by Ben Bova
Jake helped her into the paddleboat, and the young guy working the dock untied the mooring line as Jake slid into the seat and planted his feet on the pedals. He saw that Tami had slipped off her shoes and placed her feet on the pedals on her side.
The kid pushed them from the dock and they started pedaling in unison.
“Earl told me you have a problem,” said Tami.
Nodding, Jake asked, “How long have you known Earl?”
“Two years … no, it’s almost three. He helped me find the job I have now.”
“Which is?”
“EarthGuard. It’s an environmental lobbying firm.”
Jake heard Brogan’s scornful, They never leave DC. Never.
“You were with Reuters?”
“Yes, until they canned me over an environmental story I wanted to break.”
“And the Little Saint didn’t want it made public.”
A suspicious, wary look flashed across her face. “Senator Santino had a hand in it, I’m pretty sure.”
“He’s giving me trouble, too,” said Jake.
“Is he?”
As they paddled all the way across the Tidal Basin, Jake outlined his problem. Tami listened quietly until he finished.
At last she said, guardedly, “So you haven’t released your plan to the news media.”
“No,” said Jake, equally carefully, “it’s going to the energy committee.”
“Santino.”
With a nod, Jake said, “He’ll decide when the plan should be made public.”
Tami sat in silence while they paddled slowly back toward the dock. As she slipped her shoes on, Tami said, “I’d love to see your plan, if you could get a copy to me.”
While the same youngster tied their boat to the dock, Jake stood up and helped her out of the paddleboat. He was thinking, She has connections back to Reuters news service. She can leak the plan to them, and then it’ll spread to all the news media.
“I suppose I could get a copy to you,” he said, feeling slightly ridiculous at the cloak-and-dagger aspect of their exchange.
“That would be fine,” she said.
Standing on the dock beside her, Jake blurted, “Would you like to have lunch?”
She seemed to hold her breath for a moment, but then she smiled and said, “Yes. I’m starving.”
They walked together up to Phillips Seafood Restaurant. A sign on the sidewalk proclaimed it served the finest Maryland blue crabs.
Tami pointed down the street. “The Cantina Marina serves Cajun food. Are you in the mood for some gumbo?”
With a grin, Jake said, “Sure, why not?”
They sat on the patio overlooking the water, and Jake found himself telling Tami all about himself, about Lev and his wife’s death and his teaching at the university, his work with Senator Tomlinson. He couldn’t stop talking. In the back of his mind he realized he must be boring Tami to tears with this data dump, but she seemed honestly interested. At least, that was the impression he got from her earnest, smiling expression.
At last he said, “And what about you?”
She seemed surprised. “Oh, nothing much. Born and raised in Clovis, near Fresno. Got a journalism degree at Southern Cal, moved to DC to work at Reuters. That’s about it.”
Jake wanted to ask her if she was involved with anyone. He could see that the ring finger of her left hand was empty, but still …
As they finished their desserts he asked, “Um, are you free for dinner later this week? Or next?” He mentally kicked himself for adding the “or next.” Makes me sound too damned eager, too needy. Too honest.
Tami smiled a little and said, “I’m free this Friday.”
“Great!” he said. “I can bring you a DVD of the plan, complete with visuals.”
“That’ll be fine.”
As he saw her into a taxi, Jake asked himself if she was interested in having dinner with him merely because of the energy plan or because she was truly interested in him as a person.
Doesn’t matter, he told himself. We’re having dinner together. What happens next is in the future.
Dinner
Tami lived near Dupont Circle, not far from the Embassy Row neighborhood. They decided to have dinner at the Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse, a few blocks from her apartment. Jake walked from his place to Wisconsin Avenue and picked up a taxicab. He didn’t want to drive through the city’s crazy traffic circles after dark. By the time he figured in what parking would cost, he decided the taxi was almost cheaper.
