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II: Anarchy ‘n’ Order



—ATLANTA (FNS) Over 100 heavily armed agents of the Patents Registration Tactical Arm staged an early-morning raid on a small suburban home here, ending the fugitive careers of two Coca-Cola executives, in hiding since January. Federal News Service has learned that the two, listed in warrants as “John Doe” and “James Roe” were taken to Washington’s Bethesda Naval Hospital for what PRTA officials term “therapy.” Unofficially, spokespersons expressed hope that the two would divulge certain “secret formulas” held for over 100 years by the Atlanta-based multinational corporation. Proprietary secrets of this nature have been illegal since passage last year of the “Emergency Disclosure Act.”

—The Denver News-Post

July 7, 1987





I headed back for Colfax, easing over the worst of the chuckholes and weed-grown cracks, remembering predictions that if another Democrat were elected, there’d be grass growing in the streets within four years. They were a year ahead of schedule, but the Republicans could have done it cheaper.

In fame and influence, Propertarians stand somewhere between the Socialist Workers’ Party and the Independent Americans. Politically they stand somewhere between H. L. Mencken and Alpha Centauri. Geographically they stand at the corner of Colfax and York, in a sleazy second-story office that would send Phil Marlowe bitching to the landlord. I parked in back and walked around to a grubby little five-by-five with pretensions of lobbyhood. The elevator, DOE Permit 86-5009, had a folding brass baby-gate and a control lever Joseph Conrad might have used to signal his engineer belowdecks.

It surged dizzily, then gasped to a halt, letting me into a narrow, bad-smelling hallway. Fossilized houseplants hung in a dirt-streaked front window, and the signs along the corridor—CITIZENS FOR COMMUNAL ENERGY and MIND-POWER OF THE COSMOS—promised I’d wind up either nationalized or cleared.

Finally I found COLORADO PROPERTARIAN PARTY. Underneath, the Bill of Rights was thumbtacked to the door, stamped diagonally in red: Void Where Prohibited By Law. I was a little puzzled. That computer-jockey had me believing that Propertarians practice a sort of hedonistic conservatism—or conservative hedonism—demanding, for example, that gun laws and drug laws both be repealed—and wouldn’t that be exciting for a while? So why did they settle here, with every two-bit Love-a-Tree-And-Seize-The-Means-Of-Production nut-group in the state? Must be the rent.

The door swung in at a touch. I followed it, saying, “Knock-knock!” in a stage voice. A neatly bearded young man appeared from the back, looking me over. “Can I help you?”

“Lieutenant Win Bear,” I said, doing a Jack Webb with my badge-holder. “Can I see whoever’s in charge?”

He stiffened microscopically. “Er—I’m Jon Carpenter, and no one’s in charge here-we’re Propertarians.”

“Okay, who do I see about one of your people getting killed?” I found the card. “A Vaughn L. Meiss …?”

He swallowed hard but came up game. “You’ll want Jenny. Hold on a minute.”

The place was freshly painted and didn’t smell of piss like the rest of the building. It was brightly decorated with posters: “ILLEGITIMATE AUTHORITY” IS A REDUNDANCY and TAXATION IS THEFT! A small desk with a telephone and answering machine occupied one corner beside a rack of pamphlets. I could hear the illegal rumble of an air conditioner. First time I’d been comfortable all day.

A woman entered, tall and slender, thirtyish, lots of curly auburn hair and freckles. She wore the jacket to a woman’s business suit and faded blue jeans, a lapel button declaring I Am Not a National Resource! “I’m Jennifer Noble. Vaughn is dead?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Her color drained, she sat heavily on a corner of the desk, staring down at the floor. Presently she looked up again, composed. “What happened?”

“We found him at Sixteenth and Gaylord about an hour ago, shot to death.” Ordinarily, I’m supposed to ask the questions, but I play a lot by ear. “I need some information. Maybe some of your people here …” I nodded toward the rear where faces were piling up in the doorway.

She brushed back a stray curl and squared her shoulders. “I’ll try to help. What can I tell you, Officer?”

“Lieutenant. Were you expecting Meiss at your headquarters today?”

