Westlake, Donald E - Novel 51

by Humans (v1. 1)

  “But there ain’t any cocaine,” Pami said, and absendy patted herself, as though in approval of her innocence.

  “No, but they’re lookin at you,” the woman told her. “You don’t ever want the police lookin at you, because then they say you’re undesirable and they make you turn around and take the next plane back, and you don’t want to come back. Not here.”

  “No, I don’t,” Pami agreed.

  “I got it all planned,” the woman said. “First I go buy a couple better-lookin dresses than what I got. Then I buy a suitcase. Then I get my passport. Then I go to a travel place and say my rich boyfriend in the government just died and left me all this cash money, and I buy a round-trip ticket and I pay the travel people right here in Nairobi to get me a room in a hotel in New York, a regular tourist hotel so I look like a regular tourist, so then when I get on the plane nobody got any reason to look at me.”

  “Round trip? Why spend that money?”

  “They don’t let you in America if they think you’re gonna stay.”

  “You got it all figured out,” Pami said, in admiration.

  “It;s my way to dream,” the woman said. “Someday I’ll fly away from here. If I don’t fly on an airplane”—and she jabbed her thumb over her shoulder, pointing above the wall behind her—“I’ll fly that way. One how or another, someday I’ll fly. I like to dream about the good way.”

  Pami sat leaning forward, sharp elbows on skinny legs, looking at the woman, thinking about the different ways to fly She didn’t say anything. She felt calm. The bad dreams weren’t with her here, they were all down in the room.

  The woman turned her head, looking toward the eastern horizon. “Daytime,” she said. “Same old daytime.”

  Pami didn’t say anything.

  10

  The two-breakfast morning was bad for Congressman Stephen Schlurn, as he well knew, but how could he avoid it? There are only so many hours in the day, there’s a re-election every two years, and the primary job of any congressman is to keep in touch. It used to be a goal of hometown newspapers to mention every family in the area at least once a year, to keep alive the notion that this is your newspaper, which you should read all the time; a congressman’s task was similar, except there was the question of power added to the equation. Powerless families need not be stroked so often; the powerful need constant reassurance of their power.

  Thus the two-breakfast morning, and often the two- or three-lunch mid-day, the two-dinner evening, and, during campaign time, horrid “ethnic” snacks as well, all day long. Jerry Seidelbaum, the congressman’s chief administrative assistant, kept a large supply of tablet-form Pepto-Bismol in his attache case, but the damage was being done, nonetheless.

  This morning’s first breakfast, at eight, was in a yellow- concrete-block-and-glaring-overhead-fluorescent-light Knights of Columbus hall, with an entire Little League’s coaching staff, the kind of local businessmen who volunteer their time and effort and money—good qualities, very good qualities—but only to what they think of as manly endeavors.

  Congressman Schlurn found it hard as hell to be manly at eight in the morning, but that was the task, so his remarks were modified Harry Truman give-em-hell stuff, with some slighdy off-color baseball jokes thrown in. The food was miserable dank scrambled eggs that looked like Litde Orphan Annie’s hair and tasted like baby vomit, plus Vienna sausages that had been cremated for several days and white toast drowned in butter.

  This way lies cardiac arrest. The congressman contented himself with just enough coffee to give him heartburn, smiled for an hour, and got out of there just as rapidly as he could.

  In the car, with Lemuel the chauffeur up front and Schlurn and Jerry Seidelbaum in the roomy back, Schlurn moodily chewed Pepto-Bismol and listened as Jerry briefed him on breakfast number two: “The food should be better, anyway.”

  “That doesn’t help. What I need is no food, possibly for a week.”

  Jerry knew not to respond to Schlurn’s self-pity, but merely to march on: “Your host is Hodding Cabell Carson, president of Grayling University.”

  “Ah, Grayling,” Schlurn said, smiling in a rare moment of honest pleasure. “They gave me an honorary degree once, didn’t they?”

  “Twice. Nine years ago, and three years ago.”