She was sitting on the padded bench at the restaurant’s entrance, under the eyes of a toothily smiling maître d’ and two of his comely young female assistants, both long-haired blondes. Tami got to her feet as Jake came through the door, and he reached out to her with both his hands.
“Right on time,” she said.
He laughed. “I’m usually early. It’s a bad habit of mine.”
“Nothing wrong with being early. I was.”
One of the young, dark-clad assistants showed them to a table far in the rear of the restaurant. Jake asked Tami if she liked wine, and she said yes, so he asked for the wine list.
“A whole bottle?” Tami looked surprised.
“What we don’t finish here, we’ll take home,” he said. To himself, he added, Big-time bon vivant, splurging on wine.
He ordered a modestly priced Malbec from Argentina, mainly on the description offered in the wine list. It turned out to be dry and flavorful, as advertised.
The restaurant was noisy, but Jake didn’t mind it. Makes it more difficult for eavesdroppers to overhear us, he thought. Then he realized he was getting just as paranoid as Brogan.
“Did you bring the DVD?” Tami asked, once their appetizers had been served.
Patting his jacket pocket, Jake replied, “It’s right here.”
“Good. I’m anxious to see it.”
Suddenly Jake felt uncomfortable. Leaning slightly toward her, he said, “I want to make something clear, Tami. I’m not out to get Santino. What I’m doing isn’t about that. My goal is to give this energy plan a fair hearing, that’s all there is to it.”
“You think that once the plan is out in the open the people will go for it,” she said.
“That’s what I hope. I think the plan would be very good for America. For the world, really.”
“And you don’t want Santino bottling it up.”
“Right.”
She took a sip of wine, then said, “I’m not out to get Santino, either. I’m not into revenge.”
He nodded.
“Frankly,” she went on, “I don’t think either one of us could hurt Santino anyway. He’s too entrenched, too powerful.”
“I guess you’re right.”
With the beginnings of a crafty smile curving her lips, Tami added, “But splashing your plan in the news media would be good for your boss, wouldn’t it? After all, it’d be known as Senator Tomlinson’s plan, not yours.”
“That’s fine with me,” Jake said.
“He’s ambitious, isn’t he?”
Jake laughed. “You show me one senator or representative that isn’t.”
Tami laughed with him. “You’re right.”
After dinner, they stepped out onto busy, bustling Connecticut Avenue. Couples were strolling by, people were jabbering into cell phones, a teenager on a skateboard maneuvered through the pedestrians. Jake started to look for a taxi.
“I live just a few blocks away,” Tami said. “I can walk.”
“Okay,” he said, and he fell into step beside her.
After half a block, though, Tami said, “Jake, I share a tiny apartment with three other women. It’s really small. I don’t think it would be a good idea for them to see us together.”
He felt a surge of disappointment, but said, “You’re probably right.”
“You can give me the DVD now. I’ll look at it as soon as I get into my own room.”
As he handed the slim jewel case to her, Jake muttered, “It’s kind of long. And d
etailed. A lot to take in on one sitting.”
Tami tucked the case into her purse. “I’ll study it from start to finish,” she promised. “Then I’ll call you.”
“How about dinner when you finish it?”
She smiled. “Sure. Why not?”
“Do you know any good Japanese restaurants?”
Tami broke into a delighted laughter. “A few. They’re mostly dives, though. The upscale ones cater to Americans.”
“Like me.”
She gave him a curious look. “You might like my favorite sushi bar. If you like raw fish, that is.”
“If you like it, I’m sure I’ll like it.”
“We’ll see.”
On impulse, Jake pecked at her lips, then said a swift goodnight.
It wasn’t until he was in his own bed, staring at the shadowed ceiling, that he realized Tami held his future in her hands. If she lets Santino know what I’ve just done, I’m toast, he told himself.
But she won’t do that, he thought. I can trust her.
I hope.
