by Ben Bova
“He looks wonderful,” she said, glowing. But the way she clutched at Jake’s arm told him she was wound tight.
Sebastian, Tomlinson, and Governor Hackman would make their opening statements in that order, the moderator explained, based on their current standings in the popularity polls.
Senator Sebastian gave a solid little speech, emphasizing his experience, pointing out that in addition to his “long years” in the Senate he had served two terms as governor of Florida. “So I have executive experience, too,” he concluded, casting a sly glance at Tomlinson, standing next to him.
With a handsome grin, Tomlinson began, “I’m too young to have served as long as Brad has. But I’ve managed to accomplish a few things since I’ve come to the Senate.
“For one, the energy plan that I presented to the Senate nearly six years ago has produced new jobs across these United States, reduced our nation’s carbon footprint considerably, and lowered the costs of electricity and gasoline.”
A smattering of applause broke out.
Yesterday’s news, Jake thought. What have you done for me lately?
Tomlinson went on, “You’re paying less for fueling your car, and your electricity bills are lower because we are using new technology to develop our natural resources. And those natural resources include the brains and toil of American workers.”
More applause, louder.
“Now it’s time to use our brains and skills to open the space frontier. Time to use the resources in space and on the Moon to create new industries, new jobs, new wealth, and opportunities for America and the whole world. It’s time to return to the Moon!”
The crowd applauded again, but Jake thought it was noticeably less than before. He hasn’t sold the idea, Jake realized. Not yet.
Governor Hackman’s opening statement was blandly forgettable, Jake thought: especially coming after Tomlinson’s expansive vision.
Then the news people started grilling the candidates. The first question to Tomlinson was, “Won’t it be prohibitively expensive to get back to the Moon and build a permanent base there?”
Tomlinson smiled his best high-wattage smile and replied, “We plan to return to the Moon and build permanent facilities there without spending a penny of taxpayer money. It will be financed by private investors.”
Glancing at Sebastian, he went on, “The bill for creating that system of private investment is bottled up in the Senate at the moment. We’re hoping that Senator Sebastian will use his considerable influence to help get the bill to the floor of the Senate for a vote.”
Before the next question could be asked, Tomlinson added, “Incidentally, Tom, you’ll be able to invest in the program, too. Individual private citizens will be able to invest in developing the space frontier. As I’ve said before, there’s gold in them thar lunar hills—and you can share in it.”
Laughter and a smattering of applause.
Lovett nodded happily. “He’s hitting the right note.”
The next questioner asked, “How will your space plan help us in the war against terrorism?”
“By making us wealthier,” Tomlinson immediately replied. “By making the whole world wealthier. By showing the world that we have better things to do than suicide bombings. By showing people everywhere that developing the space frontier can make them richer.”
“Really?”
“Look,” Tomlinson said, leaning forward slightly on his lectern, “one of the things we hope to do is build solar power satellites—power stations in orbit that can beam gigawatts of energy down to receiving stations on the ground. And where would be the best places for those receiving stations? The clear desert areas of the American southwest. And the deserts of the Middle East, too. The vast Sahara Desert could become the energy source for all of Europe!”
Only a few hands clapping.
The moderator said, “That’s a lot to think about.”
“Start thinking, then,” Tomlinson said. With a grin.
“Okay.” The moderator took a breath, then turned to Hackman. “Governor, what do you see as the most important issues in this campaign?”
And so it went. Until one of the news media panelists asked Tomlinson, “Your ‘Back to the Moon’ plan sounds so … so futuristic, so far-fetched. Do you really expect the American voters to go for what sounds, frankly, like a wild-eyed fantasy?”
Tomlinson’s smile faltered, but only for an instant. “Carrie,” he replied, “automobiles were once a wild-eyed fantasy. So was stem-cell therapy and the global extermination of polio. Space flight itself was considered a fantasy—until we started orbiting satellites and eventually landed American astronauts on the Moon.”
