"Yeah, but somebody young and good-looking, and who can smile without looking like Eleanor Roosevelt, so the voters will want to pay more taxes."

"Makes it harder..." Suddenly the two men's heads snapped towards each other.

"Dick Gaines!" they said in unison.

Missouri's next U.S. Congressman for the third district had just been chosen.

April 9,1978 "I won't ask what was going through your mind when you signed this," the senior accountant from Ernst and Whinney said with a smile as he took the check and placed it with the other documents for delivery to the IRS.

"Please don't." Henry Bowman's face was utterly without expression, and his tone of voice told the accountant he wanted no further discussion. "You need me for anything else?"

"No, I think we're all set."

"Then I'll be going." Henry turned on his heel and left the office.

The entire way home, Henry Bowman thought about just how much he had come to despise both the socialist policies his country's government had adopted, and the people who had forced those policies on the public. Isn't that why this nation was formed- to get sway from this very thing? he asked himself over and over.

As Henry walked into the kitchen, he hung his jacket over the back of a chair. The house still didn't feel right to him, with his mother gone. Every time he walked through a doorway he half expected to see her, especially after being away on a job for several days.

Catherine Bowman had died very suddenly of a heart attack almost a year before, while carrying a box of plants from her station wagon to the pantry off the kitchen. She was sixty-one years old. Henry had moved out of his apartment and back into the house he had grown up in, to undertake the arduous task of settling his mother's estate.

The 55% haircut appalled him. Henry Bowman had known that taxes would be bad, but losing over half of everything his parents owned was a shock. Estates of less than $175,000 were not taxed. Above that figure, taxes quickly rose to a staggering 77% on estates of over $10 million.

The law allowed nine months to come up with the money, which meant selling a lot of things. Henry had reluctantly come to the conclusion that keeping the family summer property would mean selling all the stocks and bonds, and the country place was maintenance-intensive. Without income from savings to maintain it, Henry had seen that its upkeep would bankrupt him. It was now being subdivided for development, and the entire proceeds from the sale, along with his mother's entire bond portfolio and much of the stocks, had just gone to the IRS.

And the estate tax program doesn't even break even Henry thought with disgust. He had scarcely believed it when the accountant told him, but it made sense. Very few people saved $175,000 in property and other assets. Estates of those few people who conserved and invested their assets successfully enough to rise above this level generated less taxes than the costs of administration.

The estate tax wasn't there to help pay for things the country needed, it was there to prevent Americans from passing their property and their savings on to their descendants. Shirtsleeves to shirtsleeves in three generations. That's what Andrew Carnegie said. Henry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He did not like feeling angry like this. He opened the door to the basement stairs, flicked on the light switch, and descended the steps to the woodworking shop that Walter Bowman had built and that had been Henry's for the last decade.

The smell relaxed him immediately. Henry went to the partially finished gunstock that was clamped in the padded jaws of the bench vise. He ran his hand over the Bastogne walnut, taking in the wonderful scent of his favorite wood. The Enfield action, barreled in .500 Buhmiller, lay on the bench behind the stock. This one's going to be pure poison, when I get too tired to carry my Rodda Henry thought. Design weight for the five-shot magazine rifle was 10 1/2 pounds. It would fire a 600-grain .510" bullet at 2400 feet per second, as opposed to the .458, which threw a smaller 500-grain slug at 2250 feet per second using strong handloads. Factory .458 offerings sent the same bullet out at less than 2000 FPS.

The unfinished rifle made Henry think about his impending safari to Rhodesia, and his spirits lifted considerably. Got to get this stock finished, if I want to practice any before I go. His Rhodesian safari was scheduled for the entire month of September.

Henry Bowman lifted an artist's paintbrush out of a small pot of oil and lampblack, and gave the underside of the barreled receiver a thin coat of the wet mix. Then he lowered the metalwork into the stock, pressed it firmly, and lifted it out again. Henry inspected the wood closely, looking at every place that was blackened where the metal had touched it.

About 75% contact. He shook his head. Abe & Van Horn wouldn't settle for 75% Henry said to himself, referring to the stockmakers whose work he most admired.

He chose a round-end scraper from several dozen that were in a rack on his bench, and went to work. "Have the people in this country lost their minds?" Congressman Gaines demanded. His aide knew better than to answer questions such as that, and remained silent. "Listen to this: '"All across the country, a disturbing trend is taking shape. Americans are stockpiling food and rediscovering home canning in preparation for what they see as the inevitable result of runaway inflation, unchecked government spending, and the abdication of U.S. strength and respect abroad. The debate about the Panama Canal is but one of many examples of what these citizens view as a drastically weakened foreign policy, with ultimate consequences much more serious than mere loss of pride.

