Daniel stared at her with wide, delighted eyes. “I think you’ve hit it!” He exhaled a puff of smoke, savoring the tobacco aroma. “Their conferencing networks are the problem!” With the satisfaction of a physicist who has just solved a particularly difficult equation, he brought up statistics on the Institute’s communication networks. The number of people who used these products far exceeded the number who had had face-to-face contact with the Institute and its philosophies. “Don’t you see? The Zetetics operate some of the largest commnets in the world—Jobnet, among others.” Jobnet was universally used for finding people who could quickly plug into difficult or unusual jobs. “Anybody who contacted the Institute through something as practical and mundane as Jobnet would surely discount media blasts as sensationalism. In a sense, the Zetetic Institute uses word of mouth for all its important contacts—but the word of mouth is multiplied a thousandfold by automation. Jesus!”
Kira’s bright eyes acknowledged the accuracy of this analysis. “I’m sure you’re right.” Again she disturbed him; she didn’t seem quite as pleased as she should have been. “Though I’m not entirely sure what to do with the idea.”
Daniel paused for a moment, to give Kira’s creativity a chance to flourish.
She sighed. “I suppose we could flood the networks with the same kind of criticisms that were flooding the broadcasts with.”
“Excellent.”
Kira shrugged. “I’m not sure that its excellent. We could have a lot of trouble keeping an effective level of pressure in the system, particularly if they find out that there is pressure. Are you familiar with the Zetetic specialty known as conference pruning?”
“No.” Daniel sidled closer to Kira; she shifted her chair slightly away. “Tell me about it.”
“A conference pruner is a professional editor of network bulletin boards and conferences. The Institute runs a certification system for pruners. A certified pruner sweeps the texts on the net and categorizes all the statements into three categories: opinion, fact, and falsehood. They label the opinions with their implicit assumptions, circumscribe the globality of the facts, and purge the falsehoods.”
“Sounds like the land of subjective decision-making that we should be able to manipulate.”
Kira sighed again. “I don’t know. They take their certification pretty seriously.”
“I see. Perhaps a bit of outright bribery will do the trick.”
The idea of bribery shocked her, but only for a moment. The shock faded into a look similar to the look of awe she had had earlier, pondering the Institute’s immunity to media attack. “Of course. Surely some of them can be bought.” She looked at Daniel with bemusement. “I have trouble remembering the sizes and kinds of resources available to the Wilcox-Morris Corporation.”
Kira’s attitude toward unethical maneuvers matched his own quite nicely. Interesting. “I understand your problem. Wilcox-Morris has so many resources that even I lose track at times. But you’d better get comfortable with all of them, Kira. We’re in a fight for our lives with the people who hate us, and we need to fight ynth every resource available.”
He started to rise, to terminate the meeting, but Kira held up her hand. “What should we do with the media blitz? Cancel it?”
“Not at all. It can’t hurt, after all, as long as we’re discreet.” He rubbed his hands together. “I almost wish I could face off against Nathan Pilstrom myself, in public. It would be great to pit my world view against his in a showdown. I’ve reaa some of his writings; there are a lot of inconsistencies in his philosophy. I just know I could take him apart if I had the chance.”
“Really?” Kira studied his face cautiously. “Are you sure?”
His heart leaped into his throat for just a moment before answering, “Quite sure.”
“I might be able to arrange it.”
“Excellent!” he cried. “We wouldn’t want to try this undertaking just yet, of course; that would certainly increase his national visibility, as well as mine, and that’s dangerous to us from both directions.” A good tobacco baron needed to keep himself invisible if at all possible; he wanted his opposition to stay the same way. “But if the Institute keeps on growing, despite our sabotaging the net, it may be an appropriate risk.”
“I’ll start laying the groundwork,” Kira promised. With that she left.
Daniel crushed out his cigarette as he looked across the landscape. A jet wobbled down its landing path toward National Airport. This airplane, like so many others that had traveled the same path, seemed to scrape its belly against the pointed tip of the Washington Monument. Of course, this was just an illusion of the angle and the distance; in reality, the plane never came near the monument.
