Robert Plane: A Short Story

Robert Plane delicately picked his way through the tatty crowd, careful not to go too fast or get too close to anyone lest he ruin his new red vest. It was a rather simple task. All who saw him knew him. All who knew him knew his father. All who knew his father cringed with fear. The nervous mass of commoners parted like a sea for Robert to walk through. Sideways glances followed his every move toward the great auditorium, and hushed whispers spoke of the terror that would be his before the night was over.

It was well known throughout the country that the Planes had never allowed their son to become involved in party business. Robert had never attended a speech or been in a battle or done anything that any party member should have done by

His was a large, gold-gilt chair that sat next to the foot of the podium. There were dozens like it lining the front of the room, filled with generals and negotiators and other men of status within the organization. These people he had never seen before and they were like heroes in the stories of his youth to him. These were the leaders he had heard and dreamt so much about. His face lit with joy to be numbered among them.

As he took his seat, a change went over the crowd. The auditorium, which had been so loud only seconds before, was enveloped in a stifling silence. The lights grew suddenly brighter and a chorus of horns began to blow. Robert’s father mounted the podium with the grace only great leaders have access to and the shroud unwrapped. Ten thousand voices rang out in unison. “Long live the Planes,” they screamed,”Long live the Planes.” Small flags bearing signs of the revolution were raised by every hand. Strong men were crying and making themselves fools.

Robert’s father stood blankly on the pedestal, unresponsive to the celebration. To him it seemed the sound had lasted several minutes too long, and he was angry. In a steady voice that seemed even parts whisper and growl, he called for silence, and the audience recoiled as if hit by a