She arrived at the White House at the same moment as her chief, so they entered together, not speaking. She had smiled at him very cheerfully as he got out of his car, but his only response was a grumph. Interesting. He obviously thought he was going to lose. Of course he knew Tibor Reece far better than she did; until last week her only meeting with the President had been on that momentous day early in February of 2027, when he had been in office for three years and was looking forward to being reelected in November of 2028. Five years!
His predecessor had not been wrong in putting his immense personal clout behind Tibor Reece as his successor in the White House. Given the times, he was a sensible and stable choice. A caring man and an ethical one. But he was no Augustus Rome, for he was too reserved and austere to be the kind of President who inspired love in his people. Lincolnesque was the adjective usually applied to him by a mostly favourable press, and he clearly liked the comparison, felt at home with it, though in actual fact there was little resemblance either in personality or in policy. Not surprising. The Americas each man headed were not merely poles apart, but moons apart. For between Lincoln and Reece a whole ethos had perished: an ideal and dream and way of life and bright incandescent hope.
The President was on the phone when they were ushered in, looked up to gesture them to chairs, but went on talking. A compliment to her, certainly, if not to Harold Magnus. He was talking about the Russians. Nothing earth-shaking. The earth didn't shake much internationally since the Delhi Treaty. It was too busy coping with internal troubles to have the time, the energy (literally and metaphorically) or the money to fight expensive, useless wars.
The telephone conversation was about wheat. Only three nations in the world still exported significant quantities of grain: the United States of America, Argentina and Australia. People might come and go in the heartlands, but wheat went on forever. Canada's growing season had shortened too much, but the United States still managed to produce big crops, and the hybrid boys worked incessantly to develop strains able to survive colder springs and summers. The real crunch had become the length of time the ground remained unfrozen, but in future years it was likely to become the amount of rain. At the moment rainfall was sufficient, but it had been over twenty years since there had been an annual precipitation higher than the old average; mostly it was at least slightly lower than the old average, so the average in its turn was dropping. The two southern hemisphere nations were in better case, but how long that would last, no one was prepared to hazard a guess.
The President finished his conversation and bent his attention upon Environment.
'You know, Harold, yours is the most important agency in the country,' said Tibor Reece. 'I won't say you've got all the problems, but you've got the biggest and the most. Relocation, regulation of the birthrate, and conservation of our dwindling resources. You receive a full half of the federal budget money. And maybe because you don't deal with hawkish matters, you're no real trouble to a President.' He grinned. 'I don't lose much sleep over Environment, anyway! In fact, you're very dedicated people, you believe in yourselves, and you run a tight ship. You've got the best computer setup in the world bar none, and you've come up with some brilliant ideas. So, I've done a lot of thinking about Operation Search. Mostly whether it's really necessary to implement its findings.'
Dr Carriol's heart sank; Harold Magnus's rose. Neither said a word; they just sat looking at the President.
'The trouble with any senior executive is that he tends to be cut off from the mainstream of popular thought and feeling by the demands — and the size! — of his job. It's like trying to make a Manhattanite born and bred understand the life cycle and mentality of people on the land. Or like trying to make a rich man born and bred understand what actual poverty is really about. Minds are admirable things. But sometimes I wish feelings were more admired, less derided. If there is any reason above all others why I still love and respect Augustus Rome, it's because that man never lost sight of the common people. He wasn't a demagogue, he didn't need to be. He was simply one of them.'
Harold Magnus was nodding his head vigorously at these last remarks; Dr Carriol concealed a smile, knowing full well what his genuine opinion of old Gus Rome was. You bloated old toady!