'"These people call themselves survivalists, and they are not wringing their hands. They are taking action. Survivalists are learning mechanical skills. They are storing massive amounts of consumables-not only food, but diesel fuel, gasoline, and goods for barter. They are planting large vegetable gardens and digging wells on their own property. Any money they have left after these large purchases of basic necessities is used to buy gold. These measures are the only protection survivalists feel they can give their families in the event that economic disaster does come to pass.'"

He put down the magazine and stared across the lunch table at his subordinate. "What kind of crap is this?" he asked rhetorically. Richard Gaines had been reading a national news magazine, quoting from one of the many current articles describing a phenomenon which was occurring all across the country. Suddenly he thought of something.

"I thought it was illegal to buy gold."

"Ah, Gerald Ford changed that when he was in office, Congressman."

"That fool," Gaines sneered.

The aide did not point out to the young congressman that gold had been the underlying asset for the world's major monetary systems for thousands of years, and it was Franklin Roosevelt, with a huge majority in both Congress and the Senate, who had unhitched the currency from its anchor and made it a federal crime for U.S. citizens to own this basic store of value. That happened in 1934, a year that saw other federal proposals with far-reaching implications for the American public become law.

"What can we do about this?" Gaines demanded. His aide opened his mouth to speak, but realized he hadn't the vaguest idea what the congressman was after. Strengthen foreign policy? Not much the young congressman could do there. Pledge to introduce no legislation unless it repealed spending programs ? It would be interesting to see how his constituents reacted to that. The aide shrugged in reply. Richard Gaines was obviously pondering his own question.

"I could introduce a bill prohibiting ownership of more than, oh, say, a month's worth of basic necessities. Exemption for bona fide producers, of course, farmers and all that. Go through the records of all the bulk sellers, look for individual purchasers. Any excess food they've got over the one-month limit, take it and put it into a government-administered fund, to be sold at below-market rates to the people who are below the poverty line. That'd look good to the public-make these crazy end-of-the-world types give their food to people who really need it." He chewed his lip, thinking.

"Couldn't do the same thing very easily with gas or diesel, so we'd have a line in there prohibiting home storage. Make it a crime to have more than ten gallons aside from what was in your car & lawn "mower. Underground tanks'd have to be filled in." Richard Gaines was pondering other elements of his bill when a large, weathered hand was laid on his shoulder.

"Son, I just finished eatin' dinner at the next table, and I couldn't he'p but hear you tellin' your friend 'bout this idea of yours for a bill." The speaker was a large man with white hair, in his seventies or early eighties. "Before you get your secretary to type it up for you, I think you might want to re-read the Constitution, 'cause right now, you got several problems that're goin' t'come up an' bite you.

"Like that plan you got to take what people's been hoarding, put it in a government fund. Going to run smack into the Fifth Amendment, I'm afraid, takin' property like that without compensation.

"Now, findin' out who to take it from, that's going to butt heads with the Fourth Amendment. That's the one about unreasonable search and seizure, case you forgot. Might even get some squawk on the Tenth Amendment, though that one's a little shaky.

"Anyway, thought you might want to think about those things a bit 'fore you start figurin' that since the Constitution was written a couple hundred years ago by some fellows who dressed an' talked kind of funny, it's not of much interest 'cept to college professors writin' 'bout ancient history." He chuckled as he thought of something. "Last fellow in this town who felt that way got in a whole mess of trouble, you may recall." The man lifted his hand from Gaines' shoulder, nodded once, and walked towards the exit.

"Who the hell was that old goat?" Gaines asked his aide when the older man had left the restaurant. The stranger had been exactly right in his assumption about the young congressman's view of the Constitution, and it irritated Gaines to be talked to like someone in grade school.

"Senator Sam Ervin. He eats in here sometimes. Retired four years ago after he finished up his job as Chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Presidential Campaign Activities." The aide saw Gaines' blank look, and continued. "You know-the Watergate hearings? Ended up with Nixon resigning?"

"Oh. Yeah. I thought I'd seen him somewhere before," Gaines said.

"Look," the aide said to his boss, wanting to get him back in good humor and recognizing how to do it. "What he said about the Fourth and Fifth Amendments? That's true as far as it goes. But that's only a problem when you try to do what you want head-on."

"What do you mean?"

"Well," the aide said, as he chewed a bite of steak and gestured with his fork, "when you try to pass progressive laws and do what's best for the country, a lot of times the people will resist. At least when you try to do too much too fast. You know about the Fabian Society in England?" Gaines shook his head. The aide smiled and took a deep breath. He loved political history, and didn't get to talk about it often enough. Here was a chance to look good for the boss.

"Fabian Society was a political organization founded in the 1880's in Great Britain. Their ultimate goal was to establish a socialist government in England. They knew if they came out and said that, though, their ideas would be rejected immediately by the majority of people. So they began to gradually educate the public by publishing essays that explained the benefits of socialist ideas. And they framed their ideas in terms that would appeal to the influential upper-class, because those are usually the people that can get things done.