  “Lovely place. Ivied buildings, long walks in the quad. That’s where I should have gone.” In fact, Schlurn had gone to Queens College and City University in New York; his law degree was the sort that made Ivy Leaguers smile patronizingly. But a congressman didn’t get smiled at patronizingly, no matter what his collegiate background; one of the advantages, to make up for those scrambled eggs.

  Jerry said, “In addition to Carson, there will be Tony Potter, chief executive officer of Unitronic Labs.”

  “Defense?”

  “Only peripherally. Blue-sky stuff, mosdy, alternative energy sources.”

  “Oh, God,” Schlurn said. “Windmills.”

  “No, no, no, Steve, these aren’t Greenpeace people. They’re a wholly owned subsidiary of Anglo Dutch Oil.”

  Which rang a bell. Schlurn said, “I’ve met Tony Potter. He’s a Brit.”

  “Almost to excess,” Jerry commented.

  ‘What’s our subject?”

  “Dr. Marlon Philpott.”

  Schlurn’s round pasty face wrinkled with thought. “Why do I know that name?”

  “Scientist. Physicist. Testifies in Washington sometimes.”

  “He teaches at Grayling, right?”

  “He’s one of the jewels in their crown,” Jerry agreed. “He’s also funded by Unitronic.”

  ‘Will he be there?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  ‘Then what’s the purpose of our joyful gathering?”

  “I imagine they’ll tell us,” Jerry said, “when we get there.”

  * * *

  Schlurn remembered Carson when he saw him again: the kind of vainglorious WASP who made his teeth ache, as though he’d bitten down on aluminum foil. Being, like all American WASPs, a fawning anglophile, Carson introduced Tony Potter as though he were the Second Coming at the very least. “From across the pond,” Carson said, showing his big horse teeth. “We’re happy he could make time this morning. Happy you both could.”

  ‘We’ve met,” Tony Potter said. His handshake was firm without being aggressive. A big-boned but trim man in his mid-forties, with a pleasantly lumpy face and calmly self-confident eyes, he would have stood six foot four if he didn’t slouch so much, as though his spine were made of rubber. That the slouch itself was a form of condescension to the lesser orders was clear, but unimportant; Tony Potter was insignificant to the life and career of Stephen Schlurn. It was Hodding Cabell Carson who was important to Schlurn, unfortunately.

  The fifth member of the group was Wilcox Harrison, Grayling’s provost, from the same background as Carson but less obnoxious. Introductions were completed and idle breaking- the-ice chitchat continued for a minute or two in Carson’s impressive office before Carson said, ccWell, shall we go in to breakfast?”

  “Lovely,” Tony Potter said, and smiled at Schlurn, saying, “My third of the morning, actually”

  “Only my second,” Schlurn said, warming to the man.

  Carson, sounding a bit frosty, as though he didn’t like hearing about other suitors to his guests’ hands, said, “Well, I think you’ll find this the best of them. Shall we?”

  They were about to file through the dark-paneled door when Carson’s secretary—a pretty girl—came in from the outer office with a small white slip of paper in her hand. “Congressman? Your Washington office called. Mr. Metz?”

  Now what? Schlurn looked pleasant: “Yes?”

  “He wanted me to give you this reminder.”

  “Thank you.” Schlurn took the paper from the girl, who left as he turned it around and read, “Remember Green Meadow.” He frowned, and showed the note—it was on one of those “While You Were Out” forms—to Jerry, saying, “That’s not t
ill Thursday, is it?”

  “That’s right.” Jerry grinned. “A little panic in the office while the boss is away.”

  Schlurn shook his head and tucked the note into his side jacket pocket, and they went on to the next-door dining room for breakfast.

  * * *

  Wonderfully fresh orange juice. Chilled sweet melon. Thin- sliced salmon and cream cheese with triangular toast dps. Velvety coffee. All in a room with portraits of former Grayling presidents on the walls, silent black servitors, and wonderful views of the campus out the windows. It was as though that Knights of Columbus hall and those scrambled eggs had never been.