'However, during the last four days I found myself in the position of a shameless eavesdropper. I wandered into the kitchens on any excuse, I walked into rooms while they were being cleaned, I yarned with gardeners and secretaries and maids. Yet in the end it was my own wife who gave me the most help.' He drew his lips back from his teeth and let his breath hiss between them, a tortured act perhaps, but not a contemptuous one. 'I am not going to discuss my relationship with my wife. But — she's an unhappy woman, due to the times we live in. I had a talk with her, just about things like what she thinks about when she's alone, how she deals with the reality of our daughter when I'm not there to see them together, what kind of life she wants when we have to move out of here…'
He paused, carefully controlling his face. It had been a painful interview for both of them, the more so because they did not communicate much in the normal course of their days. Her behaviour was scandalous, yet he had never tried to reproach her for it, confining his activities to keeping her doings out of the press and keeping a tight security clamp on her. How could he reproach her when he had personally ensured she would never have a second child? Their rare quarrels were about her indifference to her daughter, moving into her teens without sufficient intelligence to know she was the antithesis of what a President's daughter ought to be. Tibor Reece loved his daughter dearly, but the amount of time he could give her was minuscule compared with the amount of time she needed, and her mother was no help.
'Anyway, I won't keep you in suspense any longer,' he said to Harold Magnus and Dr Judith Carriol. 'I decided that we must implement Operation Search, and that Dr Carriol's ideas about the nature of the man who gets the job are right. So Operation Search will move into its third phase, and I have to agree again with Dr Carriol that there is really only one likely candidate. Dr Joshua Christian.'
Of course Harold Magnus couldn't protest, but his lips went thin and pursed, which gave to his round several-chinned face a different character, ruthless and egocentric, but also peevish and spoiled. Dr Carriol kept her face impassive.
'Naturally,' Tibor Reece went on, 'the logistics are Environment's responsibility, and I am not going to inquire into them. But I will require frequent reports on progress, and I hope I'll soon see the results for myself. I've not yet approved a budget for phase three, but tentatively you can assume you've got all the money you're likely to need. There is just one further thing I would like to know now.' He looked at Dr Carriol. 'Dr Carriol, how do you intend to deal with Dr Christian? I mean, is he to know about Operation Search? Have you given this area any thought?'
She nodded. 'Yes, Mr President, I have. Had you chosen Senator Hillier, for example, I would have said you must tell the man. But I am absolutely against Dr Christian's being allowed to gain any idea of government involvement or manipulation. He's a natural for the job, therefore he does not need any boost from us in terms of his morale or his devotion to duty. It is not necessary to appeal to his patriotism, either. In fact, it is my considered opinion that were Dr Christian to learn about Operation Search, we would immediately lose him and all the prospective benefits.'
Tibor Reece smiled. 'I agree with you.'
'Mr President, I think we are pinning a hell of a lot of faith — blind faith! — on a man we may not be able to control!' said Harold Magnus, biting off his words to give them an additional emphasis they didn't actually need, his feelings showed so strongly. 'We are now talking about the area responsible for my very grave doubts about Dr Joshua Christian. It never occurred to me that we would pick a man who couldn't be told what and why — and how.' He shuddered, revolted to the depths of his being. 'I mean, we are going to have to trust the man!'
'We have no choice,' said the President.
&nb
sp; 'Mr Magnus, trust will only have to go so far,' said Dr Carriol calmly. 'Dr Christian will always be under constant supervision. I myself have established a position of some intimacy with him, and I intend to remain at the very centre of his life. That means you will have to trust me, but I can assure you that if at any time I feel Dr Christian is jeopardizing our project, I will deal with him before any harm is done. You have my word.'
This was news to both of them. Tibor Reece smiled, Harold Magnus relaxed. Of course they both assumed she meant she was having an affair with Dr Christian. Let them think it; it would comfort them.
'I might have known,' said the Secretary.
'Is there anything further you need from me personally, Dr Carriol?' the President asked.
She frowned, considering. 'I don't think at this stage anyway that phase three is going to be expensive. A matter of some thousands of dollars is all.'
'That's a break!' chuckled the President.