Looking beyond the seated panelists, toward the rows and rows of the audience, Tomlinson continued, “But I’ll tell you what, Connie. We have a good cross-section of American voters here in the hall.” Raising his voice louder, he called out, “How many of you believe that we can return to the Moon and begin to develop the space frontier? Come on, raise your hands.”
For a long moment, the auditorium was absolutely still. Then a few hands went up. Abruptly, the lights set high in the ceiling came on, showing the packed rows of seats. Tomlinson stood at his lectern, smiling expectantly.
Lovett muttered, “This is a mistake.”
Jake raised his right hand and twisted around to look at the rest of the vast auditorium. People were raising their hands, getting to their feet and waving both arms in the air. Within moments there was a sea of raised hands and a growing murmur that rose to a rumble, a cheer, a rising tide of clapping and whistles and joyful laughter.
Stretching his right arm toward the audience, Tomlinson bellowed over the crowd’s roar, “There’s your answer! Americans are a pioneering people, and they’re ready to move out to the space frontier!”
Lovett pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and mopped his brow.
* * *
It was nearly midnight. Tomlinson’s suite at the Waldorf Astoria was still packed with campaign workers and well-wishers. Lovett sat in an armchair, his third whiskey in his hand, still shaking his head.
“He reminds me of what the flyboys used to say about test pilots,” he was saying to Jake, sitting beside him in an identical chair. “More guts than brains.”
Jake waved a clutch of messages torn from the computer in the adjoining room. “The blogs are going wild. It was a masterstroke.”
“Another masterstroke like that and I’ll have a heart attack,” Lovett moaned. “Do you realize what could have happened if his little ploy fell flat?”
“It didn’t,” Jake said happily.
The wall-screen TV was tuned to a news broadcast; it showed the sea of hands in Madison Square Garden, then cut to Tomlinson’s happy, grinning face. Jake didn’t know if the sound was muted or not, there was too much noise from the well-wishers to tell.
Tami came through the crowd, smiling happily. “The morning newspapers are all carrying the story on their front pages.”
“Why not?” Jake said carelessly.
Lovett kept shaking his head. “He’s got the guts of a burglar. The guts of a burglar.”
“It worked,” Jake told him.
“This time,” said Lovett. “He’d better not try something like this again.”
Jake glanced at his wristwatch, then pushed himself up from the chair. To Tami he said, “We’d better get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.”
“The finance committee hearing,” she said.
“Right.”
They said good night to Lovett, then made their way to Senator Tomlinson, who was deep in conversation with a couple of older men: Wall Street types, Jake thought. Amy was standing beside her husband, smiling brightly and nodding.
Jake waved at the senator, then he and Tami worked their way through the crowded room, out into the blessedly quiet hallway, and down the elevator to their own floor.
As he closed the door to their room, Jake saw that the red message light on the bedside ph
one was blinking.
Jake picked up the receiver and tapped the message button.
Herbert Manstein’s clipped, cultured voice said, “Dr. Ross, I am in New York and would like to see you. Are you free for lunch tomorrow?”
Welcome Home
In the bathroom of his hotel mini suite brushing his teeth, Jake heard the TV soundtrack: together with the British prime minister and the leaders of Germany and China, the president of the United States was having an “informal chat” with the five men who were apparently running the Russian government—for the time being.
Politics, Jake thought. Putin’s not even cold yet in his grave and they’re talking about what comes next. I guess it’s important, though. Maybe they can work out a way to deal with the Middle East.
Once he turned off his electric toothbrush Jake could hear the TV announcer intoning, “While economic issues will probably predominate this impromptu discussion, the leaders will undoubtedly talk about the stability of the new government of Syria, and Russia’s efforts to conclude a new trade treaty with western Europe.”
Yeah, Jake said to himself. And the war against the Latin American terrorists. And maybe even the future of the Russian space program. I bet our “Back to the Moon” plan has them jittery.
