[h1]Kansas[/h1]
[h2]Wichita[/h2]

As a city, Witchita was by no means a Las Angeles, nor was it a New York. But nesting on the banks of the Arkansas river in the flatland of Kansas it was a veritable mecca. The town had exploded in growth during the land speculation of the 1880's, and again more recently with the first digging of oil and natural gas wells outside of town, bringing industry with it as fuel refineries went up at the city outskirts and aircraft manufacturing came in droves to build and work during the Great War. The total contributions had turned Witchita in a modest, if surprising metropolis in the central American plains with stout modernist high-rises breaking up an otherwise turn-of-the-century city-scape.

A panorama view of the city could be had – in part – from the top floor of the Lassen Hotel. Earl Browder stood at the windows, his hands tucked into the pockets of his suit as he looked down at the city. The sky was clear with only a few wispy puffs of cloud. Somewhere off to the west and a little to the south drifted a large bank of mud-colored cloud. A dust-storm, the president surmised from the shape and color of the distant anomaly. He scratched his chin as he watched it.

Earl Browder stood as a confident sort of figure, with the kind of posture a man of confident leadership has. His face held a stoic, deep since of concentration and a scouring look of judgment. Yet his hard appearances did not betray a hard personality, those who knew him hailed him as fair with a strong business like personality  that echoed across his life from his younger days as a business student and as a sales clerk.

He was trim, with a well minded narrow mustache that hung below a stout pyramidal nose. The sides of his head above the ears was shaved close to his temple and created an almost column-like look to the top of his head where a crown of brushed-back hair lay across the top of his head in a swept wave.

The hotel these days was used less as a place for travelers to sweep. With the dissolution of the United States and the revolution in the states Browder presided over the Lassen Hotel was almost in a state of disuse, and a large part of it was taken under by Browder and his communist allies as a central office by which to work out of. The upper floors contained the function of his presidium. He, his members of cabinet, commanding generals, and a few close allies. The top-most floor, and the corner of the building which he stayed became as much an office to Browder as it was at times a home.

Other buildings and offices had been seized and taken over for similar functions. The Orpheum Theater was for instance allocated for congressional meetings of the Communist Congress of the American Mid-west as it was also a center which rallies were held by Browder himself, and other prominent figures of the left-wing government here. There had been no time to go about the grand task of building proper accommodations for government. There was discussion to erect formal institutions for the simple act of having a physical symbol of the movement, while others held out that someday Washington might be soon liberated and the entire congress of American socialists and communists may someday move into and re-purpose the old hallowed halls of the old government.

And while the future was pondered and planned, Browder thought much about the course of the Revolution in America. Was communism in the states to be the Soviet model, or would it be an American model? While Browder had considered himself a friend of the Soviets, seeing a clearly defined area of the US that he could identify as being communist – two actually – illuminated the issue brighter. If revolution in the US could be accomplished, would it be the Soviet model, or would it be building communism on the heritage of US government? If a communist America could be built, would it be in concert to the Soviets or would it be independent of the Soviet mindset; though all the same friendly as recognition of comrades in revolution?

He puffed steadily on a cherrywood colored pipe he had been holding in his hands as he considered these inevitable policy matters as a knock on the door to his room cut his attention from the deeper matters. It was time to re-enter the world of present-day issues. He turned and called out in his soft drawling voice of the American mid-west, hampered only by years of softening the accent to become approachable on the old national theater: “Come on in.”

The door opened, and in stepped in a large man. His head was balding and a face that had once been plump was slowly loosing definition as it became shallow around the chin and cheek, leaving loose handles of flesh on his bones. Allen Fishcher was his name, an old coal miner who had sought to farm the plains to clean his lungs, only to find his farm swallowed by the dust that blew off the ground from the west. And from this, he turned his scarred windswept hands to government in search of purpose. He was for Browder a adviser and as a liaison between he and the farmers of the land.