"Anyway, because of that strategy, they were very successful. They were the major force behind the Labor Representation Committee that was founded at the turn of the century." He saw Gaines' blank look and added, "The LRC was what became England's Labour Party."

"So?" Gaines asked. He didn't see where this was going, and he was getting bored with talk about England.

"So they got what the Fabians had always wanted," the aide said hurriedly. "At least, a lot of it. The Labour Party won by a landslide in '45, and Prime Minister Attlee was able to finally create a welfare state in England, which was a real coup.

"Within two years they had free medical care for everyone, the government owned the Bank of England, and they'd let India, Pakistan, Ceylon, and Burma go. Within five or six years, they had nationalized a quarter of the country's industry." The aide did not mention that these policies resulted in a massive trade deficit, subsequent food rationing, and drastic devaluation of the pound sterling. It went without saying that in all socialist endeavors, certain inconveniences had to be tolerated by individuals for the greater good of the public as a whole.

The aide's eyes were bright as he stared at the Congressman. "It never could have happened all at once, and that's what I think we need to keep in mind."

"So fifty years, is that what you're telling me?" Gaines asked with irritation.

"No, no, not at all," the aide said quickly, shaking his head vigorously. "We got our welfare state over forty years ago. And what you were just talking about-you know, wanting to ban hoarding and distribute the survivalists' food to the poor? You don't have to listen to that old asshole preach about how your law would violate the Constitution. You don't even need to pass a new law at all. We've already got the power."

"What do you mean?" Gaines asked.

"The Emergency Powers Act. Gives the President the authority to do whatever he wants in a time of 'national emergency'. It was meant to be invoked in the event of a nuclear war, but there's nothing in it that specifies that particular circumstance. If the President wants to, he can use it. Order the Army to seize all the peoples' stockpiles of food, diesel fuel, gold, guns, whatever. Nationwide curfew, censor the press, you name it, he can do it under the Emergency Powers Act. Money, too; if the President says no taking money out of the country, even a few hundred dollars, boom-it's a crime. Freeze bank accounts, seize assets, anything he wants."

"So we've got the authority already, but it takes special circumstances, huh? I guess the next step is to make the circumstances less unusual, right?" Gaines said.

"That's it," his aide replied with a grin. 'The people won't give up the things they think they are entitled to if you try to take them all at once. You need to start with something that sounds so innocuous that you can ridicule anyone that opposes you. Then expand it. Do what the Fabian Society did: Treat it just as you would a salami-a slice at a time."

The congressional aide was well-versed in his political history, but he was ignorant of the National Firearms Act of 1934. If he had been familiar with this particular piece of legislation, however, he could have used it as a textbook example of the strategy he was advocating.

September 3,1978 Do all the outfitters in Africa do this for every client that comes hunting? Henry wondered in disbelief as he stared at the preparations that had been made for his arrival. He had expected a camp similar to the ones he and Allen Kane made for themselves when they went to Idaho. What he got was something altogether different.

A 10' by 10' concrete slab had been poured, and a tent erected over it. It housed a metal-framed bed and a nightstand made of sticks lashed together. A fresh vegetable garden had been planted months before, so that fresh salads could be served with every meal. The cook tent was well-stocked, and even included a freezer that ran on propane. A fire near the cook tent was tended twenty-four hours a day, so that hot water for bathing and washing clothes was available at all times.

The water came from a two-hundred-gallon wheeled storage tank that the crew kept filled with regular trips to the river. A five-gallon can with a screw valve and shower head attached hung suspended from a tree limb near Henry's tent, and was filled with hot water whenever Henry wanted a shower. A fifty-five gallon drum of water was lashed into the crook of a tree ten feet above the ground, and was piped to a flush toilet at the back of the camp. Ray had asked Henry for his dirty clothes from the trip over, and they were washed immediately. By the end of the month, Henry would realize that he could have gone on the safari without a change of clothes, for the crew washed, dried, ironed (with an iron that was filled with hot coals), and folded his laundry for him every night.

The hunting camp that had been built for Henry Bowman was in the Charara Valley, on a million-acre tract of government land south of the Zambesi River. The land was not part of a hunting concession, and Ray Johnson had never been in the area prior to twelve weeks before, although he had been familiar with its reputation.

