These are all excerpts from the first 30 pages, brilliant! Whatever the Illuminati were aiming at had not been accomplished. Proof: If it had, they would not still be conspiring in secret.
Since almost everything has been tried in the course of human history, find out what hasn't been tried(at least not on a large scale)-and that will be the condition to which the Illuminati are trying to move the rest of mankind.
Capitalism had been tried. Communism has been tried. Even Henry George's Single Tax has been tried, in Australia. Fascism, feudalism and mysticism have been tried. Anarchism has never been tried.
Anarchism was frequently associated with assassinations. It had an appeal for freethinkers, such as Kropotkin and Bakunin, but also for religious idealists, like Tolstoy and Dorothy Day of the CatholicWorker movement. Most anarchists hoped, Joachim-like, to redistribute the wealth, but Rebecca had once told him about a classic of anarchist literature, Max Stirner's The Ego and His Own, which had been called "the Billionaire's Bible" because it stressed the advantages the rugged individualist would gain in a stateless society-and Cecil Rhodes was an adventurer before he was a banker. The Illuminati were anarchists.
It all fit: the pieces of the puzzle slipped together smoothly.
Saul was convinced. He was also wrong.
"That's biological-bacteriological and biological-chemical," the President explained to the Vice-President, who was frowning. "It has nothing to do with B-B guns." Turning his attention back to the military men, he asked, "What have we got specifically that will curdle Ivan's blood?"
"Well, there's Anthrax-Leprosy-Mu. . . . It's worse than any form of anthrax. More deadly than
bubonic and anthrax and leprosy all in one lump. As a matter of fact," the General who was speaking
smiled grimly at the thought, "our evaluation suggests that "with death being so quick, the
psychological demoralization of the survivors-if there are any survivors-will be even worse than in
thermonuclear exchange with maximum 'dirty' fallout."
"By golly," the President said. "By golly. We won't use that out in the open. My speech'll just talk
Bomb, but we'll leak it to the boys in the Kremlin that we've got this anthrax gimmick in cold
storage, too. By gosh, you just wait and see them back down." He stood up, decisive, firm, the image
he always projected on television. "I'm going to see my speech writers right now. Meanwhile,
arrange that the brain responsible for this Anthrax-Pi gets a raise. What's his name?" he asked over
his shoulder going out the door.
"Mocenigo. Dr. Charles Mocenigo."
"A raise for Dr. Charles Mocenigo," the President called from the hallway.
"Mocenigo?" the Vice-President asked thoughtfully. "Is he a wop?"
"Don't say wop," the President shouted back. "How many times do I have to tell you? Don't say wop
or kike or any of those words anymore." He spoke with some asperity, since he lived daily with the dread that someday the secret tapes he kept of all" Oval Room transactions would be released to the public. He had long ago vowed that if that day ever came, the tapes would not be full of "(expletive deleted)" or "(characterization deleted)." He was harassed, but still he spoke with authority. He was, in fact, characteristic of the best type of dominant male in the world at this time. He was fifty-five years old, tough, shrewd, unburdened by the complicated ethical ambiguities which puzzle intellectuals, and had long ago decided that the world was a mean son-of-a-bitch in which only the most cunning and ruthless can survive. He was also as kind as was possible for one holding that ultra-Darwinian philosophy; and he genuinely loved children and dogs, unless they were on the site of something that had to be bombed in the National Interest. He still retained some sense of humor, despite the burdens of his almost godly office, and, although he had been impotent with his wife for nearly ten years now, he generally achieved orgasm in the mouth of a skilled prostitute within 1.5 minutes. He took amphetamine pep pills to keep going on his grueling twenty-hour day, with the result that his vision of the world was somewhat skewed in a paranoid direction, and he took tranquilizers to keep from worrying too much, with the result that his detachment sometimes bordered on the schizophrenic; but most of the time his innate shrewdness gave him a fingernail grip on reality. In short, he was much like the rulers of Russia and China.
...
The Presidents actual television broadcast was transmitted to the world at 10:30 P.M. EST, March 31. The Russians and Chinese were given twenty-four hours to get out of Fernando Poo or the skies over Santa Isobel would begin raining nuclear missiles: "This is darn serious," the Chief Executive said, "and America will not shirk its responsibility to the freedom-loving people of Fernando Poo!"
The broadcast concluded at 11 P.M. EST, and within two minutes people attempting to get reservations on trains, planes, busses or car pools to Canada had virtually every telephone wire in the country overloaded.
In Moscow, where it was ten the next morning, the Premier called a conference and said crisply, "That character in Washington is a mental lunatic, and he means it. Get our men out of Fernando Poo right away, then find out who authorized sending them in there in the first place and transfer him to
be supervisor of a hydroelectric works in Outer Mongolia."
"We don't have any men in Fernando Poo," a commissar said mournfully. 'The Americans are
imagining things again."
"Well, how the hell can we withdraw men if we don't have them there in the first place?" the Premier
demanded.
"I don't know. We've got twenty-four hours to figure that out, or-" the commissar quoted an old
Russian proverb which means, roughly, that when the polar bear excrement interferes with the fan
belts, the machinery overheats.
