by Ben Bova
Sitting wearily in an armchair in Senator Tomlinson’s suite, Jake watched the televised proceedings in a growing funk of worn-out numbness.
This is how we select our leaders, he told himself, while a delegate from North Dakota waxed almost lyrical about farm subsidies. Neither Tomlinson nor Sebastian had shown themselves at the convention. It was a long-standing tradition that the candidates did not appear among the delegates until one of them had won the nomination.
By the time Jake got back to the Downtown Courtyard and crawled into bed, dawn was beginning to lighten the sky. Tami was already in bed, sound asleep, with a quizzical little smile on her lips.
* * *
“How do we break this goddamn deadlock?” Lovett wondered, after the fourth ballot came out exactly like the third.
Jake saw the frustration on the campaign manager’s face, heard it in his increasingly abrasive tone. At this rate, he thought, we could be here ’til Christmas.
Jake was sunk into an armchair in the second bedroom of the senator’s suite, a place of relative calm for the inner elite. Lovett and O’Donnell were standing near the wall-screen TV with Tomlinson. Amy hadn’t put in an appearance yet; she was catching up on her sleep after spending the night and early morning watching the TV coverage.
Even the normally unruffled senator was beginning to look frayed. “So what can we do, Pat?” he asked.
Lovett shook his head. “We’re holding our own, but we’re not making any progress. If we don’t think of something, and soon, we’re going to start losing delegates.”
Tomlinson laughed derisively. “We won’t have to lose very many of them to hand Sebastian the prize.”
“There must be something we can do,” Lovett insisted.
Kevin O’Donnell, looking more pinched and cantankerous than ever, shook his head. “Sebastian’s people are sticking to him like they’ve been cemented in place.”
“How the hell does he do that?” Tomlinson wondered.
“More than a dozen years in the Senate,” O’Donnell answered. “He’s got a helluva lot of favors to pull in.”
“Well, we’ve got to do something,” Tomlinson insisted. “We can’t go on like this much longer.”
The bedroom door swung open just enough to allow one of the aides—a pretty young blonde—to stick her head in and announce, “A Mr. Patrone is on the phone, Senator. Says he has to talk to you. It’s urgent.”
Tomlinson looked baffled. “Patrone? Who the hell is Patrone?”
Lovett answered, “Sebastian’s campaign manager.”
Bargaining
Senator Tomlinson, Pat Lovett, and Jake sat squeezed together on the rear seat of an ordinary taxicab as they rode to a meeting with Umberto Patrone, Senator Sebastian’s campaign manager.
Jake had been surprised when Tomlinson told him to come along with Lovett and himself.
“Me? Are you sure, Frank? I’m not—”
“You’ve been with me since the beginning, back in Montana,” Tomlinson answered firmly. “I want you with me now.”
“And you know the space plan inside out,” Lovett added. “If it comes to bargaining, you’ll be in the middle of everything.”
Jake nodded and tried not to look smug. Especially when the senator told Kevin O’Donnell to stay at the hotel.
“I need you to look after things here, Kev,” Tomlinson said. “Keep everything in order.”
O’Donnell nodded. “I’ll handle any incoming calls. If they ask for you I’ll say you’re tied up in conference.”
“That’s the ticket,” the senator said, with a pat on O’Donnell’s shoulder.
Now the three men were riding through Philadelphia’s darkened streets, downtown, away from the hotels and the crowds and the convention center, toward a rendezvous with Sebastian’s campaign manager somewhere near the Delaware River.
They passed block after block of row houses, an occasional restaurant or bar on a street corner. Quiet streets, working people’s homes. Hardly anyone on the streets this close to midnight; the area looked almost deserted, although lights shone in the windows of just about every house.
“This is where the voters live,” Lovett murmured. “These are the people who decide who the next president will be, Frank.”
In the darkness of the rear seat, Jake saw Tomlinson bob his head up and down. With a sigh, he said, “Democracy is the worst form of government you can imagine—except for all the others.”