Fujiyama Sushi Bar
The place didn’t quite look like a dive. It was in the cellar of a house on P Street, two blocks from Tami’s apartment. The decorations on the walls—mostly old landscape paintings of Japanese scenes—were faded, true enough. And Jake had to push through a wall hanging that served as a door. Otherwise the sushi bar looked clean and comfortable, although it was only half filled with customers.
“Not very crowded,” he said as they passed a half dozen empty tables and found two seats together at the bar.
“Happy hour is over,” said Tami.
Behind the bar two Japanese sushi chefs were chopping and dicing away with blurring speed. A tall, buxom American woman in a tight black sweater handed them menus the size of campaign posters and took their drink order. Tami asked for sake and Jake followed suit.
The sake was hot. Jake almost burned his fingers as he poured some of the wine from its ceramic mini-carafe into his thimble-sized cup. He let it sit there while he blew on his fingertips.
“You’re letting it get cold,” Tami said.
“A little.”
She took a sip, then put her cup down. The menus were mostly incomprehensible to Jake, except for the tuna and crab rolls.
“We have a special tonight,” the barmaid told them. “Hamachi kama.”
Hiding behind his oversized menu, Jake whispered to Tami, “What’s that?”
“The jaw of a yellowfin.”
“The jaw?”
Nodding, Tami explained, “That’s the sweetest part of the fish. Especially the cheeks. It’s delicious.”
With some trepidation, Jake ordered the special. Tami chose two different sushi rolls instead.
The TV set mounted behind the bar was tuned to the local news, but the sound was muted. Jake finally took a cautious sip of his sake and found that it was smooth and warming.
“Have you had a chance to look at the DVD?” he asked.
“I’ve gone through it twice,” said Tami. “Jake, it’s brilliant. A plan that coordinates all our energy options and reduces our carbon footprint significantly.”
He felt his cheeks reddening. “Thanks. I’m glad you like it.”
“I can see why Santino would want to bottle it up, though,” she went on. “The fossil fuel lobbies will be dead-set against it.”
“But it includes fossil fuels,” Jake protested. “They’re an important part of the plan.”
Holding up a slim finger, Tami said, “Yes, but all the growth in energy production is in the renewables area. That, and this MHD thing.”
“MHD uses fossil fuels.”
“I understand, Jake. But—”
The barmaid placed their dishes in front of them. Jake asked for a fork. She gave him a slightly condescending smile, then reached under the bar and handed him a faded-looking, slightly bent aluminum fork.
Somebody stole this from an airliner, Jake thought.
“You don’t know how to use chopsticks?” Tami asked.
Shaking his head, Jake said, “Not many places to learn, back home.”
“Let me show you.”
The barmaid saw Tami demonstrating how to wield chopsticks and came over to them with a pair held together near one end by a thick rubber band.
“That’ll give you the hang of them,” she said, grinning at Jake.
Tami told him, “That’s how they teach children to use chopsticks.” Picking up her own pair, she showed him the proper way to hold them.
As he haltingly jabbed at the jawbone on his plate, Jake returned to his subject. “The plan doesn’t hurt the fossil fuel industries.”
“You don’t understand,” Tami said. “If all the growth in your plan is in renewables, the fossil fuel lobbies will reject your plan. They’ve got things pretty much where they want them, and they don’t want to see the competition grow.”
“But if we let the fossil fuel burners grow, the carbon they’ll pump into the atmosphere will heat up the global climate disastrously.”
“They don’t believe that. Actually, they don’t care. They’ve convinced themselves that global warming is a problem for the next century.”
“But it’s what we do now that’ll determine the how big the climate change will be.”
“You know that. And I know that. And I imagine there are people within the fossil fuel industries who know it, too. But they just don’t care. They’re after profits, not protecting the environment. Anything more than a year or two in the future is science fiction, as far as they’re concerned.”
Jake jabbed at his fish and actually picked up a piece with his chopsticks. But it fell into his lap before he could get it to his mouth.
Tami did not laugh. She just said, “It takes some practice.”
