It was pretty much the same with every politician and academic type in sight. The Academy was at fault.
Shortly after ten A.M., Asquith called her to his office. “I’m heading over to the Hill.”
“For the committee?”
“Yes.”
“The asteroid?”
“That. And probably the Heffernan.” He cleared his throat. “You’ve got the fort.” And before she could respond, he was gone.
SHE WATCHED ON Worldwide. There were about three hundred people present in the hearing room. Six senators were distributed around the table, backed by a phalanx of aides. Seated before them, looking supremely uncomfortable, was Asquith. She felt sorry for him. The secret of his success had always been that he knew just enough to get by, stayed out of confrontations, and made friends in the right places. He also had a talent for not getting singed when fires broke out. But not this time.
Opening remarks came from the committee chairman, Elizabeth Callan, expressing her gratitude for his taking time to come down and speak with them. Throughout her comments, Hiram Taylor smiled benignly while alternately scribbling notes and nodding to a staff aide.
The Green Party was currently in the majority, so the Academy was already in difficulty. The Republicans had no interest in attacking the interstellar program. It had been around a long time, so they were for it. But the Greens were a different matter. Money that could be put to good use at home was going into space.
Callan recognized Ames Abernathy, a Republican from Iowa, but one who thought scientific advance was dangerous. Abernathy started by noting the Academy’s many accomplishments over the years. He extended his congratulations to Asquith for “superb leadership.” “We’re all indebted to you and to the brave men and women who risk their lives out among the stars.” Et cetera. Finally, he got to business: “I assume, Dr. Asquith, this has been a difficult week at the Academy.”
“Not really, Senator. Actually, we’re doing well, thank you. We continue to push out into unknown systems. To explore — ”
“Yes, yes. Of course. But we know your time is valuable, so let’s go directly to the point. You lost one of your ships last week. For about three days.”
“That was actually closer to two days, Senator.”
“Yes, very good. I appreciate the correction. What we’d all like to know, and I think I can speak safely on this point for my colleagues, how could that ship, the Heffernan, have been right here in the solar system all that time, and your people not know about it? Doesn’t that suggest somebody’s not doing his job over at the Academy?”
“Not at all, Senator. You have to understand the solar system is a big place.”
“I think we’re all aware of the size of the solar system, Dr. Asquith. What we’re wondering, though, is how it’s possible to lose a starship in it for two days?”
“We didn’t exactly lose the ship.”
“You didn’t know where it was, did you?”
“No. Not precisely.”
“Not precisely. I seem to recall hearing ninety light-years bandied around. Would that be correct? Is that how far you thought it had traveled?”
“Yes. But there’s a reason for that.”
“I’m sure there is, Doctor. But in fact it was out around Pluto.”
“Actually it was considerably farther than Pluto — ”
“Be that as it may, Doctor, you had no idea where it was. Am I correct?”
“Yes, Senator. But there’s a reason — ”
“And I’m sure we’d all like to hear it. After all, it’s like looking on the other side of the Mississippi for something you misplaced in the cloakroom.”
It went on like that for a while, the others taking their turns pummeling the director. Eventually, Taylor got a chance. His first few questions were softballs, what sort of long-range plans did the Academy have, where should we go from here, and so on. But he couldn’t resist going after the organization, and eventually he zeroed in on the asteroid. “We never saw it coming, did we?”
“No, Senator. But you should be aware it’s not our responsibility — ”
“You have all that equipment at Union. You watch ships come in, and oversee their departures. How can it possibly happen that an asteroid several miles wide could sail in and not be noticed?”
“We weren’t looking for it, Senator.”
“That seems to be the case. Would you have been able to see it, had you been looking?”
At no time was it a fair fight, and when it ended, three hours later, Asquith got up from his table and walked out, a beaten man.
LIBRARY ENTRY
There is a tendency to denigrate the Congress. No one will argue that the congressional wars, over the years, have had any trace of nobility about them. Yet, despite everything, we have the consolation of knowing that we leave the great national issues in the hands of men and women who, if they are not always evenhanded, are nonetheless invariably competent and well-informed, and who place the welfare of their fellow citizens above all other considerations. (Audience laughter)
— Milly Thompson, The Comedy Hour, March 12, 2141
DATE SET FOR “HELLFIRE” TRIAL
Henry Beemer Goes to Court April 22
chapter 12
Faith is conviction without evidence, and sometimes even in the face of contrary evidence. In some quarters, this quality is perceived as a virtue.
— Gregory MacAllister, Life and Times
The light from the fireplace flickered against the heavy wooden altar. His Majesty staggered forward, supporting himself against the gray stone wall. He stopped by the portal, gazed wearily out at the night sky, and listened to the wind moving among the battlements. Then he turned back to the altar and fell to his knees.
