“Like the assumption that candidate Saul Steinmetz was married to Tricia Chartrain, who was once Patsy Leighton?”
“Patsy Leighton, and Patsy Stennis, and Patsy Beacon, and I don’t recall how many others. Even before the poll, I could have told you her effect on the results. She was political poison.”
“And George Crossley knew it, too, before the poll?”
“I doubt it. George has the political savvy of a wombat. He’s a statistician, and a damned good one. Now, me, I wouldn’t know a t-test from a tea bag, but I do understand political realities. So the two of us made a pretty fair team.”
“He was related to the Leightons. He had dinner with a group of them soon after your poll, and the chances are good that Tricia — Patsy Leighton — was there. Do you think he might have talked to her about your poll?”
“I see where you’re going. Give me a minute.”
“Do you need to talk to him? I don’t think he’d talk to me.”
“No. I’m just trying to decide if what I’m going to say might get me or George into trouble. I don’t see how. That poll and the whole election are ancient history. Here’s what I think. I think George may well have told them that we had done this important piece of work. I mean, a poll for a candidate who was dating Patsy Leighton, and she’s there at the time — that was a juicy bit of news. And old George gets a bit pompous when he’s fizzed. I can imagine him, sitting there all smug and pointing out how such confidential matters could of course not be revealed to anyone.”
“ ’Professional ethics would never allow me to discuss the results of any poll we conducted with anyone other than the sponsor.’ “
“I see you already talked to him. Now, I wouldn’t know Patsy Leighton if I passed her in the street. But I have read her background, before we did that poll and after. As I recall, she broke up with Saul Steinmetz soon after the poll, and pretty soon she married some guy back east.”
“Joseph Goldsmith.”
“Loaded?”
“Lots of it. Old money, tons of prestige.”
“Which makes my point for me. Patsy is a real operator when it comes to men. If she got George on his own at that party, and if she wanted information from him . . .”
“She would have got it.”
“She’d have sucked him in, chewed him up, spit him out in pieces, and left him smiling. But she screwed up, didn’t she? If she’d ignored the poll, bided her time, and hung on to Saul Steinmetz, she could have been First Lady.”
“Don’t use that past tense. She’s taking another shot at him.”
“That makes sense. He’s the President now. Marrying her wouldn’t have the same impact. But I finally have the picture at your end. Steinmetz wants to know exactly what happened the last time around.”
“The President doesn’t know about any of this. I don’t think he suspects Tricia of anything. He doesn’t even know I’m making this call.”
“Well, why are you?” There was a pause. “Now I really get it. What did you say your name was?”
“Yasmin. Yasmin Silvers.”
“Good luck, Yasmin. I don’t know you, and I never met Patsy Leighton. But I’ll tell you this, she’s tough competition. I hope you can keep her away from him.”
“I’m going to try. You’ve helped me a lot.” The buzzer at Yasmin’s side began again with its irritating tone.
“I hope I have. But remember, it was all hearsay.”
“In Washington, hearsay’s the same as gospel truth. Thank you, Michaela.”
“Glad to help.”
“Mind if I call you again?” The buzzer was still going; whoever was on the other end was determined.
“Do it. Keep me posted, Yasmin. I’ll be rooting for you.”
“Good-bye now. I’ve got to pick up this other call, it won’t go away.” Yasmin jabbed at the access pad. “Yes?”
“I need to speak with the President. Urgently.” It was the starchy woman again. Moira what’s-her-name.
“He’s still not here.” Yasmin glanced at the clock. “Maybe in half an hour—”
“Too late. This is Moira Suomita. I was forced to make a decision. Are you able to take a message for the President?”
“Yes.” Yasmin made her private evaluation. State Department Acting Director of International Space Activities. The right title for a jumped-up bureaucrat with an exaggerated idea of her own worth. After Supernova Alpha there were no international space activities.
Yasmin said mildly, “I will make sure that the President gets your message as soon as he returns.”
“This is a matter of great importance. Can you record what I am saying?”
“No. The recording systems are not yet back online.”
“Then I will dictate. Make sure you get it exactly right. Have pencil and paper ready.”
“I will.” Yasmin waited, prepared for some piece of bureaucratic trivia. How did such people get the direct line to the President’s office? The main thing was, Yasmin now knew exactly why Tricia had walked out on Saul. Six months before the election, George Crossley had shown Tricia what looked like conclusive evidence that Saul would lose the presidential race. Crossley had not had access to, and had not seen, the other poll, the one that showed Saul would win if he didn’t marry Tricia before the election — and could marry her after it. Tricia had no time for losers. Her interest in Saul was zero if he were not President. But she had jumped ship too soon. Now, of course, he was President, so he was back in her sights.
But Michaela’s other words. Good luck, Yasmin . . . she’s tough competition. Michaela thought that she, Yasmin, wanted Saul — and was she right?
“Are you ready?” Moira Suomita, impatient and showing it. “What’s taking you so long?”
“Sorry. I’m ready, I was waiting for you.”
“Very well. Early this morning, my office received a most amazing call.” Moira Suomita spoke with a pause after every word. “Are you writing this down?”
