Dreamsongs, Volume I by George R. R. Martin Page B

the figure. “Mmmm,” he said. “I’ll have to check this out, sir. I hope you don’t mind waiting a few moments. You do have identification, of course, Mister—?”
    He glanced at the check again. “Mister Lawrence,” he concluded.
    De Laurier smiled amiably. “Of course,” he said. “I’d hardly try to cash a check of this size without proper identification.”
    Twenty minutes later he left the bank, walking with measured confidence down the avenue. He made several stops that day, before he finally checked into a cheap hotel for the night.
    He bought some clothing, several newspapers, a large number of maps, a battered used car, and a collection of rifles and pistols. He took plenty of ammo, and made sure every rifle had a telescopic sight.
    Maximilian de Laurier stayed up late that night, bent over a cheap card table in his hotel room. First he read the newspapers he had purchased. He read them slowly, and carefully, and over and over again. Several times he got up and placed phone calls to the papers’ information services, and took down careful notes of what they told him.
    And then he spread out his maps, and studied them intently, far into the morning. Selecting those he wanted, he traced a heavy black line across them, constantly referring back to his papers as he worked.
    Finally, near dawn, he picked up a red pencil and circled the name of a medium-sized city in Ohio.
    Afterward, he sat down and oiled his guns.

    T HE P ROPHET RETURNED TO THE M IDWEST WITH A FURY, FOR HERE, more than anywhere except in his homeland, he had found his people. The high priests who had fanned out before him sent back their reports, and they all read the same way. Illinois was going to be good, they said. Indiana was even better. He’d really clean up in Indiana. And Ohio—Ohio was great, Ohio was fantastic.
    And so the Prophet crisscrossed the Midwest, bringing the Word to those who were ripe for it, preaching the creed of Americanism in the heartland of America.
    “Chicago is my kind of town,” he said repeatedly as he stumped through Illinois, “You people know how to handle anarchists and Communists in Chicago. There’s a lot of good, sensible, patriotic folks in Chicago. You’re not about to let those terrorists take over the streets from good, law-abiding citizens in Chicago.”
    And all the people cheered and cheered, and Beauregard led them in a salute to the police of Chicago. One long-haired heckler yelled out “Nazi,” but his lone shout was lost in the roar of the applause. Except, at the back of the hall, two burly security guards noted him, nodded to each other, and began to move swiftly and silently through the crowd.
    “Ah’m not a racist,” the Prophet said as he crossed the border to speak in northern Indiana. “Ah stand for the rights of all good Americans, regardless of race, creed, or color. However, Ah support your right to sell or rent your property to whoever you choose. And Ah say every person ought to work like you and me, without being allowed to live in dirt and ignorance and immorality on a government handout. And Ah say that looters and anarchists ought to be shot.”
    And all the people cheered and cheered, and then went out to spread the Word to their friends, their relatives, and their neighbors. “I’m no racist and Beauregard’s not one either,” they’d tell each other, “but would you want one to marry your sister?” And the crowds grew larger and larger each week.
    And as the Prophet moved east into Ohio, a dead man drove west to meet him.

    “I S THIS ROOM SATISFACTORY, M R. L AUREL?” ASKED THE THIN, ELDERLY landlady, holding the door open for his inspection.
    Maxim de Laurier brushed past her and deposited his suitcases on the sagging double bed that stood against one wall. He smiled amiably as he surveyed the dingy cold-water flat. Crossing the room, he lifted the shade and glanced out the window.
    “Oh, dear,” said the landlady, fumbling with her keys. “I