Most modern safaris in Africa were held on hunting concessions similar to the 200,000-acre tract Ray Johnson leased, which was two hundred miles away from where he and Henry Bowman were now standing. The professional hunter paid the government an annual fee to lease the raw land, and built his own accommodations on it. The government told him how many animals of which species could be killed in that area each year. The professional hunter then offered hunts to clients and charged them a daily rate for his services, which were all-inclusive except for trophy fees. The client paid the daily rate directly to the professional hunter. He also paid the government a nonrefundable trophy fee in advance for each animal he intended to hunt. Trophy fees varied by animal. In 1978, a warthog or baboon in Rhodesia cost $75, a male cape buffalo $500, and a trophy elephant $3000. Ray Johnson's daily rate was $400, typical for a recognized professional hunter in that area.

Countries with well-managed game departments (such as Rhodesia) would authorize the killing of only that number of animals which would ensure that the herds continued to thrive. This meant that one rhino, three or four lions, and perhaps ten elephants could be shot each year on a 200,000-acre concession. Limits for thin-skinned plains game were of course much higher. The game department typically erred on the side of caution, and every few years the numbers were temporarily raised on those species which were becoming too numerous.

The professional hunter received none of the trophy fee, and had only his daily rate to sustain his business. Because of this, and because the dangerous game was so plentiful that good specimens could be found in two or three days, professional hunters had minimum safari lengths they set for clients wishing to hunt large, dangerous game. A client could go on a six- or seven-day safari if he would be satisfied with a halfdozen head of thin-skinned plains game such as impala, duiker, oryx, and bushbuck. If he wanted to hunt elephant, buffalo, rhino, lion, or leopard, however, his professional hunter would require at least a twoweek hunt. Customers wanting to hunt several of the 'big five' often signed up for safaris of a month or more.

The safari Henry Bowman was about to undertake was somewhat different than the norm, however. Each year, the Rhodesian government held auctions which were open to all professional hunters licensed in that country. The authorities would auction off the hunting rights to large tracts of government land that were not being leased out as hunting concessions, on a one-season basis. Again, the game department stipulated (in advance of the auction) the number and type of animals that could be killed in that area in the forthcoming season, but the auction price included all trophy fees. The successful bidder could then split up the permitted game, and hold several safaris each at an all-inclusive price.

This practice served several functions. First, elephant, buffalo, and lion populations were kept at levels which minimized the animals' consumption of the crops and residents in adjacent, populated areas. Second, the government received additional reve nues which it used for game management and antipoaching measures, although how these funds were ultimately used was usually startling to the uninitiated.

Third, the customers ended up spending a little less money on a hunt (although the accommodations were more spartan), and the professional hunter made a little extra that season if he scheduled everything intelligently.

This was the tradeoff every professional hunter analyzed when bidding in the annual auction: Scheduling hunts in the new location required setting up a temporary hunting camp with all its attendant support crew of cooks, skinners, and laborers, and took time away from the existing hunting concession where all facilities were already set up.

Ray Johnson had made the winning bid for the Charara Valley area on the strength of a ten-minute phone conversation with Max Collins' nephew. Henry had said he was ready to go on a big hunt, and Ray had promised he'd give Henry 'a hell of a deal providing you're willing to shoot all the game on the ticket, so I don't have to run four or five safaris with four or five different clients'. Ray had also seen to it that the temporary camp provided almost as many comforts as did the permanent camp on his hunting concession, and it was this attention to detail which now amazed the young client.

"Okay, you're settled in and you know where everything is. Let's see this bloody cannon I've been hearing about." Ray Johnson, raised in Colorado and educated in Boston, had adopted some of the phraseology of his current Rhodesian peers.

"Goddamn!" he said with feeling when Henry opened the aluminum case he had had made for his 4-bore double. "Makes my .600 Holland look like a matchstick."

"Yeah, I know what you mean," Henry said with a sigh. "I used to shoot those medium bores, too, 'til I got this. That's why I left my .577 at home." Both men started laughing. "Go ahead," Henry urged with a nod.

Ray Johnson lifted the rifle and threw it to his shoulder. "Balances great," he said immediately. "I only have twenty-five rounds for it," Henry admitted. "Is that enough?"

"Lord, I hope so. This isn't the only gun you brought, I trust?" Henry smiled and shook his head. "Look at that!" Ray exclaimed when he saw the ammunition. It looked like something for a turn-of-the-century field piece.

"Got a .375 Ackley Improved for the small stuff, and a .500 Buhmiller for elephant and buffalo if I get tired of lugging this boat anchor around. Speaking of which, I'd like to make sure the scope on my .375 didn't change any in transit. Where can I set up some 200-yard targets?"

Ray lifted his eyebrows. In fifteen years, Henry was only the second client he'd encountered who had wanted to check his sights before going afield. The first had been Max Collins. "Don't you want to take a nap first? Your system must be thrown off some with the time change."

"Not right now. I'm still too keyed up about being here."

"Well, let me have Kineas get some lunch together for us, and then I'll show you where you can shoot your light rifle. Fresh salad, fresh tomatoes, fresh baked bread, and roasted guinea hen all right?"

"Sounds delicious."