Ill Wind

by Kevin J. Anderson

  He signed in at the visitor’s desk while the receptionist paged Moira Tibbett, his Sandia contact. Tibbett, a deputy leader of one of Sandia’s energy programs, had agreed to give Spencer the standard tour. She had faxed him a preliminary agenda—but he had lost it on his cluttered desk at White Sands.

  Sipping bitter coffee from a styrofoam cup in the reception area, Spencer fidgeted. He glanced at the colorful technical brochures on display, all of which described how Sandia would solve the nation’s energy problems for the next century.

  Not a good sign, he thought, since he was an outsider with a competing concept. Sitting down, he flipped through his viewgraphs again, balancing them on his knees. He wondered if he should take the clip-on necktie out of his briefcase and wear it. This may be laid-back California, but Sandia had a reputation for being more formal than the other national labs.

  When Moira Tibbett came through the gate, Spencer stood to shake her hand. “Sorry about being late. The traffic…”

  Tibbett was tall and straight-backed, dressed in an uncomfortable-looking plaid suit. “Don’t worry about it. We know all about traffic out here.” She led him to the chain-link gate and handed the uniformed guard the pink copy from an escort request form. “We appreciate you coming up to have a look, Dr. Lockwood. Are you familiar with our energy programs?”

  “A little.” Spencer already felt his muscles tense. He’d come here to promote his own program, maybe scare up some support. Sandia’s “exchange of ideas” sounded like a one-way filter.

  * * *

  That afternoon, discouraged to the point of surrender, Spencer entered the Sandia auditorium, trying to haul his spirits up by his bootstraps. He had put on his tie after all.

  In tour after tour, researchers had soapboxed about their projects, strongly implying that everyone else was wasting the taxpayers’ time and money. Busy enough battling their coworkers, they had no room to endorse some outsider’s solar-power program. Maybe this whole trip wasn’t such a good idea.

  The auditorium was already half filled. The room had three hundred seats, each covered with deep blue cushioning. Moira Tibbett stood tall and severe at a podium at the center of the wooden stage. The sounds of gathering people made a white-noise murmur. Spencer made a mental note to project his voice, even though these people didn’t seem to be in a listening mood.

  Below, waiting for his cue, Spencer shook hands with some of the scientists, muttering appropriate words about how he had enjoyed touring their laboratories; in response, they expressed eagerness to hear his talk. Sincerity seemed as scarce as extra funding, though. He found it difficult to keep up the act.

  Tibbett tapped the microphone to quiet the crowd. Showtime! Spencer thought. He reconsidered his viewgraphs, trying to pick a better slant for his talk. Nothing felt right.

  “The Director’s colloquium series is pleased to present Dr. Spencer Lockwood.” Tibbett pulled a few index cards out of the pocket of her plaid suit and glanced at her notes. “Dr. Lockwood is a Caltech ‘hat trick,’ having received his Bachelors, Masters, and Doctorate in physics there—very unusual for Caltech. He worked under Dr. Seth Mansfield in particle physics, helping to lay the foundation for Mansfield’s Nobel prize.”

  Spencer smiled tightly at the scattered applause. He always downplayed his contribution; he had been only an assistant, a second author on three of Mansfield’s papers.

  “…his power-beaming experiment, for which he won last year’s E. O. Lawrence Award. Dr. Lockwood has expanded his initial microwave work to incorporate dozens of small solar-power satellites, recently completing a series of ground-breaking tests on which he’ll now report. Dr. Lockwood?”

  Spencer looked out over the crowd. Placing the first viewgraph on the projector, he picked up the laser pointer and prepared for the worst. He could handle it. He had faced skeptical audiences before.

  He felt like a shipwreck survivor being circled by sharks.

  * * *

  Forty minutes later, the coldly polite comments kept coming. Spencer’s last viewgraph, a bulleted list of CONCLUSIONS, shone on the screen, but no one looked at it. His colleagues asked questions phrased as springboards for discussions of their own projects, rather than reflecting any interest in Spencer’s work.