As he stepped back into the bedroom he saw Tami sitting tensely on the front edge of the little sofa.
Pointing to the TV screen’s image of the American president in Moscow chatting smilingly with the British prime minister, Tami said, “That woman leads a charmed life. Here she is, a lame duck on the last months of her presidency, and she gets to have the international spotlight on her again.”
With a laugh, Jake asked, “You think she poisoned Putin?”
“I wouldn’t put it past her.”
The phone rang. Jake went to the bed in two swift strides and lifted the receiver.
Patrick Lovett’s voice said, “It’s all set. Paolino’s, down on Eighteenth and Irving Place.”
Jake nodded. “I’ll tell Manstein. Cab drivers can find it?”
“No sweat.”
“Okay.” Jake cut the connection, then punched out the number Manstein had left the night before. No answer, so Jake left a message, including the fact that Senator Tomlinson’s campaign manager would be coming along with him.
Tami saw the worried look on his face. “Do you think he’ll be spooked and not show up?”
“I don’t know,” Jake answered. “Might spoil the cloak-and-dagger atmosphere. On the other hand, the bastard might feel puffed up to have Frank’s campaign manager at the table.”
The two of them went down to the lobby coffee shop for breakfast, then returned to their suite. No phone messages.
Jake turned on C-Span, hoping they were covering the Senate finance committee’s hearing. They weren’t. Senator Zucco did not want TV cameras poking into his committee’s hearing. Not that the committee was going to take up the loan guarantee bill, Jake knew. Sebastian wanted it kept from a hearing and Zucco bowed to Sebastian’s pressure. Power politics at its finest, he thought sourly.
So Jake paced the small room, feeling caged in but unwilling to leave the hotel room. Manstein might call, he kept telling himself.
Tami was stuffing her tote bag with a mini computer and batches of papers: she was responsible for arranging the news media’s representatives at Senator Tomlinson’s speech that afternoon at the Museum of Natural History’s Hayden Planetarium.
“It’s like trying to herd cats,” she complained just before she left. “A bunch of prima donnas.”
“Not like Walter Cronkite, huh?”
She cocked a brow at her husband. “Oh, old Walt had his moments, from what I hear.”
Jake chuckled. “Goes with the job, I guess.”
“Takes a big ego to get ahead in the news business,” Tami said. Then she pecked Jake on the cheek and left him wondering if she had an ego big enough to get ahead in the news business—an ego big enough to break up their marriage.
* * *
Jake’s bearded, turbaned cabdriver used his GPS to locate Paolino’s restaurant. Pat Lovett was already sitting at a table in the rear of the place when Jake walked in.
Paolino’s was in the basement of a brick apartment building. The place looked like a hallway to Jake, long and narrow. But more than half of the tables were already filled, even though it was only a few minutes past noon.
“This is one of the undiscovered gems of Manhattan,” Lovett said, once Jake sat down. “A quiet neighborhood restaurant with great food, a fine wine list, and wonderful service.”
“How did you find it?” Jake asked absently. He glanced at his wristwatch. Manstein was already several minutes late.
“I used to live in this neighborhood, years ago. The Gramercy Park area is a fine place to live. None of the hustle and bustle of farther uptown, yet you’re in the heart of the city.”
Jake understood that when Pat said “the city,” he meant Manhattan. The other boroughs of New York were not “the city” as far as Manhattanites were concerned.
“We used to worry every year when the newspapers brought out their ‘best restaurants’ list,” Lovett went on, cheerfully. “If they mentioned one of your neighborhood joints, the prices would double, the waiters would start wearing tuxedos, and the chef would quit. The place would close down in less than a year.”
It was hard for Jake to tell if Lovett was serious or not. Exaggerating, at least, he figured.
“Mr. Lovett!” A short, chunky, gray-haired man in a light gray suit and loosely knotted paisley tie came striding up to their table, arms spread wide.
