Odyssey Page 11

  “A hundred-seventy feet?” asked the show’s moderator, visibly shocked. Hutch wondered whether they’d rehearsed. “That much?”

  “If we’re lucky.”

  “Over the next few centuries?”

  “If it happened today, I’d say by Wednesday.”

  IT WAS A pretty good argument for moving to Mars. Or establishing a colony somewhere. There was a lot of talk about doing just that, and in fact two colonies had been founded, one by political malcontents, the other by religious fanatics. Both were now on life support. It was just as well. The last thing the species needed was to provide a pristine world for lunatics, of whatever stripe. Do that, she suspected, and it would eventually come back to haunt us.

  Even off-world habitats had not prospered. There were plans to construct two in the Earth-moon region, but the contractors had run short of funds, and promised subsidies had never materialized.

  The asteroid had been named, prosaically, RM411. The Black Cat had tried to tag it the Armageddon Special, but their own consultants laughed at them, so they dropped the attempt after the first feeble efforts. “Legislative bodies around the world,” Detroit News Online was saying, “are promising investigations of how it could have happened. An unnamed source with the World Council said there’ll be a substantive review, and that they intend to determine who’s responsible.”

  Science & Technology predicted that “somebody’s head will roll. Why are we giving the Academy all that money?”

  It’s not our job, you idiot. Just because something is off-Earth doesn’t automatically make it our responsibility.

  She switched over to Capitol News, which was interviewing Hiram Taylor. Live from the Senate building. He looked angry and righteous, and his black hair kept falling into his eyes. They were by heaven going to straighten things out. The American people deserved better than this. “It’s only by the grace of God that it missed us. No thanks to the people in place who are supposed to protect us from these things.” He didn’t name the Academy, presumably because he knew better. But he left it out there, knowing full well the conclusions his audience would draw.

  Hutch wondered what the going rate was for a hit man. The Senate’s Science Advisory Committee, to which Taylor belonged, did not, of course, control funding for the Academy, but the House panel that decided such things would listen closely to what they said.

  She called the commissioner. Not in yet. She went to Eric. “They’re blaming us,” she said.

  “I know.” Eric threw up his hands. “I have a press conference scheduled later this morning. We’ve put out statements, I sent Ernie down to do an interview, and I’m taking a couple of the media guys out to lunch.” Ernie was Eric’s staff assistant.

  The other newsnets were all taking a similar approach. They were questioning scientists around the globe. Burnhoffer of Heidelberg admitted he didn’t know who had been assigned the responsibility for the Earth-crossers, but that someone was clearly remiss. Burnhoffer had ridden the Academy’s ships to Procyon and Sirius and had briefly held the Odysseus trophy as the human being who had gone farthest from the sun. That had been presented after a mission to Canopus. (Those making the award considered only the senior person on the mission, and of course never the pilots.) She’d liked Burnhoffer, but here was an object lesson in keeping your mouth shut when you didn’t know what you were talking about.

  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

&
nbsp; 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 MacAlli
ster.

  “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.”