2
If you average seven meetings a day and there is a fifty-fifty chance that any given meeting will be a stinker, then about one day in every four months all your meetings will be stinkers.
President Celine Tanaka reviewed her list of appointments and decided that today was the day. In five meetings through mid-afternoon, all held outside the White House, she had heard nothing but bad news, complaints, attempted money grabs, and self-serving excuses.
In space, the mirror-matter thrustors on one whole segment of the shield were below par. But instead of correcting the problem, the manufacturer's and integrator's representatives were busy pointing fingers at each other. In other space activities, half a dozen congressional groups were pushing to have another Sniffer built and launched. Celine detected a distinct whiff of pork barrel. She made a note: Check position and status of Sniffers. A dozen of the high-acceleration probes were already racing to sample the particle wave front on its way from Alpha Centauri. How would another one help?
More likely, lobbyists for the Sniffers' manufacturer were behind the political moves. The game never ended. If Sol were guaranteed to go nova tomorrow, today she would hear from lobbyists for sunscreen.
Meanwhile, closer to home, the Cabinet officer in charge of energy allocation did not seem to know the differences between fossil fuel, nuclear, and solar power plants, or be able to estimate the country's base load capacity of each. The head of the United States census had just informed Celine that "sampling errors" were responsible for the obvious and grotesque inaccuracies in the population count of the West Coast states. The chief of health services offered no explanation for the rise in the infant mortality rate in the rural South, except to suggest "unusual weather." They didn't know it yet, but all three men were out of a job. Incompetence was something you might be able to tolerate in easy times. These were not easy times. There had been no easy times in the twenty-seven years since Alpha Centauri improbably went supernova.
The good news was that Celine had only two more meetings on her schedule. Returning to the White House through the overcast heat of a July afternoon, she reflected on the bad news: that her two final encounters were likely to be the worst of all. She went straight to the Oval Office, sat down in her specially designed orthopedic chair, and told the autocom: "All right, send Mr. Glover in."
The armored door slid silently open and Milton Glover marched into the office. He stood before her and inclined his head. "Ma'am."
He was a great one for offering every respect due to the presidency. His inner feelings were another matter. "Sit down, Milton. It's good to see you."
The smile he gave her was that of a man without a care in the world. He remained standing and took a long look around the sparsely decorated office. His eyes lingered on the side table with its vase of Oceanus roses. He nodded appreciatively and sat down. "I've been here many times over many years, Madam President. And I must say, I've never known this place to look so good."
Beneath the compliment lay the second message: Presidents come and Presidents go. I was here long before your time, ma'am, and I'll be here long after you leave.
Milton Glover was of medium height and build, with blond hair, a fair moustache, and innocent eyes of pale blue. He was in his late seventies, but the telomod treatment gave him the appearance and bearing of a man in his forties. He laughed loudly, frequently, and in Celine's opinion wholly insincerely. He was also not nearly so smart as he thought he was.
"Thank you, Milton." Take all compliments at face value. "How can I help you?"
She had learned the quickest way to bring a meeting to the point. Nothing could be more polite than the simple question "How can I help you?" but it cut through all flowery courtesies. Of course, it was based on a cynical assumption: No one requested a meeting with the President who didn't want something. So far that premise had seldom been wrong.
"I won't take much of your time, Madam President." Glover spread his hands wide. "For myself, I want absolutely nothing. I am here on behalf of a group of concerned citizens."
"How can I help them?"
"The Trust In Government coalition is unhappy with this nation's most recent policy statements and budget proposals. It is not too strong to say that many of them—of us—feel betrayed."
"How so?" Advice from her political mentor: Let the visitor do the talking.
Glover pulled an envelope from an inside pocket. "Last year, an unprecedented thirty percent of our national resources went to the global protection project. That was already far more than can be justified. Now we see from this—your budget, signed with your own hand—that you propose to increase our contribution to the World Protection Federation to almost thirty-four percent. More than a third of the country's expenditures will vanish into space."
"Where it will be used to protect our citizens. All our citizens—including the members of the Trust In Government coalition."
