"And on that note," the moderator said, leaning forward between Brumado and the reporter, "we must take our leave. We’ve run out of time. I want to thank…"
Brumado leaned back in his chair and relaxed. Later he would review a tape of the show, but at the moment he felt he had gotten his points across well enough.
And they never once brought up the subject of the American Indian and his effect on the political situation here in the States. We can thank Konoye for that. He did not die in vain.
The overhead lights went off and Brumado allowed the electrician to remove his microphone. The three reporters made a few obligatory smiles and noises, then swiftly headed toward the small bar that had been set up at the rear of the studio.
"You’ve earned a drink," the moderator said to Brumado.
"Thank you. I could use one."
Brumado intended to use these informal few minutes to educate his interrogators. Without their knowing it, hundreds of media reporters had been subtly proselytized by him during social occasions such as this.
There was a younger woman already talking with the reporters, a pert blonde who had an outdoor, all-American look to her. She introduced herself as Edie Elgin, a newcomer to the New York scene — and a personal friend of James Waterman.
Brumado’s internal defenses flared at Waterman’s name.
"How is he?" Edith asked. "They haven’t let me talk to him since he landed on Mars."
"You are a reporter?" Brumado asked.
Edith smiled her best Texas smile. "I’m a consultant with the news department. To tell the truth, Dr. Brumado, I’m looking for a job."
"You knew Dr. Waterman in Houston?"
"We were very close friends. And now they won’t even let me talk to him."
Her smile warmed Brumado, melted his suspicions. "You don’t want to interview him for the media?"
"I just want to talk with him for a few minutes, to see if he’s okay and… well, to see if he still…" Edith let her voice dwindle into silence.
The mission administrators can’t hold the man incommunicado, Brumado told himself. He smiled back at Edith. "I’ll see what I can do."
"Oh, thank you! You’re the kindest sweetest man in the whole Mars Project!"
WASHINGTON: Alberto Brumado liked the idea that a pretty young woman considered him kind and sweet. And influential. But he did not truly believe that he was a Very Important Person. "There are no indispensable men," he had often said. "If I had not led the effort for the Mars Project, someone else would have."
Yet both the Japanese and Soviet project directors easily agreed to come to Washington to meet with their American counterpart and Dr. Brumado — not only because they had an urgent problem to discuss, but because they actually desired to save Brumado from another long intercontinental flight. Hypersonic aircraft could cross half the globe in two hours, but the human passengers they carried suffered from jet lag all the same. The Russian and Japanese project directors decided, simultaneously and independently, to save their revered mentor from such fatigue.
Fresh from his television interview in New York, Brumado flew to Washington to meet them at the office of the American project director, in the old NASA headquarters building on Independence Avenue. As government offices go, it was not much: a room large enough to house an oblong conference table butted against a broad mahogany desk like the long arm of a T. The walls were covered with maps and photos of Mars and other photographs of rocket boosters lifting off on tails of flame and smoke. Behind the director’s desk was a table covered with more personal photos showing the director with the high and mighty: presidents, ministers, even television personalities.
The American director of the Mars Project had once been an excellent engineer, many years ago. Now he was an excellent politician, crafty in the ways and means of surviving in the Washington jungle and keeping the lifeblood of money pumping into his project. He did not look like the archetypical "faceless bureaucrat," however. He wore utterly comfortable snakeskin cowboy boots below his rumpled gray business suit and a conservative blue tie. His fleshy face was florid, his hair thick and still fiery red despite the streaks of gray running through it. Behind rimless glasses his eyes gleamed with fervor; he still cared about what he was doing. Mars was not a program to him, it was a life’s work.
"I ’preciate your coming here to my humble domain," he said to the others, with the trace of a south Texas twang in his gravelly voice that even years of testifying before Congress had not quite erased.
He was leaning back precariously in his chair on one side of the conference table, boots on the table and tie loosened from his collar. Brumado sat beside him. The Russian and Japanese project directors sat primly on the other side of the table.
Neither was smiling; both wore carefully tailored business suits with neatly knotted ties; but there the similarities ended. The Russian was bald, sallow faced, lean, and unhappy. He reminded Brumado of a melancholy movie actor from his youth who always portrayed йmigrйs pining for Mother Russia. The Japanese was a compact bundle of barely suppressed energy, his dark eyes darting everywhere, his fingers drumming nervously on the tabletop.
"As y’all know," said the American, his chins on his chest as he picked up a single sheet of paper from the table in front of him, "we have something of a problem with the ever-loving, blue-eyed Vice-President of the United States."
"I believe I should say at the outset," the Russian interjected, "that serious objections have been raised in the Soviet Federation about the wisdom of committing to a second expedition so soon."
The Japanese said rapidly, "The death of Professor Konoye has not dimmed Japan’s enthusiasm for further missions. If anything, my people feel we must press on to honor his memory."
The ex-Texan glanced at Brumado, then at his fellow directors across the table. "Let’s get one thing straight here: How do you all feel about the next mission?"
"I am in favor of it, of course," the Russian answered immediately. "I would go myself if they would allow me!"
The Japanese grinned. "Yes, of course."
"As I see it," Brumado said gently, "we have a sacred trust. Project Mars must not end as Project Apollo did. We must continue the exploration of the planet and its moons."
The American pushed his chair back. It screeched against the uncarpeted floor. "Okay," he said as he lumbered to his feet. "We’re agreed as to what we want. Now we’ve got t’ figure out how to get it." He walked around his desk and, bending down slowly, opened a panel and took out four glasses and a bottle of Kentucky sour mash. "Fuel for thought," he said, a bright grin spreading across his ruddy face.
Three hours later the bottle sat empty on the conference table and Brumado, who had hardly touched the one glass poured for him, was summarizing: "The Vice-President told me personally that she is willing to make a statement supporting the further exploration of Mars if we can get Dr. Waterman to make a statement supporting her candidacy."
"Better get her statement in writing," said the American, grumpily. "And get it down on paper before you let the Indian open his mouth."
"I’m not certain that Dr. Waterman would be willing to make such a statement," Brumado admitted.
"Then you’ll have to convince him. Use your powers of persuasion. I’d do it myself," the former Texan said, "but if anybody up on the Hill found out about it they’d pin my balls to the wall and the Mars Project would go down the toilet in half a minute."