MacAllister stood unseen in the doorway. Only a few steps away. He drew his sword. Now might I do it pat, he thought, now he is praying. And now I’ll do’t. He stepped out into the uncertain light. And paused. And so he goes to heaven: and so am I revenged. That would be scann’d; a villain kills my father; and for that, I, his sole son, do this same villain send to heaven.
The king bowed his head. He was praying audibly, but MacAllister could not make out the words.
He took my father grossly, full of bread, with all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May; and how his audit stands, who knows save heaven? But in our circumstance and course of thought, ’tis heavy with him: and am I then revenged, to take him in the purging of his soul, when he is fit and season’d for his passage?
No. Up, sword, and know thou a more horrid bent: when he is drunk, asleep, or in his rage, or in the incestuous pleasure of his bed…
Across the room, a red light winked on. Responses to the Beemer package were in. Another time, then. He stood several moments, then withdrew from the chamber, leaving the king deep in prayer.
ADVANCE COPIES OF the Henry Beemer hellfire story, which would appear in the upcoming issue of The National, had been sent to a number of media preachers for comment. He preferred media preachers to those who simply worked in churches because they were far more likely to overreact. And indeed, as he looked through their responses, he saw that he had exactly what he wanted. They called him an atheist and a godless sinner. He was all that was wrong with the country. He and his satanic publication should be banned. Burned.
To get some balance, he’d also sent copies to less fiery clerics. Their replies were also predictable: We don’t push damnation much, they said. We tend to believe hell is reserved only for special cases. That was reasonable, but MacAllister wasn’t looking for reasonable. He wanted the true believers.
While he read through the stack, selecting the most raucous for the letters column, he switched on Worldwide and was surprised to discover Michael Asquith appearing before the Senate Science Committee.
It was a mugging. The commissioner was being taken down by a gang of politicians. What did that say for the level of leadership at the Academy? He wondered how Hutch could tolerate working for
the guy.
Meantime, it was Monday, his busiest day, the day he put The National together. But he was running ahead for a change. The layouts were done, the stories in place, all except the cover story, which he wasn’t satisfied with. The letters column and the lead editorial still needed to be assembled. But he had a draft of the editorial, which addressed the unavailability of jobs across the nation for any but highly trained specialists with advanced degrees. There was always a need for physicians. But roofers, carpenters, waiters, stock boys: All were effectively things of the past. The result was a chasm between the well-off and everybody else. As an example, The National had no use for a copy editor. Everything was done by an AI. Reporters, yes. There was a staff of eleven full-time correspondents, and a substantial number of occasional contributors, but there were no other employees. Meantime, the welfare rolls swelled, and crime grew exponentially. If you wanted to be sure of a career, become a physician or a lawyer. Everything else was, at best, pizza delivery.
He’d assigned his most linguistically abrasive associate to get the Beemer interview and do the research. The result, “Hellbound by Lunchtime,” would ruffle some feathers. Already had. The cover depicted Beemer, looking tired and forlorn, surrounded by a group of ten-year-olds, all staring at flames that looked as diabolical as Tilly had been able to produce. The subtitle ran across the bottom: EDUCATION OR INDOCTRINATION?
The National, like most publications, was interactive. You could read an interview, you could watch it, and, to a degree, you could participate in it. A lot of his readers thought they were talking with the editor. They were, of course, getting Tilly. Tilly was named for Attila, a figure who was, in many ways, admirable.
On-screen, the committee had finished with Asquith, were filing out, or standing around talking to each other while the commissioner disconsolately made his way out of the room.
THE NATIONAL WAS devoted to commentary on science, politics, and the world at large. It ran book reviews, a letters section, three editorials, political cartoons, a logic puzzle, and a section on the state of the language. MacAllister had never lost his affection for a well-composed sentence, and nothing drew his disgust quite as effectively as overwritten pieces, prose that wandered about without ever getting to the point. He didn’t think well of adjectives, despised adverbs, and insisted his correspondents rely on nouns and verbs. They do the heavy lifting, he’d said numerous times while handing back copy with large chunks carved out of it.
The staff meeting for each issue was held Monday afternoon after the current issue had been put to bed. So what was on the horizon for next week that we want to cover?
All eleven correspondents were present, two physically, the others via hookup. The lead story, they decided, would be on the danger posed by the possibility of the southern ice cap giving way. How serious is it? he asked the reporter who’d been assigned to do the background work.
“Worse than the Council’s letting on,” she said. “It could let go with virtually no warning. If the whole thing goes down, as they expect it will, there’ll be hundreds of thousands dead along the coastlines.”
“What are the odds?” asked Chao-Pang, in Madagascar. “We’ve been talking about it for two centuries.”
“They’re still doing computations. But they look scared.”
Okay. That would be the cover. Let’s take a serious look at this thing. How likely is it to occur in, say, the next year? How prepared are we? Has the administration taken serious steps, or are they hoping nothing will happen until they’re out of office? (He already knew the answer to that one.)
Next up was a developing political scandal, a prominent House leader taking money and other benefits from lobbyists.
