Power Failure

by Ben Bova

  “STEM teaching,” said the gray-haired woman on Engels’s left. Jake noticed that all the NEA people were sitting on one side of the table, the senator, Farthington, Knowles, and Jake himself on the other.

  Not good, Jake thought. Not good at all.

  Four of the five NEA people were women, ranging from middle-aged to white-haired. The fifth was a lanky youngish man with a military-style buzz cut, wearing a sports jacket and a polka-dotted bow tie.

  Tomlinson nodded at the woman who had spoken. “STEM subjects are important, vital to the nation’s future.”

  The young man across the table said, in a twangy nasal voice, “We’re all agreed on that, but how can you expect overworked and underpaid schoolteachers to add more time, more effort in an already overcrowded school day?”

  “That’s what we’re here to ascertain,” said Farthington. “I’m sure the senator, here, is eager to help all he can. And certainly NASA stands shoulder to shoulder with the NEA in its efforts to help our hardworking teachers in every way possible.”

  Jake suppressed an urge to gag.

  A timid knock on the conference room door, and an assistant poked her head in. “Mr. Harold Quinton is here, Mrs. Engels.”

  “Show him right in!”

  As Quinton came in, everybody around the table got to their feet.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said.

  By god, Jake thought, Harry looks like he belongs on their side of the table. The billionaire was wearing a rumpled tweed suit. Short, roundish, balding, he reminded Jake of a mathematics teacher he had suffered through in high school.

  Jake moved down one seat lower so Quinton could sit next to Isaiah Knowles.

  “Now that we’re all here,” said Dora Engels, “let’s get down to business.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, Engels summarized, “So you’re willing to put together a group of current and former astronauts who will tour the nation’s schools giving presentations aimed at stimulating the students’ interest in STEM subjects.”

  “That’s right,” Tomlinson said.

  Directing her stern gaze to Farthington, she asked, “And NASA will participate in this program?”

  “Certainly,” Farthington replied. “NASA will be glad to participate. We’ve been doing something like this on an informal, one-at-a-time basis, but I believe that organizing the effort is a grand idea, an idea whose time has come.”

  Engels dipped her chin in what might have been a nod. Then, “That’s all well and good, but who’s going to pay for this program? You can’t expect school districts that are already strapped for funds to support this new program.”

  Very straight-faced, Senator Tomlinson said, “I’ll pay for it. Out of my own pocket.”

  Before anyone around the table could react, Quinton smiled gently and said, “I’ll split the costs with you, Frank.”

  Engels seemed surprised, and genuinely impressed. “That … that’s very generous of you both.”

  Jake thought, Rich or poor, it pays to have money.

  “There’s one thing we haven’t considered,” said the bow-tied young man on the other side of the table. “How are the teachers going to fit these shows into their already crowded schedules?”

  By dropping their feel-good sessions, Jake thought. Instead of trying to teach the kids self-esteem, they could try giving them something that actually gives them a sense of accomplishment.

  But Jake kept his mouth shut.

  Farthington put on his ingratiating smile and answered, “Why, I picture having our astronauts talk to the children after regular school hours. No need to interfere with their usual classes.”

  All five of the NEA members shook their heads in metronome synchrony.

  The young man said, “You mean you expect the teachers to put in more hours, after the regular school day? And it would complicate the school bus schedules.”

  Jake got a vision of a tall, beautiful tree being nibbled to death by maggots.

  But surprisingly, Engels said, “Those are details that can be worked out at the local level. We can offer the program to the local school districts and let them decide how to fit it into their schedules.”

  “Or if,” said the young man.

  “Or if,” Engels conceded.

  * * *

  It took another hour before the meeting finally broke up.

  As they stood in the sunshine outside the NEA headquarters building, Senator Tomlinson said, “I wonder if we accomplished anything in there.”

  “You did, Senator,” Jake replied. “You got the NEA off your back. You turned a potential enemy into a partner.”