Dr Carriol smiled briefly, went on. 'The nice thing about choosing Dr Christian is that he's largely self-fuelling. Elliott MacKenzie of the Atticus Press says that Dr Christian's book is going to sell millions, and Elliott is no fool. So Environment's original offer to him to underwrite any losses he might incur through Dr Christian will not have to be implemented. Dr Christian himself will become a very rich man into the bargain. No, the kind of assistance I am going to need from you, Mr President, is different. I want travel approvals, priority to obtain the most comfortable accommodations, cars, planes, helicopters and the like.' She stared at Harold Magnus blandly. 'I will need funds for myself, since I intend to be with Dr Christian throughout his publicity tour.'
'Whatever you want you shall have,' said Tibor Reece.
'I can't agree with your choice, Mr President,' said Harold Magnus, 'but I admit I'm a lot happier now I know Dr Carriol is going to be with him.'
'Why, thank you, sir!' said Dr Carriol.
Now that he thought he knew the nature of her relationship with Dr Christian, Tibor Reece was curious about Judith Carriol as a woman. 'Dr Carriol, do you mind if I ask you a rather personal question?'
'Not at all, sir.'
'Does Dr Joshua Christian mean anything to you? As a man? As a person?'
'Of course!'
'So what if it should come to a choice between the man and the welfare of the project he's engaged upon? How would you decide? What would you feel?'
'I'd be most unhappy. But I will do whatever I have to do to safeguard the project, no matter what I feel about the man.'
'That's a very hard thing to say.'
'Yes. But I have spent over five years of my life working towards this one objective. It's not a petty objective. Nor am I built to throw my work out the window for the sake of my private feelings. I'm sorry if that makes me sound inhuman, but it's a fact nonetheless.'
'Would you be happier if you could throw your work out the window?'
'I am not unhappy, sir,' she said firmly.
'I see.' The President laid his big, well-shaped hand across the bulky packet of videotape, files and manuscript atop his desk. 'Operation Search is passe. We need a new name for it.'
'I have one, Mr President,' said Judith Carriol, so quickly she could not have coined it on the spot.
'Ah! You're ahead of us! All right then, what?'
She sucked in her breath, exultant. 'Operation Messiah.'
'Portentous,' said Tibor Reece, only half liking it.
'It has never been anything else,' she said.
6
Dr Joshua Christian hardly missed Dr Judith Carriol, or indeed hardly even thought of her; he was too busy writing his book and keeping up a normal patient schedule at the same time. The book inspired him, ravished him. It was miraculous. Beautiful fluid exquisitely apt words joined together to form beautiful fluid exquisitely apt sentences that sounded like him and rang with the same clarion as his voice. Miraculous!
Mama and James and Andrew and Mary and Miriam and Martha gave him their wholehearted and unflagging support, spared him every conceivable task they could, asked no questions, were patient with his sudden outbreaks of absent-mindedness, reorganized the entire 1047 house to suit him and his indomitable amanuensis, cooked and laundered and horticultured for him, involved his patients in the general conspiracy ('He's writing a book, you know, think of what that will mean to all the people who need him but he hasn't got the time to see!'). They never complained or criticized or even expected him to notice their efforts on his behalf, let alone appreciate those efforts. So when he did notice and he did express his appreciation, they glowed and loved him anew. That is, all save Mary, who worked as hard for him as anyone and got her meed of thanks, but would have preferred no thanks.
Many of the hours and hours he spent talking to Lucy Greco were wasted, he knew that; hours when his thoughts were undisciplined or he spoke of himself when he himself was not at issue. But the wasted hours provided grist for the hours that were not wasted, when he could manage to marshal his enthusiasm and his theories into a pattern Lucy Greco could follow. And then, while he saw patients or went off to ruminate some particularly knotty concept into smooth mental paste, she sat in the room in 1047 Oak Street given to her for an office, and she performed those verbal miracles that so ravished him when he read them. The big IBM voicewriter he had never used she used now, and never, she felt, to better advantage.
Once when he came in he looked curiously at the label on the side of the machine, and sighed.
'What?' she asked, at a loss.