  “—much less efficient than geothermal—”

  “—what about impact ionization effects, which are of course not present in fusion-power concepts?”

  Spencer answered each comment as precisely as he could; in the back of his mind he thought of Galileo defending his findings to the Inquisition. Out of the audience’s view, he gripped the podium, digging his fingernails into the fake wood. He found himself repeatedly sipping his glass of water, knowing it was a nervous gesture but unable to stop. The water tasted bitter.

  “—isn’t it true that artificial ethanol is easier to access?”

  “—now that the inherently safe TRIGA nuclear plant is cheaper to make—”

  The rebellious “young hotshot” part of Spencer was amused at their behavior—how different from the popular stereotype of cool, logical eggheads. He had heard it said that scientists were the only army in the world that killed their own wounded.

  Finally, he had enough of the bullshit. Spencer snapped off the viewgraph projector and gathered his transparencies. “Thank you for your time,” he said. Numbskulls, he wanted to add, but gave them a tight smile instead.

  As a wave of hypocritical applause rippled through the auditorium, Spencer tried to let the tension wash off of him. These people were not looking for results, or even alternate answers. Each person was responsible for a different solution to the same energy crisis, and each person wanted to validate only one individual area of research. If Lance Nedermyer enjoyed this political game back in Washington, he could have it.

  Moira Tibbett led him out the side door of the auditorium. “Dr. Lockwood, I must apologize.” Her eyes downcast, she looked beaten. “Everyone views this as a zero-sum game. There’s only a fixed amount of money to go around, and if anything new gets funded, something has to die. It’s not that they disagree with you on a scientific level—”

  “I understand.” Spencer forced a smile to soften his abrupt reply. He unclipped his guest badge and handed it to her. “If you’ll escort me back to the gate, I can find my rental car.”

  “Of course,” she said, taking the lead with brisk steps. “I can recommend some local restaurants, if you’d like.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said. Though his return flight did not leave until noon the next day, Spencer had no intention of staying a minute longer.

  Chapter 16

  The pile of papers from the “To Be Signed” stack fell off the conference table and scattered over the plush carpeting in the Speaker’s office. Jeffrey Mayeaux was too preoccupied with getting his hands up the young speech writer’s dress to notice.

  She slid back on the polished wood grain of the table, spreading her legs and finding purchase for her feet on the heavy padded chairs. The fabric of her skirt hissed across the surface. Mayeaux’s fingers stroked her waist—she was firm and muscular, no flab. Probably worked out at The Hill health club, running around in Spandex, sweating, jiggling her bodacious gazonkas. He closed his eyes and grinned at the thought. Time for some different aerobic exercise.

  She remained silent, without the usual cooing, gasping sounds he expected. Rather than letting it deter him, Mayeaux took it as a challenge. What was her name? Tina… Tanya. Great name. It made him as horny as a fallen priest just thinking of it.

  He hooked his fingers around the waistband of her pantyhose and slid them over her hips, her buttocks, lingering on the warm skin with his fingertips. He felt sweat tracing a damp line up his spine, in his crotch. She arched herself, giving him room to work with his hands.

  Tanya wore a slick peach-colored dress that slipped up nicely. Mayeaux pushed it out of the way and rubbed his fingers on the mound between her legs, rapidly growing impatient with the fabric of her pi
nk cotton panties. He slipped a finger under the panties, tickled the crisp pubic hair for a moment, teasing her. The strong musk of her arousal drifted to his nostrils, bringing back a memory of that first time he’d ventured into the French Quarter. His pulse felt all watery with excitement. He slipped his middle finger inside.

  “Oh!” she said. Finally. The young speech writer glanced at him, then looked away.

  This was a lot different from when Mayeaux had been much younger in New Orleans, cruising down Bourbon Street alone at night, gawking at the whores and the transvestites. He remembered screwing a dozen different women in humid and musky upper-level apartments, with the drapes open and the sounds of competing jazz bands drifting in from the street. Back then, he had to do a lot of work to get laid, but now the women came to him. One of the little bonuses of being the senior member of the House. He had to be grateful to a system that could do this for him, simply because he came from a state with no term limitations. And the best part was, his own wife let him get away with it. It was part of their agreement.