“I could starve to death first,” Jake growled, reaching for the fork.
She said nothing, just deftly grabbed a sushi roll and popped it into her mouth.
Lowering his voice a notch, Jake asked, “So have you shown the plan to Reuters?”
“Reuters?” Tami looked alarmed. “No way. Santino would trace the leak in a hot second.”
“Then…?”
“I made a copy of your executive summary and passed it on to a blogger I know.”
In his mind, Jake saw the image of a blogger back in Montana who called himself Freeforall. He had been useful during Tomlinson’s election campaign.
“A blogger,” he said.
“He’s put your summary on his blog. Next, I told one of my apartment-mates to look up his blog. She works for the CBS News office here in town.”
“CBS News,” Jake repeated. He looked up at the TV screen behind the bar, but now it was showing some automobile race. One of the cars flipped over, smashed into the wall, and burst into flames. The info bar at the bottom of the screen read, “Two killed at speedway.”
Tami put a hand on Jake’s knee. “Wait for the news at eleven. It ought to be on then.”
“The CBS station.”
“Yes,” Tami said. “My apartment-mate worships the memory of Walter Cronkite.”
Jake sighed. It didn’t sound like much to him.
Pointing to his plate, Tami said, “Now pick up your chopsticks and try again. Practice makes perfect.”
“I’ll try,” said Jake. Reluctantly.
Bacterial
Jake left Tami at Dupont Circle, not without noticing all the couples walking together or sitting on the grass by the fountain. Alone, he found a cab and returned to his dark, empty basement apartment.
By eleven he was in bed, watching the late news on the local CBS station. Suicide bomber kills fourteen people in a marketplace in Lebanon, six of them children. A tropical disturbance in the mid-Atlantic shows signs of growing into a late-season hurricane. Economists predict heating oil prices will hit an all-time high this coming winter. The Redskins squeezed out a twenty-four to twenty-one victory over the Chicago Bears.
Nothing about the energy pla
n, Jake realized as he sat up in his bed, disappointed, while a series of commercials pushed toothpaste, new cars (with four-hundred-horsepower engines!), a fast-food restaurant chain, and pills for low testosterone.
I’ve got plenty of testosterone, Jake grumbled to himself. Just no place to put it.
He was about to click the TV off when the female half of the anchor team came on with her brittle smile and said, “A new plan for developing the nation’s energy systems is apparently being considered in the Senate. Joe Daley has the details.”
Jake sat up straighter. The story was less than half a minute in duration. Standing in front of the Capitol, the CBS correspondent simply said that the Senate energy committee was looking at a new comprehensive energy plan presented by the committee’s newest member, Senator Tomlinson. The screen showed a still picture of Tomlinson, smiling handsomely. Jake recognized it as a photo they used during the campaign back home the previous year.
Nothing more.
But maybe, Jake thought hopefully, maybe that’ll be enough. After all, it only takes a couple of pebbles to start a landslide.
* * *
In his office early the next morning, Jake surfed the Internet and found half a dozen references to the energy plan on different blog sites.
It hasn’t gone viral, he had to admit to himself. But at least it’s out there. With an inner laugh, he told himself the story had gone bacterial. Not viral, but maybe it will grow.
Precisely at nine a.m. his phone rang. The face on the phone screen was Isaiah Knowles, dark and decidedly unhappy.
“I didn’t see any mention of space solar power in your plan,” the former astronaut said, clearly irritated.
Jake nodded. “It got cut out of the plan.”
“Why?”
“Giggle factor. We didn’t want the whole plan to be laughed out of town because of the space element.”
Knowles said nothing for several heartbeats, but his face spoke louder than words.
Finally he said in a low rumble, “You screwed me, man.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“Doesn’t matter. I trusted you to at least include a mention of SSP. Now we’ve got nothing.”
Jake asked, “Why doesn’t NASA include space solar power in its own program plans?”