Celine could see nothing remotely humorous in her statement, but Glover laughed heartily. "Madam President, you know as well as I do that there are less expensive ways of protecting our people. Particularly when you recognize that the bulk of the funds you are proposing to give away is drawn from the members of the TIG coalition. And our members will not be the primary beneficiaries of such gross expenditures."
Their meeting was being recorded. Milton Glover knew it. His statement was as close as he would come to what he really meant: Lots of foreigners don't contribute a dime, so screw 'em. Why should my friends and I build a space shield to protect a bunch of gooks? And why pay here at home, either, to save no-hope welfare trash and idlers who don't pull their weight?
TIG. Trust In Government. An old political principle, to give your organization a name that's the opposite of what you mean. As Vice President Auden Travis had said to Celine, "TIG doesn't really stand for Trust In Government. It stands for Troglodytes In the Ground. They want to dig holes to hide away from the particle storm, and to hell with everybody who has to stay outside."
Celine agreed with Travis, but Milton Glover and his friends controlled too much wealth and had too much influence to be ignored. They insisted that the mockery of language was with the World Protection Federation. WPF, their literature said, stood for Wasters, Paupers, and Foreigners.
"Milton, you give me credit for power I don't have. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't pull us out of the WPF. Remember, this country started the organization."
"Yes. Twenty-seven years ago, when you were still an astronaut. I know it was nothing to do with you. I don't even blame President Steinmetz." He saw her expression. Saul Steinmetz had brought her into politics, and he was her idol. Hale and hearty, though long retired, he was rich and powerful enough to be a TIG member. In fact, he was the one who had first warned Celine that the TIG consisted of a bunch of self-serving hogs.
Glover knew that Celine and Steinmetz were friends. He hurried on. "Old Saul did what seemed right at the time, starting a global effort to make the space shield. But now it looks dumber and dumber. The project is way behind schedule." (How did he know that? It was supposed to be secret information.) "A shield that's only half built when the particle storm hits is like a paper umbrella in a thunderstorm. Worse than nothing, because you don't know you have to run for cover."
"Milton, this year's budget is signed and sealed. I ask again, how can I help you?"
"I'll tell you, Madam President. It's something simple, and something you have the authority to do. The Nevada federal properties have been deserted and ignored for more than a quarter of a century. You could make them available for leasing by private interests."
Celine had been expecting another plea for reduced international support by the United States. Glover's request threw her completely. He was right; the Alpha Centauri supernova and the resulting population dip had emptied the Nevada federal lands. She had seen no mention of those lands in official reports during her five years in office. A proposal to open them to private leases would surely sail through without opposition.
But why was the TIG coalition—or anyone else—interested in Nevada? The whole state was barren desert.
Glover was not about to tell her. He was smiling smugly, waiting.
"I'll see what I can do, Milton. On the face of it, I see no reason why a request like that couldn't be granted."
"Quickly? If it would help, TIG can offer technical assistance in drafting an agreement."
"I'll see what I can do."
"Thank you, ma'am. And let me mention one other thing. If the federal lands in Nevada do get opened up for leasing, I guarantee there will be no further TIG opposition to this year's budget. In fact, we will support it." He was on his feet. "Madam President." He inclined his head politely, then turned and walked out.
Celine glanced at the clock. Four thirty-eight. Eight minutes since he walked through the door. Glover had certainly come through on his promise not to take much time. All she needed now were his motives. What did he know that she didn't?
She jotted another note to herself, Nevada?, and braced herself for the final appointment. She had never emerged from a meeting with her next visitor without feeling that she had been bested or manipulated—even in cases, like this one, where the meeting was held at her request. "Is Ms. Wheatstone here?"
"Not yet," the autocom said. "Her appointment is scheduled for five o'clock, nineteen minutes from now."
"Ask her to come in as soon as she arrives."
She and Maddy Wheatstone had much in common. They were bright, ambitious, overachieving women, successful in what were still largely male pursuits. Celine was farther up the ladder, but she was quite a bit older. Maddy Wheatstone had plenty of time to go anywhere she chose, and she seemed to know exactly where she wanted to go.