  Tanya arched back on the table, closing her eyes and tilting her chin in ecstasy. Stretching her arms above her head, she ran a tonguetip in a slow circle around her lips. She had fawn-colored hair, long with subtle curls held back by barrettes. Her crotch hair was full and tan.

  “Hold on for a Louisiana hot link with the works,” Mayeaux said, chuckling. Tanya didn’t seem to notice, and he didn’t give a coon’s ass. He had powerful constituents; he had already set himself up for life with enough pork-barrel projects in Louisiana that he could ease into a lobbying job at the end of his term. He did not intend to get reelected; he just meant to get his well-deserved reward before he left office.

  Unbuckling his belt, he pushed his pants and underwear down to his knees. He grabbed Tanya’s hips, positioned himself, and pushed inside her without further foreplay. He had a meeting in ten minutes.

  Mayeaux began pumping, and Tanya raised her legs further, opening herself wider for him. They both breathed harder. Her bare skin squeaked on the polished wood surface of the table. He grinned to himself, knowing that the Joint Chiefs would sit down at the same table in another hour. If they asked, he could convince them that the damp stains on the table were doughnut frosting. He wondered if they’d be able to smell the sex.

  Mayeaux kept himself in shape, and he did a good job in bed—or on the floor, or on the conference table…. But none of these sweet young things would look twice at him if he was an insurance salesman, a grocery store manager. The women in the Beltway knew how to advance their careers.

  Power was such an aphrodisiac.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Mayeaux noticed a brief, odd expression on Tanya’s face, a hint of boredom. She knew how to play the game—he had explained it to her in perfectly clear terms; it was part of the post-Anita Hill era. He just hoped Tanya didn’t give him some disease. At least after his vasectomy he had no worries about being slapped with a paternity suit.

  His escapades were becoming legendary, like JFK’s. He kept trying to push the limit, but somehow the boundary moved one step farther away for each indiscretion he committed. The media liked him, too; they seemed amused rather than outraged.

  Thrusting over and over again, Mayeaux ground his hips against Tanya’s, holding tight to her waist to keep her from sliding across the table.

  The door to the Speaker’s office popped open. His chief of staff Franklin Weathersee stepped inside. Mayeaux cursed himself for forgetting to lock the door. Weathersee glanced at the spectacle on the conference table, then calmly stepped back out of the room.

  Tanya gasped in shock and scrambled away, rolling off the table. Mayeaux fought back the urge to laugh. She snatched her pantyhose, pulling them up and yanked the smooth peach fabric of her dress back into place. As she brushed back her hair, Mayeaux thought he saw a look of relief on her face.

  Mayeaux buckled his pants and turned to call through the door. “Dammit, Weathersee, couldn’t you knock?” But he could never be angry at Weathersee—the man had saved Mayeaux’s butt too many times in the past.

  The door inched open. “Sorry, sir.” Weathersee dropped a stack of papers on the floor. “These are the briefing materials you wanted in preparation for the trip to Kirtland Air Force Base. It’s for the Tech Transfer Act.” Poking his head into the room, he glanced at the speech writer, then back at Mayeaux. “And whenever you’re finished here, sir, Vice President Wolani is on the phone for you.”

  Without a word, Tanya fled past him. Mayeaux scowled, but looked admiringly at her ass as she went out. He wondered when they would be able to finish what they had started. Or, if not with her, he’d get somebody else.

  For now, he’d just as soon have kept the Vice President waiting.

  Chapter 17

  After spending the morning in jail, Todd didn’t mind the long drive to Alex Kramer’s house, as long as he could keep the window rolled down and the fresh air blowing in his face.

  A load of crap had come down since that morning, and the rolling Marin foothills calmed him. He turned up the radio, tapped on the wheel, and sang along with an old Willie Nelson song. He was ready to unwind at the Oilstar “victory party” at Alex’s home. By spraying Prometheus, Todd had turned on the light at the end of the tunnel.