“Yes. You can speak faster if you like.”
“I prefer not to. The call purported to come from two members of the international Mars expedition.”
“But they all died, on attempted reentry.” Yasmin’s response was automatic.
“That was what I had been told. Please do not interrupt. The call came from Woodridge, Virginia. The speaker identified herself as Celine Tanaka, which is in fact the name of one of the Mars expedition. She described an astonishing sequence of events: a return to Earth using jury-rigged orbiters, which killed three of the seven crew members. An emergency landing, and capture by members of the religious sect known as the Legion of Argos. And an escape, by just two members, Tanaka herself and Wilmer Oldfield. He is a citizen of Australia, but apparently lacks suitable entry credentials to the United States. He was not cooperative. I asked many questions, despite the callers’ impatience.”
Yasmin could imagine. Survivors of the first Mars expedition! Heroes, the first people to set foot on the red planet, names to ring through world history. And this woman droned on about identification — their grandmother’s maiden name, or their date and place of birth.
“I was unable to detect inconsistencies in their stories,” Moira Suomita went on. “I therefore arranged for them to travel to Washington. However, after I had done so, I referred to my notes concerning the original plans for the returning Mars expedition. They call for an immediate notification of the President and, if he so desires, a meeting with the crew members. In view of the great change in circumstances since Supernova Alpha, I would like to know if those instructions still apply.”
Bureaucrat, bureaucrat.
“Of course the President wants to see them. As soon as possible.”
“Do you have authority to confirm that?”
Of course I don’t. “Certainly.”
“Then please do so, before noon if possible. When Tanaka and Oldfield arrive, I will inform you at once. It will be some time today.”
Moira Suomita was off the line.
Before noon. Yasmin glanced again at the clock. Eleven already. The President due, her notes all over his desk, the printer moved from its usual position, sheets of output scattered on the floor.
Let him be late. Let him be late. Just this once.
She grabbed her notes and stuck them away in a folder. The printer went back in place — not exactly, but close enough.
Yasmin was on her knees scooping up random handfuls of printout sheets when the door opened. Saul stood on the threshold, staring down at her.
“Well. Pardon me.” He closed the door while Yasmin scrambled to her feet. He came toward her until his face was only a foot from hers.
“I mean, pardon me for walking into my own office without knocking. I’ll listen to your explanation as soon as you’re ready. But I’ll tell you now, Yasmin, it had better be a good one.”
38
From the secret diary of Oliver Guest.
My house is a three-bedroom brick rambler. Its one oddity, to external eyes, would probably be the disproportionately large lot size for so unpretentious a structure. The building sits in the middle of two acres of land.
The large garden had been woefully neglected. My hybrid climbing roses, so carefully bred and so lovingly tended, now straggled over the lattice frames and fought for lebensraum with wild honeysuckle. The flower beds had become weed beds. The clematis, buddleia, and wisteria were overgrown and infested with tent caterpillars.
I observed all this with mingled annoyance and satisfaction. Since there was no sign of recent cultivation, I had hopes that the house itself might have remained equally undisturbed.
The front and back doors were secured by new locks and plastered with yellow stickers: judicial control board, do not enter. I had no keys of any kind, for locks old or new. One enters long-term judicial sleep naked, not accompanied by wallet, watch, and personal knickknacks. In any case, electronic keys were now presumably useless.
“The kitchen window,” I said. “I’ve done it before. The latch doesn’t work.”
Seth nodded. I led us around to the back of the house. On the way I paused at the herb and vegetable garden. It, too, was a wilderness of weeds. I went to the warmest corner, a patch of sun-warmed brick by the chimney positioned to catch day-long sun. The old box tortoise was still there, drowsing away the hours and years. I went across and picked up Methuselah, trying not to let my excitement show. No matter what had happened inside the house, my backup storage was intact. The complete genetic code of every one of my darlings was stored safely away here, in the form of introns added to Methuselah’s own DNA. Given equipment and time, I would be able to separate them and reconstruct them exactly.
“If you don’t mind, Doc,” Seth said, “I’m not real big on turtles. Unless you’re proposing to eat that thing, put it down and let’s get inside.”
I replaced Methuselah on his warm, dry patch. Not warm and dry for long, I suspected, because dark storm clouds were racing in from the south. Together Seth and I pried the window open and he helped me through. He had become more alert than ever, and his hand hovered at the gun at his belt. Perhaps he suspected that on my home turf I would attempt violent action.
He could not have been more wrong. At the moment, all my attention was focused on the condition of the house. Every counter and flat surface of the kitchen bore a reassuring layer of dust. The small dining room and living room were the same, mute testimony of long neglect. It occurred to me that my house had presented the judicial control board with an unusual problem. The living areas bore no evidence of my illegal pastime, and the lab in the basement served quite legitimate research needs. However, many prospective renters might imagine otherwise. Easier, then, for the judicial control board to leave the place vacant, until memories of Oliver Guest had weakened and faded.
My interest, however, lay not in kitchens and bedrooms. It centered on the lower levels.
