by Ben Bova
Before Dan could decide what to do about the young pickpocket, a trio of lanky teenagers raced past, dodging through the crowd. In the brief glimpse he got of them, Dan thought they looked Hispanic, or perhaps even Oriental. One of them was holding a shoulder bag by its strap, maybe a woman’s bag, flapping loosely as they ran at top speed toward the exits.
The black cop dropped his truncheon and yanked the pistol from the holster at his hip. Dan dove for the floor, yanking the kid down with him. But before the cop could fire, Dan heard the boom of a shotgun. Twisting his head, he saw two of the teenagers staggering backward and collapsing to the floor, their faces and chests torn into ragged masses of bloody flesh. The third teenager, the one with the bag, skidded to a stop and raised his hands. A white policeman raced up to him and belted him across the face with his truncheon. He went down, too, his body thudding heavily against the dirty tiles of the floor.
“On your feet and on your way,” the black cop bellowed, stuffing his pistol back into its holster. His face was angry, scowling. “Come on, get up and get moving. All of ya.”
Dan got up from the oily, filthy floor, feeling as if he had exposed himself to every disease known to medical science. He released the kid’s wrist and made a silent shooing motion. The youngster faded into the crowd. Nobody stayed around to watch what happened to the three purse snatchers. Dan followed the crowd to the train for Washington.
It was almost midnight by the time the train pulled in to the capital, three hours late. Dan was hungry and irritated. He felt dirty, rumpled, soiled. The train’s air conditioner had not worked at all, and the bullet-proof windows could not be opened, so the only way to get any relief from the heat was to stand in the open, between the cars. But the guards at each end of the car would not let any passenger out onto the platforms. Too dangerous, they said. People throw things at the train. Snipers like to pick off passengers who stand on the platform.
The train stopped for almost half an hour on the outskirts of Washington while special security teams, in smoke-gray uniforms with shiny black belts and boots, searched every passenger and each piece of luggage. “For your own protection,” they said, murmuring the slogan over and over again, like a religious chant, as they moved from one passenger to the next. Dan hoped at least that the stern-looking brunette who seemed to be the team leader would be the one to frisk him. Instead he got a sweet-faced young man who searched him so thoroughly that Dan became convinced he was gay and enjoying himself.
Welcome to the nation’s capital, Dan said silently to himself.
As he stepped off the train, a pair of slim young men met him. They looked alike enough to be brothers. Both were dressed in conservative light suits, both had thick mops of carefully combed light brown hair, both were clear-eyed and smiling the kind of relentlessly cheerful, dazzlingly toothy smiles that Dan always associated with earnest young evangelists who were determined to save your soul whether you liked it or not.
“Mr. McKinley?” one of them asked, using Dan’s prearranged alias. “Come with us, please.”
They escorted Dan into an unmarked light gray sedan, where one of them scanned him and his one travel bag with an electronic sensor as the other drove out into the empty, silent, dark street. Instead of heading directly to the White House, as Dan had expected, they drove along the Mall to the garage under the former Air and Space Museum-which had been “closed for renovation” for more than two years. There they transferred Dan to another car, with another team of security agents, two men and two women this time, who searched Dan and his bag still again. Only then was he driven to the White House.
Even though it was slightly past midnight by now, there was a sizable throng of pickets ringing the White House. In the glare of the police searchlights that played on the crowd, Dan could read their placards as they shuffled glumly along:
WE NEED JOBS
A WOMAN’S PLACE IS IN THE HOME,
NOT THE WHITE HOUSE
STOP POLICE TERROR
FARMERS ARE STARVING!
The woman sitting on Dan’s left glanced at her wristwatch. “I thought they were going to break this up by midnight,” she complained.
“Guess the riot squad’s running late,” said the man sitting on Dan’s other side.
“Or they gave ‘em some extra time to disperse,” the driver suggested.
“They don’t look like they’re dispersing.”
