ABOUT THE SAME TIME. ATHENS, TNG DISTRICT. 10 AM EST. FRIDAY, OCTOBER 31, 2025.
Whilmire said, “No,
at this point my sense of the public is that we cannot step up and
guide the nation directly. The non-Christians, and even the
well-meaning Christians in the other churches, won’t be ready for
that till after the big war. We’re still early in Tribulation—it’s
only the first year of the seven. So far neither the Whore of
Babylon nor the Antichrist has clearly emerged, and that would be
the earliest time we could make a really bold move. So we’re stuck
with what we’re stuck with.”
The Reverend Arthur
Peet nodded somberly. He had known Whilmire for most of both of
their lives, and he knew the way the man’s mind diced and dissected
the world into manageable slices. “So where should we throw our
weight?”
“We’re just waiting
for the right time, allies, and pretext to give Nguyen-Peters the
boot. He counts for nothing. Weisbrod has zero following in TNG
territory—Democrat-liberal-Jew professor? Forget him and his Dragon
Lady wife. The fringy types in the little splinter churches are
nuts and they scare people, which helps us look moderate to people
who think moderation is a virtue. The Army has no leader except
Grayson or Phat, and we’ve got Phat locked up physically and
Grayson politically. So I say, for the moment, don’t do something.
Stand there. But be ready to jump when the time
comes.”
Peet nodded. “Very
much my own thinking. Tribes? Castles?”
“We need the Castles
economically, but they’re no big problem; we just gradually convert
freeholders; ramp up some of that kingship and lordship material if
you want to play for them. As for the tribes, the big drive that
the Natcon and the general want to do up in the Lost Quarter will
take them off the table next spring. Preach so you tie them to the
Canaanites, that’s our promised land, that kind of
thing.”
“What’s your
assessment of your son-in-law?”
“He’ll be ready to
step in as soon as it’s time, if Jenny has anything to do with it.
I have much more faith in her than in him. He’ll come along as long
as we feed his ambition and vanity.”
Peet shrugged. “Human
tools are imperfect. The Lord Himself only hired twelve guys and
one was a dud. So no real change?”
“Everything’s the
same as last week but more so,” Whilmire said. “But it was pretty
good last week.”
“Indeed.” Peet rose
and stretched. “I think I’ll take a walk.”
As Whilmire descended
the steps of the former UGA chapel, the sunshine was pure gold, and
it hadn’t been windy or stormy enough down here yet to take the
fall colors from the trees. Real time off was impossible, but at
least he could work at a table outside at some café or tea house.
So many people were waving, smiling, and calling out “Praise the
Lord” to him that he thought he was maybe catching one tiny little
glimpse of what heaven might be like.