Winston Churchill, Jake knew. Good quote.
At last the cab glided to a stop next to a sports stadium of some sort, dark and empty, looming across the night sky like a slumbering beast. A long black stretch limousine was already parked along the curbside ahead of them, beneath a tall streetlight.
Mafia staff car, Jake said to himself.
“Is this where the Phillies play?” he asked the driver.
Looking up into his rearview mirror, the black cabbie shook his head. “The Eagles. Phillies play across the way.” Then he added, “Not that either one of ’em is any damned good.”
Jake couldn’t suppress a grin. Philadelphia fans had a reputation for being unforgiving.
They got out of the cab. The night was warm, but with a breeze blowing in from the river. Jake smelled something unpleasant. Oil refineries? he wondered. Lovett paid the driver as a tall lean man ducked out of the stretch limo parked ahead of them. Wearing a dark suit, he was even an inch or so taller than Tomlinson.
As the cab pulled away Jake suddenly thought, This would be a good place for a Mafia hit. Then he shook his head. Too melodramatic. I hope.
“Senator Tomlinson?” the tall man called.
“That’s me.”
Opening the limo’s rear door, he made a sweeping gesture with one hand. “Right in here, sir.”
Jake followed Tomlinson into the limousine’s ample interior. In the illumination from the overhead light, Jake saw a pair of strangers—and Senator Bradley Sebastian.
Hunched over halfway into the limo, Tomlinson hesitated, obviously surprised.
“Hello, Brad,” he said, reflexively putting out his hand.
“Hello, Frank.” Sebastian barely touched Tomlinson’s extended hand.
Sebastian introduced Patrone and another aide as the tall man closed the limo door and went up front to sit behind the steering wheel. Jake noticed that the partition between the driver and the riders was firmly closed.
Tomlinson sat on the side bench, closest to Sebastian, while Jake and Lovett arranged themselves next to the senator. Jake slid over far enough for Lovett to sit next to Tomlinson.
Opposite the three of them was a minibar, crystal decanters, and heavy-looking glasses. Untouched, from the looks of it.
“Sorry for the cloak-and-dagger atmosphere,” Sebastian said, his voice sounding slightly scratchy. He’s been doing a lot of talking, Jake realized.
Tomlinson nodded. “I understand.” Looking through the limo’s side window, the senator smiled. “I guess nobody’s going to snoop on us out here.”
“I hope not,” Sebastian said, smiling back wearily.
Patrone was a smallish man, with a round face and a receding hairline. His jaw looked stubbled. Probably has to shave twice a day, Jake thought.
“We want to talk to you,” Patrone said, in a low, almost growling voice, “to work out a way to get past this deadlock that’s developed.”
“Oh, that,” Tomlinson said, almost carelessly. “That’s easy.” Looking squarely at Sebastian, he went on, “You withdraw your candidacy and pledge your voters to me.”
Sebastian did not even smile. He looked drawn, older than the campaign portraits Jake had seen, even older than he appeared on television. No makeup, Jake decided.
Straight-faced, Sebastian replied, “I was thinking that you withdraw and pledge your people to me.”
Tomlinson shook his head the barest centimeter.
“We can’t go on like this,” Patrone said. “Another deadlocked vote and Hackman’s people are going
to start talking him up as a compromise candidate. Then you’ll both be out in the cold.”
“We can’t have that,” Sebastian said. “We’ve got to bring the party together, instead of splitting it like this.”
“Hackman can’t beat the Democrats,” Patrone grumbled, “no matter who they nominate. If he gets the nomination we’ll lose in November.”
Lovett asked, “So what do you propose?”
Patrone said, “For the good of the party, we’ve got to break this deadlock. Otherwise we’re giving the White House to the Democrats.”
In the wan glow from the streetlight outside, Jake saw that Sebastian’s face was set in a rigid mask. He’d seen that expression before, many years ago. It was the same look his own father would wear when he was tired of listening to Jake’s pleading.
Why can’t I go to college, Dad?
We can’t afford it.