  As expected, Oilstar bailed Todd and Alex out after only a few hours in the Contra Costa County jail. Oilstar lawyers had been prepared and waiting. By early afternoon, Emma Branson had gone on TV, railing at the interference from do-nothing government agencies.

  Todd had never been in trouble with the law before, and having an arrest on his record really ticked him off; but once the charges were dropped, his sheet darn well better be clean. He’d placed an awful lot of confidence in Kramer’s microbes.

  Unexpectedly, he came upon Alex’s ranch house, half-hidden in the tall trees; he braked quickly in his Ford pickup, coming to a dead stop in the road before turning right into the long gravel driveway. Among the cars parked on the lawn and in the drive, no vehicle looked more than three years old, and there were more foreign cars than American ones. He shook his head. These same mineral-water-drinking lamebrains complained about America’s economy and then handed their buying dollars to some German or Japanese car company.

  Getting out of the truck, he jammed his cowboy hat down on his head. As he crunched up the driveway, he glanced at the split-rail fence extending along the one-story ranch house; a small barn stood just around the corner. He took a deep breath. The familiar damp, musty smell of manure told him Alex kept horses. Not what he expected from the quiet scientist.

  One of the secretaries from the bioremediation offices answered the doorbell. Not a secretary, he corrected himself; in California, the women called themselves ‘administrative assistants.’ She wore lots of makeup and was dressed to kill. He wondered what she would look like in jeans.

  Todd didn’t have time to say anything before she waved him inside. “Hey, everybody, our other convict is here!”

  Pianos and violins played snooty classical music on the stereo. People milled around the main living room near a small wet bar where they served themselves. Prepackaged hors d’ouvres sat out on a table: crackers, cut vegetables, cheese. A sliding glass door stood half-open, leading to a patio and the back yard. Other people chatted and laughed in the kitchen, leaning against the tile counters. From their dress, Todd supposed the guests had stopped by on their way home from work.

  He hadn’t yet seen the host. He wondered if Alex lived alone in such a big place. Somehow, this did not strike him as a bachelor pad. Even with all the gathered people, the sound of the music, the conversations, the house felt… unused, as if it had been closed up for a long time.

  Todd got himself a bottle of Coors from the small wet bar and stood nursing it, sloshing the foamy taste around in his mouth. He stood by himself in between other conversations, looking at all the people he didn’t know. He tried to smile as he shook hands, accepting congratulations for getting
the work done and for bucking the system. Trying to escape further conversation, he wandered down a narrow hall.

  Someone squeezed past him to the bathroom. Poking around, he opened the door to a closed room. Medals, newspaper clippings, and a battle streamer hung on the wall, just above the photo of a young man in a starched Army uniform. Other pictures surrounded the memorial—Alex himself standing by the boy in hiking gear, the boy crouched by the ocean holding an abalone shell.

  An adjacent wall featured a young girl. Photos of her at various ages were arranged in a circle: a ballerina, a Pioneer girl, a high-school cheerleader next to her mother—everything a proud and loving father would put together…

  Todd’s musings were interrupted by a loud voice and a slap on the back. “Cowboy Todd! Come on, loosen up, celebrate!”

  Todd turned to see Alex’s big-mouthed deputy, Mitchell Stone. “Mitch, how are ya?” He wondered if Mitch had gone to some expensive college to learn to be such a horse’s rear-end.

  “Just friggin’ great.” Mitch hung an arm around Todd’s neck. A fruity wine-cooler smell surrounded the man, mixed with the aroma of cheese dip. Mitch took a sip from the glass he held in one hand. “You know, the way things are going, we’re going to owe you a lot more than that consulting fee.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You made us heroes!” Mitch roared. Todd couldn’t figure out what was so funny. “It’s a great day for the future!”

  Todd squirmed out from under Mitch’s arm and steered him into the hall, closing the door behind them. He wondered about the pictures—who were those people? The displays of Alex’s… children?… made him uncomfortable. He wanted to protect Kramer’s privacy.

  “Give the bug time to work, Mitch, before you—”