Seth was climbing cautiously in through the window when I descended the steps leading to the basement. Pressing the light switch produced no result. Either power was off for the whole neighborhood or the judicial control board had reasonably decided that an empty house needs no electricity. An eerie light creeping in through dusty window wells gave evidence of the coming storm. It was just enough to reveal the benches, with their untidy equipment and incomplete experiments. Things had been moved around and presumably examined, but I saw nothing missing. I had everything here that I needed to satisfy the telomere monitoring needs of Seth and his companions.
But my own needs took precedence. Had the presence of the subbasement level been discovered? I moved toward the cupboard, at the back of which the doubly concealed door was located.
I had a premonition of bad news as soon as I saw the cupboard door. It was open. I went inside. The inner door was open also, the staircase beyond it visible in the gloom. I went down slowly, brushing away cobwebs and trying to suspend judgment. Seth dogged my heels. He had no idea what lay below. He just wanted to know — instantly, immediately, at once — if equipment to permit telomere monitoring was still in the lab.
I had observed the critical rules of concealment. The subbasement had its own supply of water and electricity, delivered and metered separately from the rest of the house. An array of fullerene batteries provided backup. When I touched the switch, fluorescent bulbs lit up at once.
The lab was revealed in all its bleak, horrible inadequacy. Every monitor was disconnected, its wires ripped loose. Every nutrient container had been drained. Hoses, severed at both ends, writhed along the floor like headless gray snakes. Worst of all, the clone tanks were all empty. Their delicate glass viewing ports had been shattered.
I could go no farther. The events of the past twenty-four hours, coupled with this anticipated but no less dreadful shock, were too much for me. I sat down on the bottom step and hid my face in my hands.
“You all right?” Seth had stopped. Still wary, he was three or four steps behind me.
“They are vandals.” I could hear the shake in my voice, but I could not control it. “Ten years’ hard work, wantonly destroyed in a few minutes. What sort of travesty of judicial control is this? What perversion of justice was at work here? The law is quite clear. The property of a person in judicial sleep is not to be abused or disposed of. But look what they have done to my lab — tanks and feeds smashed, equipment stolen, supplies poured down the drain. How dare they do such a thing?”
Seth edged his way around me and went to peer in through the broken front of one of the clone tanks.
“With all due respect, Doc, when it came to your rights I don’t think they were high on anybody’s list. You were s’posed to be iced down for six hundred years. Nobody expected you’d be back an’ bitchin’ about the state of this place. I sure didn’t. I got a question, though. Was there anybody in these tanks?”
“No.”
It was close enough to the truth. The clones in the tanks had been in a vestigial stage when I was arrested. No police officer had recognized them for what they were, otherwise the subbasement would not have been trashed and the nutrient supplies turned off. Also, their existence would have surely, no matter how irrelevantly, been introduced as evidence in my trial.
While I sat silent, Seth wandered around the long room. He examined everything and finally came back to stand in front of me. “Are you tellin’ me that because all this is busted, you can’t make anything to help me an’ my buddies?”
He placed his hand on his gun. Only later did I realize that I was at that moment in great personal danger. If I could not help Seth, he would be better off getting rid of me at once.
“Oh, no, no,” I said. “Not at all.”
I hardly noticed him. My eye and mind were wandering the room, wondering if anything could be saved or salvaged. Reluctantly, I decided that it could not. My hope of continuing my clone work was over, at least for the time being.
I stayed slumped over, exhausted and despairing. Would I ever have the heart to start all over again? I wa
s not sure. Then, like a sunrise, the faint light of optimism crept into my brain. Look at things positively. I faced not defeat, but delay. My darlings were safely hidden away inside Methuselah; they could stay there for years or decades. And Seth had it right. Nobody, myself included, had expected me to be alive and awake as early as 2026. Of course, if I wanted to prolong that desirable condition and know true freedom from pursuit, my “death” would have to be arranged. Did the authorities know by now that my body drawer at the Q-S Syncope Facility was empty? Even with the supernova playing games with weather and everything else, at some point my absence would be noticed. The hunt would then be on — unless I was believed dead and gone.
“If you can, how will you do it?” Seth asked.
“Do what?” My thoughts were so far away, I imagined that he was reading my mind.
“Help me and my friends with the telomod therapy.”
“I can do that easily enough,” I said. “All the things that we need for the telomere work are up on the next level. But look at this.” I gestured angrily around me. “The mindless destruction and the wanton savagery, you would think that after ten thousand years of civilization—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You’re all broke up, don’t need to tell me about it again. I got another question for you. You must have known that the telomod therapy has other effects than curing cancer. The second step, with the telomerase stimulators, rejuvenates. It might let somebody live forever. So why didn’t you take it yourself?”
“It might let somebody live forever. On the other hand, it might produce an unexpected side effect and kill anybody who tried it. You and your group are pioneers. You certainly made the right decision, given your circumstances. Telomod risks are better than death. But I’m not sick. My plan would be to wait for thirty or forty years, see what happens to the test groups, and then undergo the treatment. Remember what Hippocrates didn’t say: First, do no harm — especially to yourself.”
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