“They will, once the riot squad opens up on ‘em.”
All four of the security agents laughed, and Dan felt an unpleasant chill tingle his spine.
The picketers made no attempt to stop the car, and within a few minutes Dan was passed through the most elaborate security check of all, relieved of his travel bag and ushered by a tall, lithe black woman into a tiny elevator that took him to the upper floor of the White House, the President’s living quarters. His escort was no household servant, Dan knew. She probably had a gun on her somewhere; Dan amused himself for a few moments, speculating on where it might be hidden. She eyed him coldly, like a snake ready to strike.
The elevator door slid smoothly open and Dan stepped into the long Center Hall, warmly decorated in yellow and white, with bookshelves lining one wall and comfortable soft chairs and sofas scattered about the gold carpet.
“Wait here,” said his escort. She went to a door and tapped on it. Dan could not make out the words that came from the other side of the door, but his escort beckoned him with a crooked finger.
She opened the door and motioned Dan inside. Jane was sitting at a tiny wooden desk, talking low and intensely into a telephone, her eyes fixed on the phone’s small picture screen. A man’s face filled the screen, the beefy, red-eyed, overwrought face of a thoroughly angry man. He looked like a cop to Dan. Jane held the phone receiver to her ear, so that Dan could not hear her conversation. He could read the cop’s lips, though: he was complaining about not having enough personnel to do everything that was expected of him.
Dan looked around the small sitting room. It was cluttered with old Victorian furniture, darkish and gloomy. The long windows were completely covered by closed brown paisley drapes. A little chandelier holding seven electrified candles dangled on slim rods from the ceiling. The rosewood coffee table had been set with a tray of liqueurs and two oversized snifters.
“Hello, Dan,” Jane said as she put down the telephone.
“It’s good of you to see me.”
She got up from her chair and crossed the room, both hands extended to him. “It’s good to see you again.”
She was wearing a silk brocade robe of pale pink, almost apricot; very feminine, very alluring as it clung to her tall stately figure. Her rich auburn hair flowed loosely to her shoulders, catching the light from the chandelier with a coppery glow. She looked tired, but her face was almost unlined, her green eyes clear and not as suspicious as the last time they had met.
Gesturing to the settee, Jane said with a slight smile, “I made certain that your favorite brand of Armagnac was brought here.”
“You should try it.” Dan smiled back.
“All right. I think I will.”
They sat side by side on the settee and Jane allowed him to pour a splash of Armagnac into each of the snifters.
“It looks like you’ve got some troubles tonight,” Dan said.
“The picketers? They’re here every night. Usually the police clear them out by midnight. They’re running a little late tonight.”
“Do you think you’ll be reelected?” Dan asked.
“I expect to be.”
He raised his glass to her. “Well, here’s to victory in November, then.”
She nodded once, then sipped at the brandy. Dan took a good swig of his, and let it slide down his throat, smooth and warm.
“The Russians stole your ship,” Jane said, with no preliminaries.
“Yes, but I got my men back.”
“You did lead the raid on Lunagrad yourself.” It was not a question.
He grinned
boyishly. “Yes, I did.”
“That was a very courageous thing to do. Foolish, but courageous.”
“I got them into the pickle they were in; it was my responsibility to get them out.”
Jane leaned back in the settee and swirled the liqueur in her glass. “But the Russians still have your ship, and they’re going to claim in the World Court that you’ve endangered the whole world by altering the orbit of that asteroid.”
With a little laugh, Dan said, “They can claim whatever they like. By the time the World Court takes up the case, the asteroid will be in a permanent orbit around the Earth, no more dangerous to us than the Moon is.”
“Unless the Russians alter that orbit.”
Dan hesitated a moment. “Why would they … Oh, sure, I can see why. To discredit me. But they can’t push the asteroid into a trajectory that’ll impact the Earth. It’d be like dropping a hundred H-bombs on the area where it hits.”