The Institute’s dependency on networking raised sev-era! inspirational opportunities. Jobnet was the lynchpin. As the controller of Jobnet, the Institute was eminently qualified for quickly assembling teams of people with diverse specialties. Those specialists could be scattered all over the country, or they could all live in the same condo complex. It didn’t make any difference; they could tele-commute, in any case.
With succulent joy, Daniel realized that the entire Zetetic organization was built around telecommuting. This information gave him the power to totally destroy the Institute.
The unions had been lobbying for years to ban telecommuting; it made it damn difficult to unionize workers. Until now, the tobacco companies had fought in favor of telecommuting, more because the unions opposed it than for any other reason. If it weakened the unions, it was fine with Wilcox-Morris.
Daniel returned to his desk and ran his hand across the smooth teak finish of the plaque hanging there. “I came, I saw, I conquered,” the plaque played back his motto. Daniel had swallowed whole corporations that held to this same belief. Could the Zetetic philosophy stop him?
Ah, how surprised the unions would be when the entire tobacco industry tossed its support behind the ban on telecommuting. Many organizations would fight them, of course, not just the Institute. Other people telecommuted as well. But the telecommuters had not formed the kind of potent power blocks that the unions and tobacco industry had. History would repeat. The unions had succeeded in outlawing the sale of homemade clothing decades earlier, when the invention of the personal sewing machine threatened the textile factories. Now, with Daniel’s help, the unions should be able to crush personal computer owners the way they had crushed personal sewing machine owners in that earlier era. Daniel could not imagine the unions and the tobacco corporations failing in a joint political enterprise.
How stunned the Institute would be when drawn and quartered by the collaboration! How sweet.
President Mayfield could not focus his attention on any one part of the nightmare. He winced every time his heart started racing too hard. Sometimes the thumping ended in a twisting spasm that made him want to clutch his chest. He looked down at the Presidential Seal woven into the carpet, but even that inspirational sight did not help calm him. They faced the greatest crisis of public confidence in his career.
His eyes shifted to Nell Carson, sitting in her usual position in the far corner, wearing her usual look of distant concern. She seemed relieved, almost happy, now that she knew what form the Soviet deception would take. He’d desperately wanted to exclude her from this meeting, this moment of terrible embarrassment, but he couldn’t. Not only would she not let herself be excluded, but in some sense, her rigid strength of character gave him a secure feeling. She always disagreed with him, but she never stabbed him in the back.
His eyes flickered to the television. He’d never before let televisions into the Oval Office, but now he couldn’t bear to see the news without the reassurance this room gave him. On the television his nightmare became vividly real, yet manageable and bearable, because the terror remained confined to the tiny screen. He thought about the millions of other viewers watching this broadcast and shuddered at the opinions they were certainly forming.
CUT. The scene shifts to a lone to
wn on a wide, rolling plain. Wheat grows in fields tended by men and women wearing oddly assorted garments. The clothing is typical of the styles of Iranian farmers.
Mayfield looked back at Nell, who continued to watch the screen impassively. Desperate to see an expression he understood, he turned next to Earl Semmens, seated near the window with the pinched look of a poker player whose bluff has been called. At least Earl showed the proper level of shock and dismay. At least Earl shared the president’s outrage and indignation.
ZOOM. The camera soars over the fields to view gray metal boxes against the horizon. Zooming still closer, the gray boxes resolve into battle tanks: Russian T~70s. In their wake, mashed pulp that was once wheat twists through the tortured soil. Bill Hardie’s voice speaks with studied anger. “This is the most blatant use of brute force ever made in our time. Despite all his long speeches about peace, Soviet leader Sipyagin has once again shown us his lust for war .”
Nell looked over at Mayfield for the first time. The corners of her mouth curled in a sad smile. “Now we know what they planned to gain from mutual force reduction.”