'Made in Scarlatti, South Carolina,' he said, very sadly. 'Once, you know, Holloman made a good proportion of this country's personal printing machines — every kind from plain old typewriter to — well, not this make of voicewriter, but several others. The factory is still here. I walk through it sometimes. It's easy to get in, they've given up any pretence at a security guard or even a caretaker. What for? Who wants to steal dies and mandrels and presses you can't adapt to any other purpose? So the factory is just full of emptiness and rusting plant, there's filth on the floor and ice hanging from the rafters.'
'Maybe you ought to pay a visit to Scarlatti,' said Lucy, still at a loss. 'There are at least half a dozen big personal printing machine companies set up there. And I'm sure everything is new and bright, with better staff facilities and a much nicer working environment.'
'I never doubted that!' he said, affronted.
Lucy sighed. 'Josh, honey, sometimes you do make my life hard! Here I am helping you to write a book about positivity, and what am I getting?' she asked, shutting her eyes to round up her thoughts better and exclude his person from them. 'A good proportion of the talking you do to me is taken up by an utterly negative longing for a world you keep telling your readers is gone and can never come back again. Think of the hours you waste! And what a meretricious activity it is! When you go on the road to publicize your book, you can't let yourself get all nostalgic, you know. You've set yourself the task of telling the people they can't afford nostalgia! And if they can't afford it, neither can you, Josh. That's a fact you've got to face up to. It's not do-as-I-say, it has to be do-as-I-do. Otherwise it will all blow up in your face.'
Punctured. Pricked. Deflated. Zapped. 'Oh, God! You are so right!' he cried, and collapsed in a tangle of arms and legs, a broken doll. Then he began to laugh, and he leaped from the chair, capering around the room running his hands through his stiff black hair until it looked as if the raging winds of his mind were erupting through his scalp. 'You are so right! So right! Oh, woman, I have needed you and I have needed Judith Carriol so badly! I have needed your new minds and souls to listen to me prate instead of all those sweet slavish devoted bigots next door! How can I get my thoughts into order when they sit listening to me with such an I-love-Joshua-he-can-do-no-wrong attitude that they never give me constructive criticism? Thank you, thank you, thank you!'
He came to a halt, standing pressing his hands together over the groin he never thought of. 'I want to say —
oh, how beautiful rich emotions are if you can learn not to wallow in them, and how natural grief is, and what a great friend time can be, and that nothing that ever happens — ever happens! — is without purpose. That the new can founder on the old, and that courage and strength can be just as lovable as weakness.' He stopped, glared at her. 'Why can't I write all that down?' he demanded, exasperated. 'I can speak words to an audience — any audience! — as if my tongue was made of silver and my voice was made of gold and my soul had wings. Yet let me stare at a sheet of blank paper or a tape recorder or one of these fantastic voicewriters and the words all rush off somewhere to hide and no matter how hard I try, I cannot roust them out.'
'Well, either it's a psychological block or a physiological one,' she said, more to calm him down than out of interest.
'Both,' he said instantly. 'Somewhere there's a little cerebral relay that's shorted out — a thrombosis or a plaque or a knot of scar tissue — and sitting right on top of it is the awful festering cesspool of my subconscious.'
Lucy couldn't help but laugh. 'Oh, Josh, you're such a gentle good man that I don't believe your subconscious can be any different!'
'The best kept and tightest run ship still accumulates bilge, and the most immaculate house still needs its drains, so why shouldn't human minds have to obey the same law?'
'I think that's bordering on sophistry,' she said.
He grinned. 'Well, the Mouse put me through her full gamut of tests, and I do have a genuine dysgraphia, if that's any consolation.'
'You can also be mighty slippery,' said Lucy Greco.
Elliott MacKenzie read the rough draft before passing the only copy to Dr Judith Carriol; he had promised her not to keep a word of the manuscript anywhere within his publishing house. But he hated digesting that sort of magic and then being obliged to give it up without keeping so much as one copy. Oh, Lucy had a copy in Holloman, but that too was not available to him. What if this precious book got lost? What if Environment decided there was something subversive about it and withheld it from publication? They owned all the rights on Dr Christian's behalf, Judith Carriol had seen to that.
A Creed for the Third Millennium Page 17