  “More than that,” said Farthington. “Engels and her people can announce that they’ve revived the Young Astronauts program, aimed at the noble cause of getting kids to tackle the STEM subjects. Schools have gotten a lot of complaints about sidestepping STEM, ducking the tough subjects. Now Engels can say they’re doing something about it.”

  Quinton shook his head. “There’s a better than even chance that nothing will come of this.”

  Farthington waved an index finger in a No, no, no gesture. “As far as the education bureaucracy is concerned, starting a new program to address a perceived problem is more important than solving the problem.” Then he added, “Come to think of it, that’s the way any bureaucracy behaves.”

  “The Young Astronauts program,” Jake said. “Well, it’s better than nothing.”

  “This time we’ll make it work,” Quinton muttered. “This time we’ll get results.”

  Jake thought that that remained to be seen, but Farthington was right: the important thing is that they’d turned the NEA from an enemy into a partner.

  Tomlinson shrugged, then glanced at his wristwatch. Searching for his own chauffeured sedan among the cars and taxis cruising along the crowded street, he asked Quinton, “I’m ready to drink some lunch; how about you, Harry?”

  “Sounds good.”

  At last the sedan wove through the traffic and pulled up at the curb.

  Tomlinson asked Farthington and Knowles, “You want to join us for lunch?”

  Farthington shook his head. “I’ve got to get back to the office.”

  Knowles said, “A wet lunch sounds good. Thanks.”

  The four of them left the NASA administrator standing at the curb, waiting for his car.

  As they pulled away, Jake remembered that Herbert Manstein now worked for Senator Sebastian. He hadn’t had a chance to tell Senator Tomlinson about that.

  I’ll wait until after lunch, Jake told himself. No sense ruining his lunch.

  Thanksgiving

  Jake felt as if he were waiting for the headsman’s ax to fall on his neck. Manstein was now on Senator Sebastian’s payroll, ready to reveal his juicy piece of gossip whenever the senator told him to.

  Outwardly, everything seemed normal. Tomlinson campaigned in Iowa and New Hampshire, with occasional trips to other early primary states in the South. So did Sebastian. The two candidates crossed paths several times over the next few weeks, but never appeared at the same place at the same time.

  But the national popularity polls were taking their toll on the candidates. Yeardley Norton was the first to drop out of the race. The feisty Minnesota dentist’s poll numbers never climbed above 10 percent, except in a few Midwestern states, and funding donations to his campaign shriveled. He promised to “keep on fighting for the little folks” when he announced he was quitting the race.

  “Sounds like he’s working for the leprechauns,” Kevin O’Donnell quipped.

  Two weeks before the second debate was scheduled, California’s Senator Morgan threw in the towel, urging his followers to give their support to “the man who will win for us next November, Senator Bradley Sebastian, of the so-called Sunshine State of Florida.”

  Patrick Lovett studied the polls and trends and told Tomlinson and his campaign workers, “It’s boiling down to a two-horse race, our man against Sebastian.”

  Amy
went with her husband wherever he went, always standing beside him, smiling prettily and waving to the growing crowds. In New Orleans, Tomlinson gave a speech about international trade that was well-received in the news media—and on Wall Street. In Denver, his speech on the war against terrorism won praise from the conservative wing of the party.

  But it was Tomlinson’s concept of a renewed space program that got him the most attention.

  “A couple of centuries ago, American pioneers headed west, saying to themselves, ‘There’s gold in them thar hills.’ Well, now it’s time to head into space, to return to the Moon, because there’s gold out there: new industries, plentiful natural resources, new breakthroughs in energy and low-gravity manufacturing, new jobs for our next generation of bright youngsters, a new frontier to be developed.”

  Jake watched the news reports assiduously. The snide references to “Senator Moonbeam” grew less and less. Articles about potential space industries and developing lunar resources started to appear in local newspapers and TV broadcasts.

  But despite all that, the bill introduced by Tomlinson to allow the Treasury Department to guarantee low-interest, long-term loans for private investors in space development remained locked in the finance committee, with no vote scheduled and none expected as long as Sebastian remained opposed.