“Guilty?” asked MacAllister.
“Absolutely.”
“Will he step down?”
“Not voluntarily. But it looks as if he’ll wind up in jail.”
Then there was the artificial sperm issue, which would make it possible to dispense with males in the reproductive process. Not desirable, of course, but possible. And that was enough to bring out the legions who feared for the moral fabric and claimed we were playing God.
Who’s your daddy? The phrase would take on a whole new meaning.
“How’s it going to go?” asked MacAllister.
The response came from Hugh Jankiewicz, who covered the House. “There’ll be a fight, the ban will fail, then there’ll be a reaction and a bigger fight. Eventually everybody will get used to it. I suspect nobody will be able to show any harm done, and we’ll move on to something else.”
“Where’s the advantage?” asked MacAllister.
“Purely political,” said Jankiewicz. “It will enable some women to claim men have become irrelevant.”
WHEN THE LINE cleared, a call was waiting.
“Mr. MacAllister? My name’s Charles Dryden.” MacAllister immediately decided he didn’t like the speaker. He smiled too easily. It was okay for young women, but in men, especially older men, it was a giveaway. He was dressed in the kind of clothes one wore in the executive suite.
“Yes, Mr. Dryden,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“Mr. MacAllister — May I call you Gregory?”
“If you like.”
“Gregory, I represent Orion Tours. We’re putting together a major advertising campaign. We’ve been looking at the reading audience of The National. By and large, they fit the profile of the sort of people who use our service. They are intelligent, well educated, and they do not lack for resources.”
MacAllister roundly disliked people who couldn’t flatter and sound as if they meant it. “Thank you for the compliment.”
“We’d like to make your publication one of the core engines of the campaign.”
He wasn’t certain what a core engine was, but he wasn’t going to quibble. “Excellent, Mr. Dryden,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll find The National a profitable investment.”
“Yes, indeed. I have no doubt it would be advantageous to both our organizations. By the way, please call me Charlie.”
“Okay, Charlie. It’s a pleasure to meet you. How about if I transfer you to our marketing director and you can let him know precisely what you want.” The marketing director, of course, was Tilly.
“Before you do, Gregory, there is one thing we’d need to clarify. You, personally, are on record as being opposed to the effort to promote starflight.”
“Well, that’s not quite accurate. I think interstellar exploration is fine. I’m just not sure it should be a high priority for taxpayer funds at the moment.”
“Yes.” He glanced at something far away. The smile looked a bit pained. “I understand the distinction, of course. Unfortunately, we have some people on our board who perceive you, you, not the magazine, as an active opponent to the effort to take humanity to the stars.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Charlie.”
“What we’d like you to do is soften your stand somewhat.”
“What would you suggest?”
“Oh. Nothing major. Just maybe an editorial pointing out that you do favor the expansion of the human spirit into deep space. Something to that effect.”
“You know, Charlie, you’re right. That’s exactly how I feel. I’m not entirely sure what it means, but I’m for it.”
There was a moment of confusion while Dryden considered what MacAllister was saying. Then the smile came back. “Excellent. Then there’s no problem.”
“ — But I won’t write the editorial.”
“Well, a simple statement on one of the interview shows would probably be sufficient.”
“I’m sorry, Charlie. It’s not on my list of priorities at the moment. Orion is welcome to take advertising space with The National, or not, as it pleases. But you don’t get to dictate editorial policy. I enjoyed talking with you.”
HE SPENT THE evening reading a new novel by Judah Winslow, a young man who had a magnificent career in front of him. He’d just finished the book and wa
s about to call it a night when Tilly let another caller through. “Anthony DiLorenzo,” the caller said. “I’m a physicist. University of Cairo.”
“What can I do for you, Dr. DiLorenzo?”
He looked like the Ancient of Days. Lined face, white whiskers, full jowls, watery eyes. “I saw the show you did last week. Up Front.”
“Okay.”
“I’m in full agreement. But you’ve missed the real boondoggle.”
“Which is what?”
“The Origins Project. It costs tens of billions.”
“I’m aware of what it costs, Doctor. At the moment we’re fighting one battle at a time. Anyhow, the bulk of the funding for it comes from the Europeans.”
“It doesn’t matter. I suggest you fight this one and forget the Academy.”
“Why?”
“How much do you know about Origins?”
“Just that it’s expensive.”
“Did you know there’s a chance it could blow up?”
“Sure. That’s why they moved it out to 36 Ophiuchi.”
“Mr. MacAllister, actually it’s located several light-years the other side of 36 Ophiuchi.”
“What are you trying to tell me, Doctor?”
“It might not be far enough.”
That got his attention. “What do you mean? What kind of explosion are they expecting?”
“They aren’t expecting one, but they are concerned about the possibility.”
“Could you explain, please?”
“Several kinds of miscarriages are possible. But, since they are where they are, we need only concern ourselves with one.”
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