Celine checked the crib sheets prepared by her staff for each meeting. Maddy had just celebrated her thirty-first birthday. At that age Celine had been a member of the first Mars expedition, with never a thought of politics. Space had filled her whole life. When she first heard of the space shield it had seemed like the project of her dreams.
Celine tilted back her padded chair and stared up at the ceiling. Far above her head, Sky City moved in its high-inclination synchronous orbit. She could visualize the looping figure-eight pattern that it followed relative to the surface of the Earth, and she knew exactly where to look in the sky to find it. Twenty years ago, when Sky City was no more than a skeleton frame and a set of ambitious plans, her own role had seemed clear. She would work on completing Sky City, then construct the space shield that would save the Earth.
The yearning was still there. So why was she down here on Earth? Even when you were President, it was no more than a desk job. She could offer only one answer: People change. What Celine needed and wanted at thirty and at sixty were not the same.
Would Maddy Wheatstone change, as Celine had? Was she, too, plagued by worries and self-doubts?
If so, she disguised it well. The Argos Group had a reputation. It took the brightest young people in the world and rewarded them generously, but it worked them so hard that they burned out fast. After an average of two years, the new recruits had taken all they could stand. They left the organization and took their pick of jobs elsewhere—often with Argos clients.
Maddy Wheatstone had worked inside that crucible for nine years. Celine had observed her through five of them. In Maddy's case, heat and pressure had not destroyed. They seemed only to strengthen and harden.
Celine heard the sound of the door sliding open and tilted her chair back to its upright position. Maddy Wheatstone stood on the threshold.
Argos representatives all had certain things in common. Politeness was observed, even in such small matters as waiting to be invited into a room. Manners were deferential, even in cases where the Argos representative was offered rudeness in return. Dress was formal, stylish, and restrained. This afternoon Maddy wore a business suit of dark green and a white blouse, secured at the neck with a single cameo brooch. The design on the brooch was the Argos Group emblem, a blue-green globe gripped by a scarlet talon. Maddy's hair was piled high on her head, with not a strand out of place. Its shining blackness contrasted with the pale and flawless complexion.
"Please, come in. Sit down." Celine wondered about her own appearance. It had been a packed day of meetings, with minimal breaks to freshen up. She waved a hand toward the side table. "Can I get you something?"
That was more a polite formality than anything else. In five years of visits, Maddy Wheatstone had never accepted any form of stimulant. Perhaps public abstinence was another part of Argos policy. But today Maddy hesitated, then shrugged.
"A fizz, maybe? I think I could use one. Our bus from Sky City was grabbed for inspection—we had a mass anomaly—so it was a long trip back."
Human weakness. It was nice to know that even Maddy admitted to it. Celine pushed a small, bulbous flask toward the other woman and watched as she filled a tiny liqueur glass.
"Aren't you going to join me?" Maddy was smiling. Celine felt the intensity of personality shining through those sparkling blue eyes—more personality than she herself had ever had.
She shook her head. "Not this late in the day. If I did, I'd never get to sleep without a downer."
"Me too. I'll worry about that later. A lot later. I still have a meeting with Gordy Rolfe today after we get through. Gordy was always difficult; now I think he's getting worse. Anyway." Maddy Wheatstone raised the little glass. "Here's to successful enterprises."
She drained the glass, blinked a couple of times as the fizz hit, and sat staring at Celine.
Celine wondered. Was that what was eating at Maddy? Gordy Rolfe was Maddy Wheatstone's boss, an electronics wizard of legendary reputation who was also the founder and head of the Argos Group. Since Maddy's promotion to vice president of development, Gordy was her only boss. Celine had met him only twice, but he seemed a person likely to bring an edge of uncertainty to any employee's voice.
Maddy was calmer now, quietly waiting. This wasn't a supplicant asking favors, where Celine's "How can I help you?" might be applied. Celine wanted something out of this meeting, and Maddy knew it.
The place to start was with the simple mechanics. "Were you able to arrange for a meeting with Bruno Colombo when you go up to Sky City again?"