“They could drop it into the ocean, couldn’t they?”
“I suppose so,” Dan mused. “What have you heard? Are they up to something?”
The President shook her head. “My scenario analysts have been playing with their computers. The chances that the Russians would push the asteroid into an Earth impact are very small-less than five percent.”
Dan waited for the other shoe to drop.
“But if they do it,” Jane continued, “the chances that they will aim the asteroid at an American city are better than fifty percent.”
“That’s crazy!” Dan snapped.
“Is it? Suppose the asteroid hits New York, or even Washington? What effect would that have on the World
Court? Or on world opinion? Where do you think Dan Randolph could hide from the lynch mobs?”
Dan reached for his snifter and took another long swallow of Armagnac. “Do you have any evidence that the Russians are planning to do this?”
“None whatsoever. But they could, any time they choose to.”
“It doesn’t make sense.”
“It makes perfect sense, and you know it!” Jane’s green eyes flashed. “That’s why it is critically important that neither you nor I do anything to antagonize them.”
“Just let them have their way, huh? Well, I never believed in the Chinese advice to a woman about to be raped. I like the American advice better: Kick the bastard in the balls.”
“Dan, you’re such a fool! Why can’t you face reality? Why can’t you see the world as it is?”
“I do see the world as it is, and I hate it.”
“But don’t you understand what’s happening? Can’t you see that the Russians are going to lose, in the long run? If we can hang on . .
Feeling suddenly confused, Dan asked, “What are you talking about?”
“In the long run, we will prevail,” Jane said firmly. “The Soviet system is crumbling, bit by bit. a little more each year, each day.”
“Crumbling? I don’t see …”
“They’re getting fat and lazy,” Jane insisted. “Their economy is sinking deeper into the morass every year. They’re dependent now on Western goods and Third World raw materials. They buy manufactured items from you and the other space factories. …”
“And set the prices for raw materials,” Dan added. “And the prices for oil. And the prices for foodstuffs.”
“But how long can that go on? They never could compete with a free economy, and they’re falling farther behind with every luxury item they import.”
Setting his snifter down on the coffee table, Dan replied,
“They don’t have to compete, Jane. They command. They run the world’s economy because they have nuclear weapons and a huge army, and we don’t. They have the guns, and the power.”
She got to her feet and began pacing the little room. “You don’t understand. Yes, they have the power-for now. But it’s slipping from their fingers, a little at a time. If we can be patient, if we can hang on for another decade or so, the Soviet system will dissolve. The Russians themselves will get rid of it.”
“Bullshit!” Dan exploded. “That’s the same kind of thinking that got us into this mess in the first place!”
“Don’t raise your voice to me,” the President said.
“Double-dammit to hell, Jane, I’ve been hearing that kind of crap all my goddamned life! Don’t antagonize the Soviets, they might get angry and start a nuclear war. They’re paranoid, so we’ve got to treat them very carefully. Let’s reduce the number of weapons we’ve got, that’ll make the Russians feel safer. Jesus H. Christ! We disarmed ourselves piece by piece and all they did was build better weapons and more of them!”
“That’s all in the past,” Jane admitted. “But now we can outlast them. Socially, politically, economically, we’re stronger than they are, Dan. Time is on our side.”
“You’re just dreaming, Jane.”
“It’s no dream.” She faced him with glaring eyes. “My forecasters have examined every possible scenario. The computers show it quite clearly. The Soviet system will fade away”-a smile lit her face-“just as Marx always said it would.”
“And what do we do until that happy day?” Dan grumbled. “Bend over so they can kick us harder?”
“We do nothing to antagonize them,” Jane answered. “We let events take their natural course.”
With a shake of his head, Dan said, “No, Jane. Not me. I don’t care what your forecasters and your computers say. The Soviet system isn’t going to fold itself up and disappear.
They have the whole world in their grip, and they’re tightening that grip every day.”
“For the time being.”
