“Yasmin. Yasmin Silvers.”
“Good luck, Yasmin. I don’t know you, and I never met Patsy Leighton. But I’ll tell you this, she’s tough competition. I hope you can keep her away from him.”
“I’m going to try. You’ve helped me a lot.” The buzzer at Yasmin’s side began again with its irritating tone.
“I hope I have. But remember, it was all hearsay.”
“In Washington, hearsay’s the same as gospel truth. Thank you, Michaela.”
“Glad to help.”
“Mind if I call you again?” The buzzer was still going; whoever was on the other end was determined.
“Do it. Keep me posted, Yasmin. I’ll be rooting for you.”
“Good-bye now. I’ve got to pick up this other call, it won’t go away.” Yasmin jabbed at the access pad. “Yes?”
“I need to speak with the President. Urgently.” It was the starchy woman again. Moira what’s-her-name.
“He’s still not here.” Yasmin glanced at the clock. “Maybe in half an hour—”
“Too late. This is Moira Suomita. I was forced to make a decision. Are you able to take a message for the President?”
“Yes.” Yasmin made her private evaluation. State Department Acting Director of International Space Activities. The right title for a jumped-up bureaucrat with an exaggerated idea of her own worth. After Supernova Alpha there were no international space activities.
Yasmin said mildly, “I will make sure that the President gets your message as soon as he returns.”
“This is a matter of great importance. Can you record what I am saying?”
“No. The recording systems are not yet back online.”
“Then I will dictate. Make sure you get it exactly right. Have pencil and paper ready.”
“I will.” Yasmin waited, prepared for some piece of bureaucratic trivia. How did such people get the direct line to the President’s office? The main thing was, Yasmin now knew exactly why Tricia had walked out on Saul. Six months before the election, George Crossley had shown Tricia what looked like conclusive evidence that Saul would lose the presidential race. Crossley had not had access to, and had not seen, the other poll, the one that showed Saul would win if he didn’t marry Tricia before the election — and could marry her after it. Tricia had no time for losers. Her interest in Saul was zero if he were not President. But she had jumped ship too soon. Now, of course, he was President, so he was back in her sights.
But Michaela’s other words. Good luck, Yasmin . . . she’s tough competition. Michaela thought that she, Yasmin, wanted Saul — and was she right?
“Are you ready?” Moira Suomita, impatient and showing it. “What’s taking you so long?”
“Sorry. I’m ready, I was waiting for you.”
“Very well. Early this morning, my office received a most amazing call.” Moira Suomita spoke with a pause after every word. “Are you writing this down?”
“Yes. You can speak faster if you like.”
“I prefer not to. The call purported to come from two members of the international Mars expedition.”
“But they all died, on attempted reentry.” Yasmin’s response was automatic.
“That was what I had been told. Please do not interrupt. The call came from Woodridge, Virginia. The speaker identified herself as Celine Tanaka, which is in fact the name of one of the Mars expedition. She described an astonishing sequence of events: a return to Earth using jury-rigged orbiters, which killed three of the seven crew members. An emergency landing, and capture by members of the religious sect known as the Legion of Argos. And an escape, by just two members, Tanaka herself and Wilmer Oldfield. He is a citizen of Australia, but apparently lacks suitable entry credentials to the United States. He was not cooperative. I asked many questions, despite the callers’ impatience.”
Yasmin could imagine. Survivors of the first Mars expedition! Heroes, the first people to set foot on the red planet, names to ring through world history. And this woman droned on about identification — their grandmother’s maiden name, or their date and place of birth.
“I was unable to detect inconsistencies in their stories,” Moira Suomita went on. “I therefore arranged for them to travel to Washington. However, after I had done so, I referred to my notes concerning the original plans for the returning Mars expedition. They call for an immediate notification of the President and, if he so desires, a meeting with the crew members. In view of the great change in circumstances since Supernova Alpha, I would like to know if those instructions still apply.”
Bureaucrat, bureaucrat.
“Of course the President wants to see them. As soon as possible.”
“Do you have authority to confirm that?”
Of course I don’t. “Certainly.”
“Then please do so, before noon if possible. When Tanaka and Oldfield arrive, I will inform you at once. It will be some time today.”
Moira Suomita was off the line. Before noon. Yasmin glanced again at the clock. Eleven already. The President due, her notes all over his desk, the printer moved from its usual position, sheets of output scattered on the floor.
Let him be late. Let him be late. Just this once.
She grabbed her notes and stuck them away in a folder. The printer went back in place — not exactly, but close enough.
Yasmin was on her knees scooping up random handfuls of printout sheets when the door opened. Saul stood on the threshold, staring down at her.
“Well. Pardon me.” He closed the door while Yasmin scrambled to her feet. He came toward her until his face was only a foot from hers.
“I mean, pardon me for walking into my own office without knocking. I’ll listen to your explanation as soon as you’re ready. But I’ll tell you now, Yasmin, it had better be a good one.”
38
From the secret diary of Oliver Guest.
My house is a three-bedroom brick rambler. Its one oddity, to external eyes, would probably be the disproportionately large lot size for so unpretentious a structure. The building sits in the middle of two acres of land.
The large garden had been woefully neglected. My hybrid climbing roses, so carefully bred and so lovingly tended, now straggled over the lattice frames and fought for lebensraum with wild honeysuckle. The flower beds had become weed beds. The clematis, buddleia, and wisteria were overgrown and infested with tent caterpillars.
I observed all this with mingled annoyance and satisfaction. Since there was no sign of recent cultivation, I had hopes that the house itself might have remained equally undisturbed.
The front and back doors were secured by new locks and plastered with yellow stickers: judicial control board, do not enter. I had no keys of any kind, for locks old or new. One enters long-term judicial sleep naked, not accompanied by wallet, watch, and personal knickknacks. In any case, electronic keys were now presumably useless.
“The kitchen window,” I said. “I’ve done it before. The latch doesn’t work.”
Seth nodded. I led us around to the back of the house. On the way I paused at the herb and vegetable garden. It, too, was a wilderness of weeds. I went to the warmest corner, a patch of sun-warmed brick by the chimney positioned to catch day-long sun. The old box tortoise was still there, drowsing away the hours and years. I went across and picked up Methuselah, trying not to let my excitement show. No matter what had happened inside the house, my backup storage was intact. The complete genetic code of every one of my darlings was stored safely away here, in the form of introns added to Methuselah’s own DNA. Given equipment and time, I would be able to separate them and reconstruct them exactly.