It wouldn’t sound too bad over the radio, though, and he hadn’t wanted TV here. The Republicans had had it, and it played up a vicious floor fight. The Democrats didn’t have those brawls, not under Joe Steele they didn’t. But that might not have been why he vetoed the cameras. He wasn’t young any more. He also wasn’t well any more. But he was still shrewd enough to realize he would do better not to show the country how old and unwell he was.
Taft went around the United States arguing that it would be better to bring American troops home from Europe and from South Japan. “If they want our weapons to defend themselves, that is one thing,” he said. “But haven’t we spent enough lives outside our borders to pay the butcher’s bill for the rest of this century?”
“We are part of the world whether we like it or not,” Joe Steele replied. “Even if we go away from it, it won’t go away from us. Bombers with atomic weapons can already reach our shores. One day soon, rockets will fly halfway around the world in minutes. We have enemies, countries that hate and fear and envy our wealth and safety. We have to hold them back wherever we can.”
“Not a bad speech,” Esther said to Charlie. “How much did you do?”
“The line about being part of the world whether we like it or not, that was mine,” he said.
“Sounds like you,” she agreed.
“But the rest. . I don’t know where the writing came from,” Charlie said. “The ideas are what he’s been talking about since we got into World War II. Except for the rockets, I mean. I don’t know who fed him that one, or whether he came up with it himself. But it’s pretty silly, wherever it came from.”
“I guess so.” Esther’s chuckles sounded nervous. “You never can tell with that Buck Rogers stuff, though, not any more. Who would have believed an atom bomb was possible before they dropped that one on Sendai?”
“Well, Trotsky would have, or he wouldn’t have had one ready to drop on Nagano,” Charlie said. Esther made a face at him. He spread his hands in half an apology. Even so, he went on, “I’ll believe in rockets that can go halfway around the world when one comes down on Washington.”
“If one ever does, God forbid, you won’t believe in it for very long.” Esther didn’t usually insist on getting the last word, but she did that time.
As he’d done every four years since 1940, Charlie stayed late at the White House on the first Tuesday after the first Monday in November. As she’d done every four years since 1940, Esther stayed home on election night. Sarah was fourteen now; Patrick was ten. She could have left them alone. But the less she had to do with Joe Steele and the men who did his bidding, the happier she was. Charlie didn’t even ask her to come any more. He knew how she felt. To not such a small degree, he felt the same way. But she had a choice. He didn’t. He’d made his choice not long after Joe Steele jugged Mike, and he’d had to live with it ever since.
“A whole generation has grown up knowing no President of the United States but Joe Steele,” a radio commentator said. He made sure he sounded as though that was a good thing. Had he sounded any other way, his mellow voice would have traveled the airwaves no more. In Joe Steele’s America, everybody made choices like that and lived with them. . or didn’t.
New York went for the President. So did Pennsylvania. So, Charlie noted, did Maryland-whatever Kagan had done to fix things there after 1948, it had worked. Ohio didn’t, but Ohio was Taft’s home state. When Central Time Zone results came in, Illinois swung Joe Steele’s way, too.
“By the time the President completes the sixth term he now seems sure to win, he will have led the country for almost a quarter of a century,” the commentator said. “It will be many years before anyone comes close to that astonishing record.”
Robert Taft conceded a little before midnight. Joe Steele didn’t come down to celebrate with his crew. That was different from the way things had gone the past three times. Julius, the colored bartender, told Charlie, “He’s gonna take it easy tonight, suh. I did send a bottle o’ that nasty apricot brandy he likes to the bedroom for him and his missus.”
“That should work,” Charlie said. Yes, the boss was getting old. Julius had gray in his hair, too, and he sure hadn’t when Charlie first met him. And Charlie knew too well that he wasn’t any younger himself.
* * *
Midori oohed and ahhed when the Golden Gate Bridge loomed out of the fog. “So big! So beautiful!” she said.
“It’s something, all right. I remember when they finished it, almost twenty years ago now.” Mike realized this was the first glimpse of American soil-well, American ironmongery-he’d had in nearly half that time. He’d sailed out of San Diego in 1943, and here 1953 was only a month away. Time flies when you’re having fun, he thought vaguely. The trouble was, time also flew when you weren’t.
The freighter they’d boarded in Yokohama let loose with its foghorn. It had been sounding the horrible thing every couple of minutes for hours now. Other mournful blasts came out of the mist every so often. Mike hated the racket, but he did approve of not colliding with another ship.
He smiled at Midori. “Well, Mrs. Sullivan, I’ve seen a lot of your country. Now you’ve seen some of mine, anyhow.”
“Yes, Mr. Sullivan, that is true. Hai-honto.” She said the same thing in English and Japanese. Then she spread the fingers of her left hand. Her ring was just a plain gold band, but not even a ten-carat diamond could have sparkled in this gloom. Hey, it’s the thought that counts, Mike thought. And as long as she felt the same way, everything was fine.
After the freighter docked in San Francisco, they had to go through customs and Immigration and Naturalization. Mike had a manila folder to accompany his passport. It held papers that included his Army discharge, his official permission to marry a Japanese national, and records pertaining to his Purple Heart, all the oak-leaf clusters, and his Bronze Star. There was a note attached that Joe Steele himself had presented the Bronze Star-the first time his acquaintance with the President had ever been worth anything to him. Midori also carried an impressive collection of documents in English and Japanese, though hers was thinner than Mike’s.
“Everything seems to be in order,” the Immigration and Naturalization clerk said after he’d gone through it all. “However, I do need to check your passport number against one other list.” He started to turn his swivel chair towards a file cabinet.
Mike knew exactly what that list would be. “Don’t bother,” he said quietly. “It’s NY24601.”
“Ah, thank you.” The clerk nodded. “You do understand the restrictions imposed on former inmates of labor encampments?”
“Oh, yeah,” Mike said. “But it’s kinda hard to take a ship from Japan to Montana or Wyoming.”
“Indeed. If I give you ten days’ incoming authorization to remain outside the restricted zone for former inmates, will that be adequate?”
“That should be plenty. Thanks. I know where we’re gonna go, and yes, it’s inside the zone.” Mike had wondered how the authorities would handle an ex-wrecker. He might have known they would have procedures in place. He wasn’t the first of his kind to come home to the good old USA. He wouldn’t be the last, either.
“We’ll do it that way, then,” the clerk said. They had procedures, all right. One of the stamps he used on Mike’s passport had a number of days he could adjust as required. If Mike was still in San Francisco and had to show that passport more than ten days from now, his story wouldn’t have a happy ending.
For the time being, he said, “Can you point us to a hotel not too far from here? With luck, one close to a Western Union office? I need to send a couple of wires, let people know I’m back.”
The clerk mentioned a couple. One was only a block away. Mike and Midori walked there with their worldly goods. Midori stared at the streets, and at all the cars on them. “Everything is so rich, so wide, so open!” she said.