  Carson was, if nothing else, a gendeman; he did not bring up the subject of the meeting until the plates had been cleared and his guests were setded comfortably with their final cups of coffee and small chocolate candies. Then, steepling his fingertips over his coffee cup, looking at his own fingernails rather than meeting anyone else’s eye, he said, ccWhat I5d like to talk with you about this morning, Steve, Tony, if I may, is a small problem here at the university you might be able to help me with”

  Chuckling, Tony said, “A small problem, Chip?”

  While Schlurn thought, I will never call him “Chip,” Carson chuckled back at Tony and said, “Small with your help, I think.” “And what is the name of this problem?” Tony asked. Carson sighed. “Dr. Marlon Philpott.”

  At once, Tony’s expression grew more serious. He said, “Women? Alcohol? Embezzlement?”

  But Carson, almost in a panic, was madly waving his hands in front of his face, like a man bedeviled by gnats. “Oh, no, no, no,” he cried, “nothing like that. Good heavens, I don’t want to malign the man’s reputation.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” Tony said. “What in fact is his problem, then?”

  “Explosions,” Carson said.

  They all waited for more, sitting around the table like people who haven’t quite gotten the joke and know they haven’t quite gotten the joke, but Carson had said it all. Silent, he sipped coffee and looked at them in mute appeal.

  Since Tony had been handling the conversation up till now, Schlurn saw no reason to leap in at this baffling juncture, so he sat back, fiddling with his coffee cup’s handle—even velvety coffee is less than pleasant if you already have heartburn—and eventually Tony said, “Do I take you to mean, Chip, that our friend Marlon blows things up?”

  “Not often,” Carson said. “I’ll give him that, the explosions are rare enough. But, gendemen, look at this setting!” he cried, passion suddenly in his voice as he gestured broadly at the windows. “This is not the setting for explosions! Not even occasional explosions, minor explosions, unimportant explosions. The students are not paying twenty-two thousand dollars a year to be in an environment of explosions.”

  With a reminiscent grin, Tony said, “Some of them might quite like it, if I remember rightly my own undergraduate days.”

  “Their parents wouldn’t,” Carson said.

  “Quite right,” Tony said. “Point taken. And now you have something to suggest to alleviate this problem, I take it?”

  “It’s more in the form of a question, or a request, than a suggestion,” Carson said. “What I would like to do, with your assistance, Tony, and yours, Steve, is find Dr. Philpott another location, not terribly far from campus, for his laboratory.”

  Tony frowned, clearly not seeing it. “Some sort of concrete bunker out in a field somewhere, you mean?”

  “Oh, no, nothing like that.” Carson toyed with his coffee cup, choosing his words. “Dr. Philpott does need a fairly sophisticated infrastructure in which to work. I was thinking, frankly, in terms of an existing installation, I don’t know yet precisely which installation, but one that could house Dr. Philpott in the manner he requires, but would at the same time be more... adaptable to the idea of the occasional small controlled explosion.” “I can’t think what sort of installation that might be,” Tony said.

  “Well, that’s where Steve comes in,” Carson told him, smiling at Schlurn with those big teeth.

  I’m not going to like this, Schlurn thought. He said, “I do?”

  “Through your excellent efforts,” Carson pointed out, “we have a number of military bases in this general area.”

  Damn right. One of the key issues for the voters in every election is jobs, and one of the very finest sources of local jobs is a nice military base. Every congressman fights to get more than his share of the nation’s military presence in his district, and Schlurn had seniority enough, clout enough, friends enough, to have done very well in that department.

  But so what? Warily, the congressman said, “We do have a few army bases, yes, and air force, too. And that supply depot, and a few other things.”

  “One of those,” Carson said, “one of the army bases, say, might be just the perfect spot for Dr. Philpott.”

  “Oh, now,” Schlurn said, stalling, putting his cupped hand up in front of his mouth (his habitual gesture, though he didn’t know it, when in a tight spot), “now, wait a minute, I’m not sure the army would like—”

  “If Unitronic Laboratories, meaning Tony here,” Carson interrupted, “were to finance the construction of a new lab for Dr. Philpott to military specifications, guaranteeing that whatever— incidents—might occur would be contained away from the normal areas of the base..

  “I suppose we could do that,” Tony said, “but on an army base? Steve, do you think you could deliver such a thing?”