She nodded. “Executive Committee Meeting. He’s not on the Execom, but he called to say he had important news ‘for the Party and all of us as individuals.’ That’s precisely the way he put it. He called me again last night to make sure the meeting was still on, and said exactly the same thing: something that would change everything ‘for the Party and for all of us as individuals.’ We’d almost given up on him by now—two hours is late, even by Anarchist Standard Time …” She trailed off, realizing all over again what had happened, visibly determined to hold back the tears.

“Tell me … Jenny, is it? I’m Win, Win Bear. Did he always carry a gun, or was something worrying him—maybe whatever he wanted to tell you?”

Jenny covered the two steps across the tiny room, got a chair, and put it beside the desk. “Would you like to sit down, Win? This might take a little while. Vaughn sounded, well, conspiratorial, but also enormously pleased about something. He did have one pretty constant worry, but that’s an old story, and I’ll get to it. And yes, he carried a gun. It was his philosophy, you see.”

“Philosophy? I didn’t know Propertarians were into violent revolution.”

She smiled slightly and shook her head. “Not yet. Anyway, the government gave him that gun in the first place.”

“How’s that?”

“He’d worked on something, some government secret. After he stopped, I guess they forgot to collect it, or maybe he still had information to protect. But he resented getting a gun from them, because—”

“You folks don’t like getting anything from the government?”

“Or giving them anything, either.” She smiled. “But it wasn’t that. Not this time. Look, can you stand a very brief lecture? It’ll clear things up a little.”

“When I get tired of it, I’ll take a nap.” I grinned. “It’s nice and cool in here, and the first chance I’ve had all day to sit down.”

She grinned back, which was enjoyable. “Would you like a drink? Coffee or Coke or something? Well then, I guess I’ll start. You see, we Propertarians really try to live by our philosophy— philosophies, I should say. Oh, we all agree on fundamentals, but there are actually two main schools: the minarchists and the anarchocapitalists.”

“Minarchists and … ?

“Anarchocapitalists. I’ll get to them. Anyway, Propertarians believe that all human rights are property rights, beginning with absolute ownership of your own life.”

“The IRS might give you an argument.” Actually, I’d heard this before. Surprising how much more interesting it was, coming from a pretty girl. “But it sounds reasonable for starters.”

“It does? You’d be amazed how many people feel they belong to someone or something else: their families, jobs, God, the government. Anyway, every other individual right comes from that fundamental one: to own your own life. Since no one is entitled to interfere with it, just as you may not interfere with others’, some Propertarians want a government whose only function is protecting everybody’s rights—”

“I thought that’s what we have now.”

She laughed a little bitterly. “If that were only true! Even our limited governmentalists would reduce the state by ninety-nine percent: no more taxes, no more conservation laws, no limits on the market. They call themselves ‘minarchists’ because that’s what they want: a much smaller government, restricted to preventing interference with individual rights instead of being the chief interferer. This depression, the so-called energy crisis—they’re caused by governmental interference!”

I nodded, wondering if any of these subversives had a smoke I could borrow.

“Anarchocapitalists”—she reached across to the literature rack, pulling out a paperback, Toward A New Liberty, by Mary Ross-Byrd—“don’t want any government. ‘That government is best which governs least; the government which governs least is no government at all.”’

“Which has what to do with Meiss?” I asked, trying to get back on track.

“It’s why he carried a gun, and why he resented getting it from SecPol. A free, unregulated laissez-faire market should, and can, take care of everything government claims to do, only better, cheaper, and without wrecking individual lives in the process: national defense, adjudication, pollution control, fire protection, and police—no offense. Vaughn felt an ethical obligation to provide for his own physical security. Like Mary Ross-Byrd says, ‘Take nothing from government; give nothing to government—the state does not exist!’ I hope you won’t start arresting Propertarians now—I mean for carrying weapons. Vaughn was just a little more consistent than most.”

“Or a little more fanatic.” I replied. “Jenny, I didn’t pass the Confiscation Act, and I feel the same about dope and tobacco: just don’t wave them around in public so I have to bust you. Hell, I even—oh, for godsake, do you have a cigarette? I’m going into convulsions!”

She shuffled through a drawer, coming up with a pack of dried-out Players, hand-imported from north-of-the-border. I lit one gratefully and settled back to let the dizziness pass. “If you repeat this, I’ll call you a liar. My hide’s been saved at least twice by civilians—people who figured we might be on the same side. Totally forgot to arrest them for weapons possession afterward. Must be getting senile.”