Lovett jumped to his feet. “Paulie! How the hell are you, pal?”
“I was in the kitchen when you came in,” said Paulie. “Welcome back!”
The two men embraced, their faces glowing with comradeship.
Jake got up from his chair and Lovett introduced him. Paulie seemed unimpressed with a mere science advisor to a US senator. It turned out that Paulie was the owner of the restaurant.
“I started as an assistant to the chef, when I was a kid.” Paulie held a hand waist high to show how little he was then. “My grandfather taught me the business.”
They chatted amiably for a few moments more, then Paulie excused himself and went up front to the bar to greet a pair of new arrivals.
Lovett said, “Paulie’s the third generation to own this place.”
A waiter came up with a bottle of red wine. “Compliments of Paulie,” he said, in a decidedly Manhattan accent. “He says benvenuto, welcome home.”
Lovett laughed softly. “I haven’t been here in more than five years. Still, it feels like home.”
Jake had never seen the man look so relaxed, so content.
Then he spotted Manstein entering the restaurant. Paulie spoke to him briefly, then began to lead him down to their table.
“That’s him?” Lovett asked.
“That’s him.”
Lovett’s tranquil smile disappeared.
Manstein … and Sebastian
Manstein was wearing an elegant off-white suit: Italian silk, Jake guessed. His precisely knotted tie was royal blue. He smiled handsomely as he followed Paulie to their table at the rear of the restaurant.
Jake and Lovett got to their feet as Manstein approached, looking perfectly relaxed. Jake was wound tight, and a glance at Lovett’s face showed he was in dead-serious mode.
“Mr. Manstein,” Jake said, “this is Patrick Lovett, Senator Tomlinson’s campaign director.”
Manstein extended his hand. “Delighted,” he murmured.
Lovett said nothing.
As they sat down, a waiter came to the table and poured a glass of wine for Manstein.
He sipped at it, then nodded. “An Italian wine. Valpolicella, I believe.”
Jake looked at the bottle’s label. “Right.”
“A decent wine,” Manstein allowed.
Opening the menu before him, Jake asked, “What brings you to New Y
ork?”
“I am here to extend an invitation to you—or, rather, to Senator Tomlinson.”
“An invitation?” Lovett asked.
“Yes. But perhaps we should order our food first.”
He’s enjoying this, Jake thought. Keeping us dangling. He’s having fun.
Paulie himself came to the table, made a few suggestions, and took their orders: veal piccata for Lovett, a green salad for Manstein, and an antipasto plate for Jake.
As Paulie left, Lovett asked, “What about this invitation?”
Manstein leaned forward slightly and replied in a low voice, “Senator Sebastian would like to meet with your Senator Tomlinson. Privately, away from the news media and all that.”
“He can do that in Washington, just about any day of the week,” Lovett said.
“Oh come now, sir,” Manstein replied. “They are two very busy and popular men. More than half the time they are out of Washington, campaigning. And when they are in the capital they are surrounded with news reporters and others.”
Lovett nodded. “True enough. Still—”
“Still,” Manstein interrupted, “Senator Sebastian feels it would be advantageous to have a quiet, face-to-face meeting. Without news reporters and cameramen, without hordes of underlings hovering around.”
“He wants to talk to our man with no one listening in,” Lovett said.
“Precisely. Oh, I suppose he could be accompanied by one or two of his staff. But no more. The meeting should be quiet, unnoticed—”
“Secret,” Jake said.
Manstein almost smiled. “A rather melodramatic way of putting it. Let us say, private, confidential.”
Secret, Jake repeated to himself. He glanced at Lovett, whose facial expression was halfway between intrigued and dubious.
“And what would be the subject of this quiet little meeting?” Lovett asked.
With a shrug, Manstein answered, “What else? The campaign. The race for the party’s nomination. Perhaps even the campaign afterward, for the presidency.”
Jake asked, “Will you be at this meeting?”
