hillary forced Bill to endure Aurum's mind-bashing techniques after the Monica debacle. The mayor of New York consulted with Jeremy daily. Even Steel's ex-wives still talked to him. The only man Jeremy feared - and revered - in the entire world was Lute Aurum.
* * *
Lute was a man no one could forget, but he had not always had that effect on people. In fact, Lute was the forgotten face in high school. Rural Nebraska was never kind to mediocre students and poor athletes. Hard-pressed to make friends, he turned to Frank Herbert, Isaac Asimov, and Gene Roddenberry for company. He exhibited a flair for writing and then went on to major in English at the university. The Navy put his writing skills to use as an in-service reporter during a stint in Saigon. After his discharge, he crafted a successful career as a science fiction writer, and was best known for his Iotan Planet series.
In Aurum's invented world, aliens journeyed from the planet Iota to Earth. Unlike other evil inter-galactic creatures, Lute's were purveyors of good. His creatures invaded the human pod to create immortal souls. But eternal life came with a price: earthlings had to first rid themselves of every frailty that tied them down. In a manner of speaking, they had to wipe their slate clean. Invaded by an Iotan, the human vessel was a pre-Clear striving to morph into a Clear
Only Clears were true Iotans.
Iotans lived forever.
In real life, Aurum believed he was an Iotan.
Lute's books became so successful and his following so great, that he refined the Iotan beliefs and published them as a guide for the living. He called his life-system Humanetics, declared it a religion, and anointed himself head priest. When the IRS gave Humanetics church status (thanks to Jeremy Steel's clout), every dollar Aurum collected from courses given at the Institute, from seminars held across the country and around the world, and from his vast publishing empire, was tax-free.
* * *
When the pinktoe finished its meal, Lute returned the spider to the depths of his pocket. "Can't you see the beauty of this? The symmetry? Fromm doesn't want to be president. He has to make a run for it."
"Who's forcing him?"
Jeremy's breathing turned more normal now that the tarantula was out of sight. "Fromm, Sr., that's who. Junior's been groomed for the Oval Office from the get-go just like that kid in the movie 'Shine.' You remember, the one with the piano whose father stood over him like a Gestapo agent until he mastered the Rach 3. You remember what happened to him?"
"Expecting your kid will make it to the White House is a far cry from playing Rachmaninoff."
While Jeremy's voice raised a pitch, Lute remained ever calm. "Oppressive fathers create damaged children. That's what we have going for us."
"Then chalk it up to ego. Senior must want to go down in the history books as the second team of father and son presidents. After John Adams and little John Quincy."
"When is it not about ego?"
"Frankly, I'd tell my father to shove it. In fact, I have told my father to shove it. More than once."
"I'd expect no less from you. Fromm, on the other hand, is not you. He's incapable of countermanding the old geyser. That's why he's here. That's why we have him."
"Why do you think I'm so good at making deals? You're misjudging this guy. Fromm eats pressure for breakfast. He's not the patsy you think."
At that moment the lights flickered and then faded out. Jeremy, praying that the tarantula was under control, grabbed Lute's arm. "Does this happen often?"
"With all this heat, the public utilities can't meet the cooling demand. We get brown-outs all the time. How is it back east?"
"Con Ed has had their share, like all the others."
A generator kicked in and bulbs crackled back to life. A blast of air spewed from the vent. Jeremy wiped his brow.
"Bet you don't like scuba diving," Lute sneered.
"Tried it once." Jeremy wasn't going to tell Lute that he couldn't stand the sea grass moving back and forth, and schools of fish shimmering this way and that. Jeremy had used up his air in no time. When he had gotten to the water's surface, blood gushed from his nose.
"It takes discipline not to be afraid," Lute said.
"I've got the balls to do anything."
Lute was about to taunt him about dark rooms and tarantulas, but decided to let them pass. Better to file away Jeremy's weaknesses for another day. Instead, he said, "Let's listen."