“The time being? Jesus Christ, Jane, look outside your own window! This country’s falling apart! They’re hungry out there. They have no jobs. Their money’s worth nothing. They have no future to look forward to.”
“I know it’s going to be difficult,” Jane said, almost in a whisper. “But there’s no other way. We’ve got to walk through the fire.”
“Not me,” said Dan, getting to his feet. “I’m going to fight those sonsofbitches in every way I can.”
“That will just make things worse.”
He stared at her long and hard. She really believed what her aides were telling her. She really thought that, given time, the Soviet system would collapse. What they haven’t told her, Dan realized, is that the American system is already collapsing.
“Jane,” he said, softening his voice, “I came here to ask for your help … or at least your understanding.”
“Are you going to fly out to another asteroid?”
She was smiling again, smiling at him like a patient schoolteacher or a mother who knows that her boy has been up to some mischief. She doesn’t know, Dan told himself. The hijacking scheme hasn’t leaked.
“It doesn’t matter what I’m going to do,” he said, feeling weary of the whole business. “I came here to get your support, but I can see that it’s useless.”
For a long moment, Jane said nothing. Dan could see uncertainty in her eyes, conflicting emotions playing across her beautiful face.
“Then why don’t you give me your support,” she blurted. She said it quickly, all in a rush, as if she were afraid the words would not come out at all if she spoke at her normal pace.
They stood facing each other, the little coffee table between them. “What do you mean?” Dan asked.
“Stay here with me, Dan,” said Jane. “I need your strength, your courage.”
“Stay?” He felt an electrical shock surge through his guts. “You want me to stay-here?”
With three quick strides Jane was in his arms, head nestled against his chest. “I want you, Dan. I don’t want to face the world alone. I need you beside me.”
He laughed softly. “Jane, do you have any idea of what the media would do to you if you-”
“They can be controlled,” she murmured. “They won’t get in my way.”
“But we never did agree on politics,” he reminded her.
“I can trust you, Dan. The others all have their own axes to grind. I can rely on you even when we don’t agree.”
“We’d be at each other’s throats the first day.”
She replied, “I was thinking more about the first night.”
Dan held her tightly, inhaling the scent of her, feeling her hair brushing against his cheek. Once he had loved her, or thought he had, while she had been married to his closest friend. Now, as he stood with her pressing against him, he saw Lucita in his mind’s vision, her dark, somber eyes, her waif’s face sad and vulnerable.
“It won’t work, Jane,” he whispered.
Her body stiffened. She pulled away from him.
“We’d end up hating each other inside of a week,” he said. “Besides,” he added carelessly, “what kind of a reputation do you think we’d get? You keeping a lover in the White House? And can you see me as a kept man?”
She did not smile. “Yes, I can see you as a kept man. Kept in prison.”
Dan realized he was dealing with an explosively volatile woman now.
“I can even see you being shot by the security guards,” Jane said, coldly furious. “You came here under an alias. You’re determined to undermine everything that I’m working for. Maybe shooting you here and now would be the best thing.”
He made himself grin. “It would save the Russians the trouble.”
Her green eyes snapping at him. Jane said, “I ought to do it. I ought to get rid of you once and for all. You’ve been nothing but trouble for me.”
“Maybe you’re right,” he admitted. “Maybe it would save us all a lot of misery.”
She huffed angrily, “You’re impossible! You’ve always been impossible!” She stamped to the door.
“Jane,” he called.
She turned, bitter rage blazing from her eyes.
“Whatever I do,” Dan said, “it’s because I still consider myself an American, despite everything that’s happened.”
“You’re a fool,” she said. “And I’m an even bigger one.”
She left Dan standing alone amid the Victorian furniture in the little sitting room. Within moments, an elderly butler stepped through the open doorway, his parchment-wrinkled face looking sleepy and apologetic at the same time. He was small, bald and slightly bent, as if bowing was a permanent habit with him.