  The loan guarantee bill languished in the Senate’s limbo. Even though Senator Zucco chaired the finance committee, he hadn’t the stomach to challenge Sebastian on the matter. All the talk in the world isn’t going to get the bill out of committee, Jake realized. It’s the key to the space plan, and as long as it stays bottled up like this, the plan is little more than talk.

  Still, Tomlinson’s poll numbers inched higher every week. Sebastian was still well ahead, but Tomlinson was gaining on him.

  Yet Jake couldn’t shake his feeling of impending doom.

  “It’s like having the Sword of Damocles hanging over your head,” he said to Tami as they were dressing for the big Thanksgiving dinner Tomlinson was hosting at the new Grand Hyatt hotel. “Sebastian’s got Manstein in his pocket, ready to spring on Frank whenever he needs to.”

  Searching through a bureau drawer for the proper earrings, Tami wondered, “What’s he waiting for?”

  “The right moment,” Jake answered morosely. “The exact moment when it will hurt Frank the most.”

  She found the earrings she wanted, started to attach them. “And the senator is just plowing ahead as if there’s no problem. Why doesn’t he try to sit down with Sebastian and come to an understanding with him?”

  Standing before the bedroom’s full-length mirror as he laboriously knotted his tuxedo’s black bow tie, Jake shook his head. “What kind of an understanding could they come to? They both want the party’s nomination. Only one of them can have it.”

  “And neither one will back off.”

  “We’re heading for a train wreck,” Jake said. “Two locomotives on the same track, rushing at each other.”

  With a cheerless smile, Tami murmured, “Where is Casey Jones when you really need him?”

  * * *

  If Tomlinson was worried about the Manstein problem, he certainly didn’t show it at his Thanksgiving dinner. The Grand Hyatt’s main ballroom was swarming with guests: campaign workers, political allies, what looked to Jake like half the US Senate, plenty of news reporters, and camera crews.

  The senator—with his glitteringly gowned wife at his side—worked his way through the crowd, smiling and shaking hands.

  When they came up to Jake, Tomlinson said, “Do you see that Mars guy anywhere?”

  “Derek Vermeer?” Jake shook his head. “Nope, haven’t run across him.”

  “He was invited. And he accepted.”

  Jake shrugged. “He’s sort of an odd duck, you know.”

  Tomlinson grinned. “Maybe he is, but he’s happy with us now that we’ve included a Mars training facility in our Moon base plans—I think.”

  Before Jake could reply, the senator said, “That was your idea, Jake. Good going. Turn an enemy into an ally. We’ll make a politician out of you yet.”

  Jake forced a smile as he said, “I’ll look through the crowd for him, tell him you want to say hello.”

  “Good.”

  With Tami trailing along at his side, Jake worked his way through the crowd.

  Grinning as she sipped champagne, Tami said, “Frank should have given this bash on Halloween. It would have been more fun to see these folks in costumes.”

  Jake countered, “The gowns are pretty impressive. And the jewelry.”

  “But the men all look alike in their tuxedos.” She giggled. “A ballroom full of penguins.”

  Jake had barely sipped from the champagne flute he held in his hand. “Halloween would’ve been too early. Frank wouldn’t have gotten such a big crowd a month ago.”

  After several more fruitless minutes of searching Jake conceded, “I guess he’s not here.”

  “He should have sent his regrets,” Tami said. “It’s rude to just not show up.”

  Jake led her through the throng of partygoers and out into the hotel’s lobby. It was considerably quieter there.

  Pulling his smartphone from his jacket pocket, Jake tapped Vermeer’s number. It rang once, twice …

  “Hello?” A woman’s voice, tight with anxiety.

  “Derek Vermeer, please,” said Jake.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Dr. Jacob Ross, from Senator Tomlinson’s office.”

  “Oh! He was supposed to attend the party tonight, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes. Can I speak to him, please?”