Lute flicked on a wall switch so they could see and hear Fromm's auditing. The monitor had placed a lone rectangular instrument in front of Fromm. It was about the size of a shoebox. The device was Lute's brainchild. It was called an H-meter, the "H" standing for Humanetics. Two wires stretched from the box and ended in metal plates that Fromm held in each hand but not before the rubber-coated wires were wrapped around his arms like phylacteries.
What struck Jeremy as he watched the green-shirted monitor sharpen his verbal spears was that Aldous Fromm was a man uncomfortable in his own skin, a man who would rather have been a college professor than a budding political star. Fromm was in stark contrast to Lute Aurum. The two were about the same age and height, but that's where the similarities ended. Fromm was not certain that he wanted to rule the world; Lute already acted like he controlled it from the palm of his hand.
The governor's usually pale skin was now ashen and coated with a coppery sweat. He kept his eyes fixed straight forward. He appeared to be unfazed by the monitor in his face. Fromm opened and closed his fingers around the metal plates like a speed car racer eager to jump the gun.
"On your questionnaire, governor, you said you once beat the daylights out of your brother. Tell me why?"
The dial on the meter plunged to the far right as he answered. "He left my baseball mitt in the rain. It was my favorite thing in the whole world and he ruined it. My father got it from a famous collector in New Jersey. Livingston, I think. It belonged to Lou Gehrig."
"What did your father do when he found out?"
Fromm lowered is gaze. His voice became inaudible.
"I can't hear you."
"He caned me across the back. Out of love." Fromm looked up, his hazel eyes filled with tears. "I wasn't supposed to play with it."
"And I've got a bridge in Brooklyn to sell you. No one whips his kid with a wooden stick, not for any reason. Certainly not for love. I'd be pissed at him, too."
Fromm sagged. "I'm not mad at him. I deserved it."
The needle remained buried to the right.
"The H-meter says otherwise. The H-meter says you're so piss-eyed you can't see straight. It says that until you resolve these timetracks, you'll be enturbulated forever."
Fromm wriggled in the chair. His eyes darted around the room. His breathing grew labored. "It was my fault, not my father's. I'm the one who lost control. I never should have taken the glove outside."
The monitor threw up his hands and paced back-and-forth behind the governor. "You were right to belt your s.o.b. brother. You should've crippled him for what he did to you." He stepped toward the cinder block wall, and then wheeled about. "You're more fucked up than I thought."
Nose-to-nose, the monitor snarled; Fromm flinched. "If your father loved you, he would have praised you. You're all twisted."
A tear spilled down Fromm's cheek. Then another.
"Your father has been your enemy all your life. Can't you get that through your thick skull? He's the one holding you back from that casa blanca in Washington. You're here to prove to the Old Man that you've got what it takes. Don't deny the truth."
This time the gauge remained dead center neutral. The monitor had made a dent in Fromm's defenses. Fromm took a deep breath, and then threw his chest out. He had been plagued with these thoughts for forty years, but was too ashamed to admit them. Finally, someone gave him permission to air his hurts.
Fromm raised his head to the monitor. "Help me."
Lute flicked off the switch and turned to Jeremy.
"Is he Mr. Perfect or what?"
Jeremy stroked his chin. "From what I just heard, it will take a lifetime of auditing to get rid of his timetracks…and then he'll still be messed up. He'll never get through this program in time to be of use."
"He only got here yesterday, right before the others. I need time to polish the edges, and he's mine."
"Ours and don't ever forget it. As for polishing the edges, Fromm's a major reclamation project. I can't believe you're wasting your time with him. There's got to be someone better suited."
A twisted smile crossed Lute's face. "I'm surprised at you. After all we've been through, all the years of planning. Where's your faith? Fromm is the one."
"Even if Fromm does become a player," Jeremy warned, "sitting in that Oval Office changes a man. He can never captain our team."
Lute rocked on his heels. "Trust me. We will form the greatest triumvirate the world has ever known."
Until one of us gets stabbed in the back, thought Jeremy.

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