"It's all set. I can't claim credit, though. Gordy Rolfe fixed it for me through Nick Lopez. He says that's the only sure way."
"And the engineer who works for Colombo?" Celine glanced at her crib sheet. "John Hyslop?"
"That's where I'll earn my pay. I have to persuade Bruno Colombo that he can spare Hyslop, then I have to make him assign him to us. I just hope we have the right man."
"You haven't met Hyslop yet?"
"No. Next time."
"But he was your group's suggestion for the person to bring the asteroid work back on schedule."
"Based on what our staff on Sky City told us. Didn't you check him out?"
Celine nodded. Of course she had. The Argos Group had suggested Hyslop, but that wasn't enough. Her checks had all come back positive: Hyslop's reputation as an engineer was superb. But that didn't stop Celine from worrying. She wanted to meet John Hyslop herself, to take the gauge of the man. But she couldn't hold things up waiting for that meeting.
"When are you going back to Sky City?"
"Within forty-eight hours." Fatigue showed for a moment in Maddy's eyes, and the pale skin seemed a little too pale. "As soon as I've met with Gordy and we've put out a few fires locally."
"The sooner the better. We really need that third Aten asteroid to supply us with raw materials. You really need it. Without the asteroid, the shield schedule is a mess and Argos carries part of the blame for delay. But if we solve the schedule problem, then I may be in a position to help you."
That was as far as Celine was willing to go in a recorded conversation. It ought to be enough. More than six months ago the Argos Group had requested a license to construct a launch facility off the southern tip of Florida. Political pressure to veto the application came from World Protection Federation, but it was assumed that on this issue they acted on behalf of someone else. Argos had its eye—one of its many eyes—on a big new station in geostationary orbit. That would provide a jumping-off point into deep space that did not depend on Sky City. And Bruno Colombo, director of Sky City, had the backing of Nick Lopez, head of the WPF and a man with more power than most heads of nations.
The real battle was the Argos Group versus Sky City, and Celine had just taken sides. She was promising that Argos would get their license—as soon as the space shield project was back on schedule.
Maddy had picked up that commitment, and its conditions. She said nothing, but her tiny nod of the head was enough. They had a deal.
"How's it going on the Sky City murders?" The change of subject was Celine's way of telling Maddy Wheatstone that the main meeting was over. "If you can get results there, then everybody will owe Argos. Are you getting anywhere?"
Celine wasn't expecting an answer, but Maddy said, "We have someone assigned to it. I gather it's someone good, but as far as progress is concerned, I have no idea."
When the wind unexpectedly blows your way, hoist a sail. Celine kept her eyes away from Maddy and fixed on the round bottles of fizzes. "Your man doesn't keep you posted?"
"I don't think he keeps anyone posted—not even Gordy. It makes more sense than you might think. That investigation runs under Special Projects, so it includes special methods. Some of their stuff can get pretty ripe."
"Ripe how?"
But Maddy finally caught herself. "I couldn't tell you if I wanted to, because I don't know. I'd better be going. I've had my time and more."
"That's all right. This is my last meeting for today."
"So early?"
"Last official meeting. I still have to see who's waiting out there. When do you hope to bring Hyslop down from Sky City?"
"Three or four days, if I can. You think you'll be free?"
"I'll be free. I'll make room on my calendar even if I have to cancel an appointment with—" Celine paused. She had been about to say "God," but she didn't know Maddy Wheatstone's religious beliefs. She remembered the history of the Argos Group, and she finished weakly, "—my entire Cabinet."
As Maddy left, Celine made another note. MW's religion? It was not on her crib sheet. Her prep team was getting sloppy. She added a note about that, then turned on her autocom and spoke into it. "Maddy Wheatstone was the last of my scheduled meetings. Who's waiting?"
There would be someone. There was always someone.
The autocom answered, "You have nine individuals or groups of individuals requesting meetings."
She could ask for a ranking of priorities, but for such judgment calls the autocom was still unreliable. A more sophisticated piece of equipment was promised "soon," whatever that meant.
Meanwhile. "Put Claudette Schwinger on, if you please."