CUT. FOCUS. Hardies eyes seem to leap from the camera, to look directly at Mayfield. “But not all the fault for this new aggression should be placed at the doorstep of Sipyagin. It was our leadership that made it easy for the Soviet army to amass sufficient forces for this attack.” He paused for effect, and his anger grew more apparent. “Our sources tell us that this invasion is being carried out with the divisions released from Europe by the recent Mutual Force Reduction Agreement. If we had not rushed so foolishly into that agreement, this invasion could never have taken place.”
Mayfield clenched his teeth to keep from crying out at the distant announcer. Still, he could not help trying to defend himself. “Liar,” he growled, “its not true. I am not responsible for that invasion.” He turned to look at the other people in the room. “How can he say that? A month ago he thought the agreement was the best treaty we’d ever made.” Another image came to Mayfield: the image of the Nobel Peace Prize that should have been his. The image evaporated as he clung to it wistfully.
SOFTEN. The camera remains in the news room, fixed on Bill Hardies sober expression. “The Russian justification for the attack is Iran’s support for terrorists and rebels in the southwestern provinces of the Soviet Union. The Soviet invasion at dawn today started with the destruction of rebel bases within Iran. A Soviet spokesman has assured the president officially that this is just a minor police action, and the advance will terminate as soon as Iran has been purged of militant anti-Soviet groups. Since making the announcement, the fighting has spread rapidlyHardie purses his lips. ‘It would seem that the longer the Soviets fight, the more anti-Soviet groups they encounter.”
Nell spoke softly, almost gently, as if she were on Mayfield’s side. He looked at her with startled eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t see it coming. I should have. You know, we could have learned this from history. This is exactly how they prepared for their Afghanistan invasion decades ago. They made a big fanfare about pulling their troops out of Europe—just to move them into position for an invasion.”
The president shook his head helplessly. “What can we say to the people?”
Nell sat very still for a moment, then nodded her head as she said, “I don’t know what to say, but I know what to do. We should stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop making dangerous treaties.”
Mayfield’s voice rose defensively. “That wasn’t a dangerous treaty. We needed to reduce the number of soldiers pointing guns at each other in Europe. It was a good idea. It still is!” He leaned forward with a shrewd look. “And besides, they didn’t violate the treaty, did they? The treaty worked. People should keep that in mind.”
With an exhausted sigh, Nell agreed. “Yes, your treaty worked. Frankly, I imagine they would have invaded Iran even without the treaty. But, Jim, even though your treaty worked, it didn’t work the way you wanted it to. It didn’t make the world any safer. Did it?” Her mouth twisted in distaste. “More to the point, it didn’t make us any more popular, either.”
Mayfield shook his head. “I don’t get it. I know you don’t care about the next election. I don’t understand that, but I know it’s true. All you care about is whether we set them up to attack Iran. Yet, if you think they would have attacked Iran anyway, why complain about our treaty?”
Nell blinked. “I’m not complaining about that treaty, Jim. I’m worried about the next one.”
The president’s heart skipped again. He saw Earl looking at Nell with the same shock he felt. “What do you know about the next treaty?”
Nell laughed. “Only that you’re working on one, Jim. You’re an addict.” Her frustration came to the fore, spotlighted. “But don’t you see that we have to be careful about what we sign?”
“Of course we have to be careful. But we don’t have to be paranoid!”
Nell slumped back in her chair. Only the motion of her foot swaying rhythmically suggested the energy still waiting inside for a chance to act. “No, Jim, we don’t dare be paranoid either. That would be as bad as being naive.”
“What do you want me to do?” Mayfield almost screamed.
Her foot stopped moving. “I’d like you to let Senator Hilan Forstil review your next treaty before you sign it.”
“What? That man’s a warmonger!”
Nell leaned forward, speaking with carefully controlled anger. “No, Jim. Hilan is not a warmonger. He’s a hawk.”
“What’s the difference?”