But Mr. Caldwell says he can get a partial scholarship for me.
Then let him pay the fucking bills! I’m not going to.
And that was that. Jake worked summers and nights and weekends while his father drank with his pals.
Sebastian’s set in stone, Jake realized. Just like my dad.
Patrone was saying, “Senator Sebastian only needs a couple dozen more votes—”
“Goddamn it!” Sebastian exploded. “I deserve the nomination! I’ve put in damned near twenty years in the Senate. You’re just a newcomer, an upstart. What have you done to deserve the nomination?”
“The energy plan,” Lovett replied mildly.
“And the space plan,” Jake added.
“Public relations twaddle,” Sebastian countered. “Big fancy programs that sound great. But it’s the day-to-day work that counts. Not how many times you can get your picture on the cover of the newsmagazines.”
Tomlinson’s face went taut with anger. Lovett gripped the senator’s arm and repeated to Sebastian, “All right. We agree that for the good of the party we have to find a compromise. So what do you propose?”
For a long moment there was absolute silence in the limousine. Then Sebastian replied, sullenly, grudgingly, “The vice presidency.”
The Vice Presidency
Tomlinson actually gasped. “Vice president? That’s like a retirement home.”
Focusing on Lovett, Patrone said, “The two of you together on the ticket would be unbeatable. You would clobber the Democrats in November.”
“You might be right,” Tomlinson said to Patrone, unsmiling. “How about I handle the top spot and Brad runs for veep?”
“Unacceptable!” Sebastian snapped.
“Same here,” said Tomlinson.
“Now wait a minute,” Lovett said to Patrone. “You’re saying our two guys should work together to take the White House in November.”
“That’s right,” Patrone replied before anyone else could respond. “For the good of the party. Together, they’d be unbeatable.”
“For the good of the party,” Lovett echoed.
“The delegates would love it. The two of you would be nominated by acclamation. Wouldn’t even need to count votes.”
“There’s only one problem,” Tomlinson said, his face grave. “I’m running for president, not second place.”
“So am I,” Sebastian snapped.
Jake asked, “What about the space plan?”
“What about party loyalty?” Sebastian countered. “This isn’t all about you, you know.”
“No,” Tomlinson replied, with a cold smile. “It’s all about you.”
Before the two senators could work themselves into a real fight, Jake reminded them, “We’re talking about the space plan.”
Sebastian’s expression turned sour. “We won’t need a public relations gimmick like that, not if we pool our voting blocs.”
“But it’s important!” Jake insisted.
Patrone shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Not maybe,” Jake countered. “It’s attracted voters all over the country. Especially the younger voters, the people you’ll need to win in November. It’s given people hope, it’s even bringing other nations together. It could be an international breakthrough!”
“Pie in the sky,” Sebastian grumbled.
Jake was on the verge of telling them about the undeclared war with Russia. Instead, he said, “No, Senator. Space is important. It means jobs. It means the future. The United States could lead the way to a new world.”
Patrone turned to Sebastian. “It’s a vote-getter, true enough.”
Lovett added, “You can’t expect Frank to just drop the idea after he’s worked so hard for it.”
“Is it really that important?” Sebastian demanded.
“Yes!” Jake and Lovett—and Senator Tomlinson—answered in unison.
“Look,” Sebastian said, suddenly sounding reasonable. “I’m not against your plan. I just don’t see that it’s so damned important.”
“Not important?” Jake yelped. “A program that could generate hundreds of thousands of new jobs? Whole new industries? A program that could bring cheap, clean electrical energy to people all around the globe? Create new lightweight metals? Ultrapure medicines?”
“When?” Sebastian challenged. “How long will it take to achieve these lofty goals of yours?”
Tomlinson jumped in. “If we don’t start now we’ll never achieve them. The future starts now, Brad, it starts right here and now. We can change the world, make it brighter, healthier, safer. And the time and place to start making the change is right here and now.”
Sebastian shook his head. “I just don’t see it that way.”
