“Fucking Hoover,” she muttered, and opened the Internet news site. It was based in Britain and reported mainly British news, but they were expanding into America and the Commonwealth. She smiled; the British had broken the back of the Japanese offensive and had forced them off Australia, into the sea. The bandwidth wouldn’t let her view the video, but she didn’t think that she wanted to see it all. The still pictures were bad enough.
“Anything interesting?” Oliver asked. Her heart quickened as he strode out of his office, dressed in a neat black power suit. Designers from all over America were working on copying the fashions of the future; she’d seen children wearing spacesuits from a television show called Star Trek. She smiled; copyright law was a real bitch when the designers hadn’t even been born yet.
“The Japanese have been forced off Australia,” she said, skimming the bill. “A handful of Southern Governors have called for Martial Law to be declared in the south, following the destruction of a town called Salvation.” She made a face. “There has been more lynching and shooting in the south.”
“That’s bad,” Oliver said. “I got the email about some of the plant bosses.” He scowled. “We’re not going to segregate anyone,” he said. “Everything that happens in the plant is recorded; if someone does try to cause trouble they’re out the door.”
“Thanks,” Cora said wryly.
“I didn’t do it for you,” Oliver said, gently squeezing her shoulder. “What do you think of life in the estate?”
“It’s great, much nicer than my former flat,” Cora said, giving him a radiant smile. “And it has other benefits as well.”
“Like me,” Oliver said wryly. He chuckled. “Hoover is coming again, I see.”
Cora scowled. “I’m afraid so,” she said. “What does he want from you?”
“I have no idea,” Oliver said. It was one of the few things he refused to discuss with her. “Anyway, I’m off to read everyone the riot act; chat later.”
“See you later,” Cora called after him, and returned to the computer. She clicked on the link for Black Power and read the news release grimly; Salvation had been destroyed as punishment for lynching the entire black community. The news release went on and on, warning the entire south that further repression would only result in more violence. It said nothing about the bombs in Detroit, but she knew that Hoover had claimed that ‘communist crypto-fascist subversives’ had planted the bomb, before arresting much of the black community nearby. The jails were suddenly overflowing; he’d had to release most of them hours later, simply for lack of space. Nearly a third of the South was black, she knew, and she was certain that they could not all be kept down, even by Hoover.
The question of what Hoover wanted bothered Jim Oliver though his meeting with the five plant bosses, laying down the law on race relations. Like many who’d lived through the War on Terror, Oliver had very little patience for concepts like multiculturalism, but the America of 1941 had few different black cultures. The entire crisis could be headed off at the pass… if everyone would take a few breaths and be reasonable.
“A black man has equal potential to a white man,” he snapped to the gathering. “We are not in the business of using colour as a way of choosing who advances and who doesn’t – merit alone determines advancement. If a black man is better at the job, he will advance; if a white man is better, he will advance!” He glared down at them. “Our factories provide important materials for the war effort,” he said, “which my country and yours needs desperately.”
He tapped the pictures on the walls. “We are not in the business of halting work for anything,” he said. “I do not care what racial attitudes you hold. I could hardly care less if you think that homosexuals” – which was ironic, given what everyone thought Hoover was – “are going to go to hell, or not. I… do… not… care!
“We are in the business of producing things we can sell for money,” he said. “If anyone jeopardises that by fighting with his co-workers, or by slighting co-workers, that person is out the door, understand?”
They nodded and filed out of his second office. He’d set it up on the plant so he’d have a place to work when he went there. It was nowhere near as nice as the one he had in the main building, even without Cora being there to divert his calls away from his thinking sessions.
The researchers entered the room and he gave them the same lecture. Their purpose was simple; they were in charge of developing new ways of using 2015 ideas for the company, ranging from the B-52 project to the microchip. They hadn’t caused any trouble, but he gave them the lecture anyway, before heading back to the main building.
He shook his head. His sources in Washington had suggested that something was up, that a group of politicians were planning something, but it was frighteningly elusive. If Hoover was involved, he was certain that he wasn’t going to enjoy it – even if Hoover did owe him a favour.
“Mr Hoover to see you, sir,” Cora’s voice said. He scowled to himself; he’d spent nearly two hours when he should have been working on the jet program worrying about the impending meeting. It was worse than knowing that you were going to get spanked in the evening.
No sign of Tolson? He thought, and tapped the switch. “Send him in please, Cora,” he said, “and hold my calls.”
Hoover entered, alone. The burly FBI director seemed more energized these days, which seemed like bad news; he was looking forward to something. He took a seat without being asked, tossing his fedora over onto the drinks trolley.
“Good afternoon, Mr Oliver,” Hoover said, leaning forward. “I read your latest statement to the Congress Subcommittee on Future Implications with some interest.”
“Yes, the torpedo problem does need to be fixed,” Oliver said. He lifted an eyebrow; Bracken was diversifying into arms, particularly the ones that needed improvement before the war expanded. “It was the cause of a lacklustre submarine campaign during the first round of World War Two.”
“You’d think that people would fix all the problems that happened in the future,” Hoover said absently. “Like all the subversives, like Henry Wallace, and those black subversives down south. Did you know that they are receiving help from the American Communist Party?”
“No, I didn’t,” Oliver said, who doubted it. “What sort of help?”
“Mainly funds and some propaganda,” Hoover said. “That crippled oaf in the White House refuses to stamp on them.”
Oliver shrugged. “I have to work on producing arms for the war,” he said. “I would like the entire problem to be deferred until the end of the war. Now that Oslo is being surrounded, the war is one step closer to being won.”
Hoover smiled. “I have a request to make of you,” he said. Oliver lifted an eyebrow. “I believe that you own the Quiet Room?”
Oliver blinked. The Quiet Room was a business meeting room, set on an estate not too far from New York. There was no secret about it; the building was protected from the most intrusive 2015 surveillance techniques and allowed businessmen to meet, confident of their absolute privacy. It wasn’t the sort of place he would have expected Hoover to approve of.
He said so. Hoover smiled. “I wish to hire it for the night,” he said. “The entire building.”
Oliver smiled. “I dare say that that can be arranged,” he said. “You could have just done that through their website.”
Hoover shook his head. “Yes, I could have, but then it wouldn’t have been a secret,” he said. “I want you to book the Quiet Room… and then I want you to attend the meeting.”