"Suppose we just announce that our troops are coming out?" another commissar suggested. "They
can't say we're lying if they don't find any of our troops there afterward."
"No, they never believe anything we say. They want to be shown," the premier said thoughtfully.
"We'll have to infiltrate some troops surreptitiously and then withdraw them with a lot of fanfare and
publicity. That should do it."
"I'm afraid it won't end the problem," another pommissar said funereally. "Our intelligence indicates
that there are Chinese troops there. Unless Peking backs down, we're going to be caught in the
middle when the bombs start flying and-" he quoted a proverb about the man in the intersection when
two manure trucks collide.
"Damn," the Premier said. "What the blue blazes do the Chinese want with Fernando Poo?"
He was harassed, but still he spoke with authority. He was, in fact, characteristic of the best type of dominant male in the world at this time. He was fifty-five years old, tough, shrewd, unburdened by the complicated ethical ambiguities which puzzle intellectuals, and had long ago decided that the world was a mean son-of-a-bitch in which only the most cunning and ruthless can survive. He was also as kind as was possible for one holding that ultra Darwinian philosophy; and he genuinely loved children and dogs, unless they were on the site of something that had to be bombed in the National Interest. He still retained some sense of humor, despite the burdens of his almost godly office, and although he had been impotent with his wife for nearly ten years now, he generally achieved orgasm in the mouth of a skilled prostitute within 1.5 minutes. He took amphetamine pep pills to keep going on his grueling twenty-hour day, with the result that his vision of the world was somewhat skewed in a paranoid direction, and he took tranquilizers to keep from worrying too much, with the result that his detachment sometimes bordered on schizophrenia; but most of the time his innate shrewdness gave him a fingernail grip on reality. In short, he was much like the rulers of America and China.
...
"We'll just get our troops out of Fernando Poo," the Chairman of the Chinese Communist party said
on April 1. "A place that size isn't worth world war."
"But we don't have any troops there," an aide told him, "it's the Russians who do."
"Oh?" the Chairman quoted a proverb to the effect that there was urine in the rosewater. "I wonder
what the hell the Russians want with Fernando Poo?" he added thoughtfully.
He was harassed, but still he spoke with authority. He was, in fact, characteristic of the best type of
dominant male in the world at this time. He was fifty-five years old, tough, shrewd, unburdened by
the complicated ethical ambiguities which puzzle intellectuals, and had long ago decided that the
world was a mean son-of-a-bitch in which only the most cunning and ruthless can survive. He was
also as kind as was possible for one holding that ultra-Darwinian philosophy; and he genuinely loved
children and dogs, unless they were on the site of something that had to be bombed in the National
Interest. He still retained some sense of humor, despite the burdens of his almost godly office, and,
although he had been impotent with his wife for nearly ten years now, he generally achieved orgasm
in the mouth of a skilled prostitute within 1.5 minutes. He took amphetamine pep pills to keep going
on his grueling twenty-hour day, with the result that his vision of the world was somewhat skewed in
a paranoid direction, and he took tranquilizers to keep from worrying too much, with the result that
his detachment sometimes bordered on the schizophrenic; but most of the time his innate shrewdness
gave him a fingernail grip on reality. In short, he was much like the rulers of America and Russia.
Hagbard Celine's gigantic computer, FUCKUP-First Universal Cybernetic-Kinetic-Ultramicro-Programmer- was basically a rather sophisticated form of the standard self-programming algorithmic
logic machine of the time; the name was one of his whimsies. FUCKUP's real claim to uniqueness
was a programmed stochastic process whereby it could "throw" an I Ching hexagram, reading' a
random open circuit as a broken (yin) line and a random closed circuit as a full (yang) line until six
such "lines" were round. Consulting its memory banks, where the whole tradition of 1 Ching
interpretation was stored, and then cross-checking its current scannings of that day's political,
economic, meteorological, astrological, astronomical, and technological eccentricities, it would
provide a reading of the hexagram which, to Hagbard's mind, combined the best of the scientific and
occult methods for spotting oncoming trends.
The Illuminatus! Trilogy is a series of three novels written by Robert Shea and Robert Anton Wilson.
Hagbard Celine's gigantic computer, FUCKUP-First Universal Cybernetic-Kinetic-Ultramicro-Programmer- was basically a rather sophisticated form of the standard self-programming algorithmic
logic machine of the time; the name was one of his whimsies. FUCKUP's real claim to uniqueness
was a programmed stochastic process whereby it could "throw" an I Ching hexagram, reading' a
random open circuit as a broken (yin) line and a random closed circuit as a full (yang) line until six
such "lines" were round. Consulting its memory banks, where the whole tradition of 1 Ching
interpretation was stored, and then cross-checking its current scannings of that day's political,
economic, meteorological, astrological, astronomical, and technological eccentricities, it would
provide a reading of the hexagram which, to Hagbard's mind, combined the best of the scientific and
occult methods for spotting oncoming trends.
The Illuminatus! Trilogy is a series of three novels written by Robert Shea and Robert Anton Wilson.
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