  The woman’s voice edged up a notch. “We’re in the hospital. He’s dying!”

  “What?”

  “He collapsed earlier this evening. We’re in Howard University Hospital.” Her voice broke, then she sobbed, “They don’t expect him to make it through the night.”

  Jake felt the breath gush out of him. “Howard University Hospital?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll be there in a few minutes!”

  * * *

  There’s a special air about a hospital, Jake thought as he and Tami hurried down a long corridor toward the room where Derek Vermeer lay dying. Is it the smell of antiseptic, the tension, the pain? All of that, he decided, and more. The fear, Jake realized. The fear of death hung over every corridor, every room, every part of the hospital.

  Jake had pushed through the crowded hotel ballroom to tell Senator Tomlinson that Vermeer was dying. The senator shook his head. “Too bad.”

  “I’m going to see him,” Jake said, surprising himself.

  Tomlinson nodded. “Give him my sympathies.”

  Now Jake dashed down the pastel-painted corridor, practically towing Tami in one hand. Abruptly, he stopped.

  “Four twenty-two,” he said, puffing. “This is it.”

  Tami was panting, too. She mumbled something about high heels as Jake tapped on the door.

  A tall, rake-thin woman opened the door. Her bony face was runneled with tears.

  “I’m Jake Ross—”

  “You’re too late, Dr. Ross,” the woman whispered. “My brother died a few minutes ago.”

  She opened the door wider, and Jake and Tami stepped into the room. It held two beds, one of them empty, the other surrounded by an emergency team with a crash cart, methodically disconnecting the tubes and wires from Vermeer’s body. The monitor consoles along the wall were all turned off, silent. Vermeer lay in the bed, his eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

  No, Jake thought. He’s staring at Mars.

  A nurse gently closed Vermeer’s eyes, then pulled the bedsheet over his face.

  His sister broke into open sobs. Tami wrapped her arms around the woman, making consoling noises. The medical team pushed their cart out into the corridor and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind them.

  Jake stood there, feeling utterly helpless, even stupid in his tuxedo.

  Th
en he realized that the two women made an incongruous pair: Tami barely came to the sister’s shoulders, even in her heels.

  “He so wanted to reach Mars,” the sister was whimpering.

  “He will,” Jake heard himself say.

  Both women stared at him.

  “I promised him that his remains would be buried on Mars. I’ll see to it that they are.”

  The beginning of a smile worked its way across Vermeer’s sister’s face. “That’s very kind of you.”

  “And we’ll name the Mars training facility at the lunar base after him,” Jake added.

  “He would have liked that.”

  Jake recalled reading somewhere, long ago, a line that a famous general once uttered: “We bury our dead and we keep moving forward.”

  Reaching out to Tami, Jake said, “Come on, honey. It’s time to move forward.”

  The Second Debate

  “New York, New York,” Jake muttered to himself. “The town so big they named it twice.”

  Madison Square Garden was filled to capacity for the second Republican Party debate. Outside on the windy Manhattan streets it was a cold and dark early December night. Here in the auditorium the atmosphere was heated by the press of bodies, the air of expectation.

  From his seat in the VIP section, within spitting distance of the stage in the center of the auditorium, Jake waited tensely for the debate to begin. Tami was across the way, with the news media corps, as usual.

  Patrick Lovett made his way along the crowded aisle to the chair next to Jake’s, looking cool and unruffled. “Good crowd,” he said. “Plenty of our people here.”

  Jake nodded, too nervous to speak. Frank’s got to do well tonight, he knew. There’s only one more debate before the Iowa caucus. He’s got to gain more ground on Sebastian.

  The crowd buzzed with expectation as the panel of four news media stars took their places. Then the huge auditorium rocked with applause as the three candidates strode in, smiling and shaking hands with one another, and took up their positions at their lecterns.

  As the newsman selected to be moderator introduced the candidates (needlessly, Jake thought), Amy came scampering down the aisle and slipped into the chair on Jake’s other side.