Jabbing a finger at the senator from Florida, Tomlinson said, “Remember Ted Turner? Remember what he often said? ‘Lead, follow, or get out of the way.’ Which is it going to be for you, Brad? Are you going to lead or follow, or get rolled over by the future?”
Before Sebastian could do more than glower, Patrone asked, “Are you willing to accept the vice president’s spot on the ticket?”
Lovett responded, “Are you willing to adopt the space plan?”
With all eyes focused on him, Sebastian pursed his lips, then answered, “If I have to.”
Jake said, “That means you’ll end your opposition to the loan guarantee bill?”
Looking as if he’d rather be boiling in oil, Sebastian said, “I suppose Zucco could get it out of committee and put it on the floor of the Senate for a straight up-or-down vote.”
A crooked little smile breaking out across his stubbled jaw, Patrone said questioningly to Lovett, “Pat, do we have a deal here?”
“If the senator wants it,” Lovett replied.
Jake had never seen Tomlinson look so unsure of himself. His usual brilliant smile was gone. His face was set in a guarded, worried expression. Frank’s uncertain! Jake realized. For once in his life he doesn’t know which way to jump.
“Let me get this straight,” he said, stalling for time to think. “If I drop out of the race, you’ll nominate me for vice president.”
Sebastian nodded, just once.
He doesn’t like this any more than Frank does, Jake saw. But he wants the White House badly enough to do the deal.
“And you’ll drop your opposition to the space plan,” Tomlinson continued.
Before anyone could reply, Jake added, “And you’ll let the loan guarantee bill come up for a vote on the Senate floor.”
“Yes,” said Sebastian. The single word sounded to Jake like a desperate man’s cry for help.
Patrone asked, “So we have a deal?”
For a breathless instant the limo’s interior was absolutely silent. At last Tomlinson nodded tightly. “We have a deal.”
A Bucket of Warm Piss
As they rode back to the midtown area of hotels and conventioneers, the limousine was strangely quiet. Neither Sebastian nor Tomlinson had anything more to say, and their aides looked as if they were afraid that a single spoken word might shatter the fragile agreement they had just reached.
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br /> As they glided through the nearly empty streets, Patrone spotted a taxi stand with three yellow cabs parked beside an all-night diner.
“Is it okay if we let you off here?” Patrone asked, almost imploringly. “We don’t want to let the delegates see the two of you together. Not just yet.”
“Or the news media people,” Lovett added.
So Jake, Lovett, and Tomlinson got out of the limo, which immediately drove off, as if in a hurry to get away before anyone could recognize its riders. Jake saw that the cabs parked along the curb were empty.
“Probably in the diner,” Lovett said. “I’ll get one of them.”
Within a few minutes the three of them were jammed together in the taxi’s rear seat, on their way back to Tomlinson’s hotel headquarters.
Tomlinson shook his head tiredly and muttered, “The vice presidency isn’t worth a bucket of warm piss.”
Lovett almost smiled. “Cactus Jack Garner, FDR’s first vice president, back in nineteen thirty-two.”
“It’s not going to be like that,” Jake said to Tomlinson. “You’re going to be more like Lyndon Johnson when he was vice president. He ran NASA’s space program. Kennedy got the credit but LBJ ran the show.”
“That’s what I’ll be doing,” Tomlinson said. “It’s the best I can look forward to.”
“LBJ became president,” Lovett noted.
Wryly, Tomlinson asked, “You want me to have Sebastian gunned down, Pat?”
“Lord no!”
The senator hung his head, as if ashamed. “My father wanted me to be president, not number two.”
“That can still happen.”
“In eight years,” Tomlinson said quietly. “Maybe.”
Jake pointed out, “Frank, in eight years you’ll only be a little past fifty. In eight years you’ll be getting credit for getting us back to the Moon and making private space companies into a new center of growth and opportunity. They’ll be comparing you to Henry Ford and Jimmy Doolittle: founder of a whole new industry.”
Tomlinson managed a feeble smile. “That would be nice.”