“A warmonger is someone who wants to start wars. A hawk is someone who hates war, who will avoid war with fierce energy—but if forced into a war despite his best efforts, knows that he has to win.”
Mayfield felt his stomach tighten with revulsion. “That’s just what we don’t need working our negotiations—someone who has a vested interest in wrecking the treaty process. Forstil would give the media the biggest leaks since Arken published the radar signatures for Stealth bombers.” He rolled his eyes. “One little leak, and he turned billions of dollars of airplanes into museum pieces. That was an important factor in our getting into office in the first place. We can’t let our treaty process be handled that way.”
Nell stared at him in disbelief. “Jim, Hilan is on your side. Believe me.”
He couldn’t believe her. Forstil made him feel as uncomfortable as Nell Carson did. He had no intention of letting them gang up on him. “Let me think about it,” he said to put her off. He shifted in his leather chair, unsticking himself. He’d been sweating, despite the cool air that bathed him from the air ducts behind his desk.
“I thought you might say that.” Nell rose from her chair. For a moment her shoulders drooped, but with another effort, she stood straight, a radiant vice president. “Think about Hilan, Jim. He can help you.” She departed.
Mayfield buried his face in his hands. Why couldn’t he have been president during a simpler time? He had completed a longstanding presidential task during his second year of office, yet no one had noticed: he had the collection of portraits of president’s wives. This task had been underway since the days of Kennedy. That could have been his crowning achievement, if he’d lived in a reasonable world.
Well, just as he’d gotten the news media to love him yesterday, he’d get them to love him again tomorrow. A few more treaties, and he’d see that %Peace Prize once more on the horizon.
A sonic boom and a crashing explosion made him open his eyes; it was just the sound from the television.
The muggy July heat faded slowly in the twilight as Kira bicycled down South Lakes Drive toward home. Only the heat faded, however; the muggy humidity remained. It did not help her think, and she had some thinking to do. Uncle Nathan was coming to dinner. They would surely play the game of wonders, and this time Kira intended to win. It was about time she won: today was her twenty-second birthday.
She shook her head to throw the stinging perspiration away from
her eyes, regretting her choice of the bicycle for the day’s commute to the Institute. At last she turned left on Cabot and plunged downhill.
This section of the ride did not last long, but it was the exhilarating part. Kira dropped low in the saddle, building up speed. The cool wind whipped across her face.
She veered right onto the uphill road spur that led to her townhouse. She continued to coast, though her speed dropped alarmingly. It was a matter of honor, to get all the way home from here without any more pedaling.
The bicycle bumped into the driveway, and Kira dismounted just before it started to wobble. The humidity closed in around her, displacing the cool wind. In that moment, as the tropical heat returned, Kira had a small revelation—she knew a winning strategy for Uncle Nathan’s game.
She hurried to the bathroom and took a quick, cool shower, humming all the while at the thought of her upcoming victory. As she returned to the living room, however, her father interrupted her thoughts by thrusting a shiny, gift-wrapped package in her arms. “Happy birthday,” he bellowed, hugging her.
Another package plopped on top of the first one. “Happy birthday,” Uncle Nathan echoed with a softer smile.
Wonderful aromas circulated from the kitchen. Even as her nostrils flared, however, a pot lid clattered against a muffled explosion of air. Her father’s face took on the expression of a chemist who has just heard his carefully prepared solution pop from its test tube and spatter against the ceiling. He ran for the kitchen. “Hurry!” her uncle called to him. Then, with a wink at Kira, he walked in the same direction.
Putting her presents down, Kira went to watch the hysteria. The kitchen looked like a child’s playroom. Pots and pans teetered precariously on every inch of table space, and a fine film of flour coated the vertical surfaces. Her father muttered curses as he twisted dials and punched buttons. Uncle Nathan offered soothing sounds and gently stirred the biggest pot—the one full of chili. Kira could see, amidst the carnage, the makings of a gigantic chili-cheese pizza, a beautiful work of careful engineering.
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