“Vaughn’s gun didn’t do him much good, though.”

I shrugged. “Not against a machine pistol. Yes, that’s what it was. The thing about gun laws, if you’re gonna risk breaking them, it might as well be for something potent. The law only raises the ante. Look at how airport metal-detectors turned hijackers onto bombs. If it’s any consolation, it looks like your professor managed to take at least one of his attackers with him.”

“I’d rather he’d made it to the meeting,” she said grimly.

“I was hoping you’d have some idea who did it. You people have any feuds?” I thumbed back toward a hallway full of very non-Propertarian organizations.

She smiled. “We’re not that important. I sometimes wonder what’ll happen when the government or organized crime begins to understand what we’re getting at … But no, I don’t know who did it, Win. I wish I did.”

“Were you particularly close to Meiss?”

“We just went out a couple times, otherwise I didn’t see him much except at Party meetings. Not at all the last few months. I was surprised when he called.”

“You said he was worried about something?”

“That’s one reason I thought he might have dropped out. He told me, when he first joined, that it wouldn’t make certain people very happy. Security and all that. Later on, after he’d quit classified work, he implied that they might not let him wander around with all that secret information. It was kind of a sick joke: they’d given him a gun to defend himself, and …”

“He might have to use it on the people who gave it to him?”

“That kind of thing really does happen,” she said.

I was thinking about Oscar Burgess, but nodded toward the literature rack. “You’d know more about it than I do.” I fished around in my jacket, pulled out the Gallatin coin. “Ever see one of these?”

She smoothed the plastic wrapper and turned it over, raising her eyebrows. “Gold, isn’t it? Feels heavy enough.”

“You think Meiss was a hoarder … even a pusher? I’ve heard you people think a lot of gold and silver.”

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t know. Propertarians advocate hard money, but since the new currency laws were passed, they keep their mouths shut about what they have. I never heard Vaughn mention gold.”

“You wouldn’t know if he had more of these?”

“I don’t know. I wish I had some.”

“So do I. Any idea who this Gallatin was?”

“The name sounds vaguely familiar. Ask Jon—he might know …” She was starting to droop a little. Reaction was setting in. I stood up.

“Okay, Jenny, could I have a word with the others, one at a time? I’ll get out of your way as soon as I can.”

She smiled again. “Don’t worry about it. They’ll be anxious to help. You take your time.” She turned for the door.

“Jenny—something else I’ll deny saying if you repeat it: Meiss knew he was going to die, but he stayed cool enough to pull the trigger four times. I disagree with nearly everything you believe, but if you’re all like that, there’ll be Propertarians in the White House someday.”

She looked at me as if for the first time, then grinned and patted me on the cheek. “We’ll make an anarchocapitalist out of you yet, Lieutenant.” She tucked the Mary Ross-Byrd paperback into my jacket pocket and walked out of the room.





FOUR OF THE directors didn’t know Meiss except to see him at Party functions. Mary Lou Mulligan, a lady banker who’d quit after the ’84 Currency Acts, had gone out with Meiss, but all he’d ever talk about was physics—and Jenny.

Jon Carpenter knew about Gallatin, though. In the 1790s, he’d talked a bunch of angry Pennsylvanians out of stringing up George Washington’s revenuers, preventing a second revolution. Gallatin died in 1849, and Carpenter couldn’t make heads or tails—mild chuckles all around—of “A.L. 76.” Revolutionist? Gallatin hadn’t come over from Switzerland until 1780. Scholar, certainly: Harvard professor, inventor of the science of ethnology, financial wizard, and Thomas Jefferson’s Secretary of the Treasury.

But President? Of what?

I kept my eye peeled for anarchocapitalistic gun-toters, but detected no telltale bulges until I got to the Political Action director, a stocky, thirtyish ex-cop who confirmed what Jenny had said, adding, “I warned him to get an automatic! Now I can’t even say, ‘I told you so’!” He had quit the force to write a book on ethics. I think it was a .45.

On the way out, I passed a contributions jar, dug out five or six neobucks, and, shrugging, dropped them in—about the price of a good Canadian cigarette. Or the paperback in my pocket.