  He did not. Schlurn imagined himself in conversation with one of those desk-cowboy generals over at the Pentagon, trying to introduce explosions to an army base. In no way did he want to make such an attempt, to even ask the question, to get the outraged refusal he fully anticipated and knew he would fully deserve. No way.

  How to get out of this? How to refuse to even make the request? They were all watching him, waiting. Aware of the sympathetic panic in Jerry SeidelbaunTs eyes, knowing Jerry was not going to come up with any last-minute rescue here, he temporized, saying whatever came into his head: “Well, you know, uh, these are difficult days for the military—”

  “All the more reason,” said the implacable Carson, “for them to be accommodating.”

  Oh, God. What to do? Schlurn turned to Tony. “What exacdy is this research Dr. Philpotfs into? Something about alternate sources of energy?”

  “Strange matter,” Carson said sardonically, as though the words were some sort of presumptuous stranger at the gate.

  “Yes, that’s right,” Tony said. He told Schlurn, “We’re using up the most fruitful sources of energy on the planet, so eventually, and sooner rather than later, we’ll have to go into other realms to find fresh energy.”

  Schlurn, not liking the sound of that, said, “Other realms?”

  “According to the scientific chaps,” Tony said, “the two likeliest new sources of energy—almost infinite energy, in either case—are strange matter and black holes.”

  Schlurn said, “Aren’t black holes something in outer space?”

  “Yes, they are. Extremely dense areas between the stars that give off no reflection at all. Such great density means, if we could tap into a black hole, we’d have energy and to spare for as long as human beings exist.” Tony grinned, and shook his head. “Putting the necessary cable into place,” he said, “several light-years long, is a problem we haven’t quite surmounted yet. Or alternatively, like the Saudis roping an iceberg and dragging it home to the Persian Gulf, to lasso a black hole and tug it to the solar system also still has a few bugs in it to be ironed out. Which leaves strange matter.”

  Schlurn said, “Which is?”

  “Well, I’m not quite sure,” Tony admitted. “Something like anti-matter, I take it. But very dense, like black holes, and therefore potentially another limitless source of energy. Some scientists, our Dr. Philpott among them, believe it would be possible to create strange matter here on Earth, which eliminates the access problems of the black holes.”

  Sc
hlurn nodded, thinking hard. “So what Dr. Philpott is doing,” he said, “is looking for an extremely powerful new energy source.”

  “That’s about it.”

  And that, Schlurn told himself, is what I’m supposed to sell the Pentagon as a desirable new neighbor. Lord, deliver me from this. How do I get out of this?

  And then, in the depths of his sweaty despair, he suddenly remembered that litde piece of paper in his jacket pocket, the reminder from A1 Metz, delivered by Carson’s secretary. His hand came down from his mouth. His head lifted. His spine straightened. “Green Meadow,” he said.

  They all gave him the same blank stare. Finally, it was Carson’s number two, Harrison, who said, “What about it?”

  Schlurn turned to Tony Potter. “Your Unitronic is connected with Anglo Dutch, isn’t it?”

  Tony smiled. “We are their creature,” he said.

  “And isn’t Anglo Dutch one of the partners in the consortium that owns Green Meadow?”

  Now they got it, and they stared at him as though he’d completely lost his mind. Again, it was Harrison who first found voice: “Congressman, Green Meadow is a nuclear power plant?

  “Of course it is, I know that, I had more than a litde to do with making the state adjust some of its regulations so the thing could be built in the first place.”

  Harrison shook his head. “You’re suggesting we take a man who makes explosions and put him in a nuclear power plant?”

  “Why not?” Schlurn was fired by his idea now, and could defend it as though before the entire House. “God knows the place is used to explosions, that’s what a nuclear power plant is, an endless series of controlled explosions from which we draw off useful power. If it’s possible to build Dr. Philpott a laboratory that would contain any explosion he might come up with, if you’re saying we could do that at an army base, then why not at a nuclear power plant? And the corporate entities involved are interconnected: Unitronic, Anglo Dutch. No complexities of the kind you’d get if it were a government installation.”