"One moment." There was a five-second silence, then the steady voice of the human appointments secretary. "Yes, Madam President?"
"Claudette, what do you have out there? Anyone we can offload to the VP or a Cabinet member?"
"Yes. Three of them should not be here at all. I suggest a meeting for the Surinam minister with the Secretary of State, followed by attendance at a White House dinner next week. All she really wants is to be able to say that she met with you, and it does not have to be one-on-one. The head of DNAture arrived early from Zurich, but his samples are still in transit. He has an appointment tomorrow, so I suggest we stay with that and arrange for accommodation tonight in the White House. That will please him. Dennis Larksbury of Con-Cern is here again, although we told him on his last visit that the thinning of the ozone layer is an inevitable consequence of the frequency of space shipments and the building of the shield. He wants us to stop building the space shield."
"He's a lunatic. Send him to Milton Glover and the Trust In Government coalition, with a note from me. They deserve each other. What about the others?"
"Everyone has legitimate reasons for meeting with you, except for two that I can't comment on because I have never heard of them. A Mr. Jahangir Hekmat represents the Society of Socinists, whatever that is. He was referred here by Secretary Branksome. The note from Mr. Branksome says, 'This may be important.' But it doesn't explain why."
"It can wait. What about the other one?"
"I do not know." Claudette's voice betrayed her irritation. She was a first-rate appointments secretary, with endless patience and tact, but she took any lack of information about White House visitors as a personal failing. "He says he was not referred here by anyone. He does not have an appointment. He refuses to tell me what he wants. I don't even know how he got into the building. All he says is that his name is Wilmer, and he insists that it's urgent—most urgent—that you meet with him right away."
Celine felt a tingle all through her. "What does he look like?"
"He's tall and broad, and a bit pudgy."
"Balding?"
"More like bald. With a high, lined forehead."
"Claudette, Wilmer is his first name. It's Wilmer Oldfield." She waited, and when no gasp of recognition came from the other end of the line, she went on, "Dr. Wilmer Oldfield was with me on the first Mars expedition. Tell everyone but him to come back tomorrow, say there's no chance that I can meet with them tonight. Then give me ten minutes alone before you show him in."
"Yes, Madam President. Ma'am, he insists that when he meets with you he must bring someone else."
"Who?"
"He says you don't know her and you have never heard of her. She's waiting in one of the outer offices."
"Security cleared her?"
"Apparently so, Madam President."
"Very well." Celine thought for a moment. Unless Wilmer had changed beyond belief, this was going to be a long session. "Arrange for us to have dinner here. Three of us."
She stood up, went through into the washroom off her office, and laved first hot and then cold water onto her face. She noticed that her cupped hands were trembling slightly.
Wilmer Oldfield.
Claudette Schwinger was what, twenty-six or twenty-seven? So much for fame. The appointments secretary was reasonably well-educated, and she could surely rattle off the names of the three Mars expedition members who had died. Zoe Nash, Ludwig Holter, and Alta McIntosh-Mohammad had monuments, separately and together, all over the country and all over the world. Celine's own name was also famous, because she was President. But Wilmer Oldfield, the brightest of them all, had quietly gone back to research in what was left of Australia, and the new generation didn't even recognize his name. Somewhere in the annals of the Mars expedition was surely recorded the fact that during the journey and for a year after the return, crew members Celine Tanaka and Wilmer Oldfield had been lovers. But that, to the post-supernova generations, was ancient history.
Since then there had been a quarter century of casual contact, without even a face-to-face meeting during the last ten years. When she had been elected President, Celine had informed Wilmer of her new position. His congratulations were sincere, but puzzled. Anything resembling politics was far over his horizon.
Wilmer never was flustered, never overreacted, never became overexcited. So why had he arrived unannounced for a "most urgent" meeting, bringing with him a total stranger?
Unlike Wilmer, Celine was a world-class worrier. Part of her internal jitters was at the thought of seeing him again after so many years; but a larger part was her conviction that he brought bad news. The final meeting of the day, she was sure, was going to be more disturbing than all the others combined.