“Earl, how ya' doing?” he asked in his deep earthy voice. He looked Browder straight in the eyes, despite how tired his face looked, Fishcher's eyes were glowing with vibrancy and commitment. It was the work, Browder surmised, which had filled him with enough purpose in the mornings which had re-lit those lights in his soul and brought the spark out.

“As well as any man in these hard times.” he said, gesturing with his pipe out the window to the dust cloud in the far horizon, “Do you think it'll come over us?” he asked tentatively.

Allen Fishcher stepped to the window and looked out, squinting to see through the afternoon sunlight. He pondered for a moment. “Nah.” he said confidently, “It's going south, it'll sweep Texas before it catches up on winds from the Gulf. I felt it in my bones today, they do not ache like they do when a wind comes from the south, with the promise of rain which does not come. I can only guess the system will go south, perhaps as far as the Rio Grande before turning around. By then most of the dust will have dropped.”

Browder nodded, chomping down on his pipe again. “Speaking of dust storms, how goes your canvassing?” he asked. He had a few months previous tasked Allen to canvas and speak to the people of the Dust Bowl. To probe the situation to find a scope and size of the most afflicted region.

“It's a very big problem.” he admitted, with a troubled sigh. “Over a hundred million acres of rich farmland is stripped naked by winds from Oklahoma to New Mexico, here in Kansas and even Colorado and deep into Texas. A lotta our people are prayin' for rain that I don't think will come.

“A lot of the old ranchers say we doomed ourselves, I wanted to hear it from the Indians but they didn't want to speak with us white-men. I'm still courting them, but they're cynical.”

“Perhaps for good reason.” Browder mused, with an eye on the past.

Allen shrugged, and continued, “I have a report written up, would you like to read it?”

“Later,” Browder said, “Just toss it on the coffee table when you leave. Do you have any recommendations on what should be done out there?  You worked the land.”

“I ain't no rancher, so I wouldn't know. Not as much as that old class of working men. This is... this is a science beyond me, Earl. You're going to have to find someone who knows what to look at, touch... Even perhaps hear, taste, and smell. Then he's going to need to know how to talk about it before we have any ideas.”

Browder looked out the window, to that damnable wave of sand in the air in the far distance. It'd be washing over train tracks now, probably the Arkansas will run a little browner in a bit. “How does man stop the wind?” he mused, “How does man return the soil?” he asked.

“If you need me to, I can go and ask around.” Allen said, “Surely someone at the university still has the expertise to have an idea, or knows enough people in the greater community to produce a name.”

“That'll be nice, thank you.” said Browder, with a polite smile. But it felt forced and dry.

Allen Fischer moved to the coffee table, a richly stained Victorian piece set between two wood-trimmed crimson-colored couches. A half-drunk bottle of brandy was already on the table with a few crystal shot-glasses, over top a map of the United States. There was some pieces on the map, loose figurines and baubles scattered on the map like a chess board. Allen spied the notepad covered in scribbled notes alongside the bottle.

“Planning something?” Allen asked. He felt the heaviness drop in his stomach, the kind associated with stressed anxiety.

“A little.” Browder said. There was a certain grimness in his voice like he didn't like the idea either.

“Have you by chance been listening to Trotsky and his musings on this 'permanent revolution' business?” Allen pried.

Earl Browder didn't respond. At least no immediately. Allen was half way up in standing after throwing down his report when he did respond, “He is right, in a way.” Browder asserted, “At least in respect to America, I think. We can't sit here forever. We need to reach for an end goal. I need the first moves. I'll be talking with Clemmfield about it tomorrow.

“It hurts me, Allen. A man who detested the War looking to make it. But the Bolsheviks didn't win Russia in revolution by standing by and let the White Army brood in their corners until they admit they're wrong, and Lenin was right. A certain initiative needs to be taken. By us.” He drew long on his pipe and scratched the back of his head.

“We can fill you in if you're interested in being a part of the discussion. It's tomorrow at twelve. I promised that we'd do it over lunch.”

“Ah, thanks...” Fishcher said, thankful but uneasy and a little glum, “I'll think about it.”

Browder nodded, and continued to stare out the window. He wouldn't get to the report until an hour later.