“Federal Research Act of ’92,” Harker said thinly. “It guarantees freedom of research without government interference, as you know well enough.”
Winstead seemed to be perspiring heavily. “Laws can be repealed or amended, Jim. Listen here: why don’t you go see Thurman? Find out how he stands on the matter. Then come back here and maybe we can talk about it again.”
It was obviously a dismissal. Winstead had no intentions of getting involved with something that had so many ramifications as this.
Tiredly Harker rose. “Okay. I’ll see Thurman.”
“Good.”
“One more thing, Leo-this project hasn’t been announced to the public yet. Since you’re aware of the fuss it’s going to kick up, I hope you’ll be thoughtful enough to keep your mouth shut until we’re ready to spring it ourselves.”
“Of course, Jim. Of course.”
Chapter VII
It was a very long weekend.
Harker reached his home at five-thirty that evening, having left Winstead around noon. He had had a miserable chlo-refia-streak lunch on the wrong side of State Street and spent the early afternoon strolling around Albany, easing the inner tension that gripped him. He made the 4:15 jet back to New York.
Chris was watching the video when he came in; it was a weekend, and the boy had no homework. He hopped up immediately and said, “Drink, Dad?”
“Martini. Very dry.”
The boy busied himself with the pushbutton controls of the autobar while Harker hung up his hat and jacket. Lois appeared from the general vicinity of the kitchen.
“Did you see Winstead?”
He nodded. “Yeah, I saw him. He isn’t interested, I guess.”
“Oh. Dr. Raymond called, from the labs. He wanted to know if you were back yet. I told him you’d call as soon as you came home.”
Harker picked up the phone, yanked down on the longdistance switch, and punched out Raymond’s number. He waited, hoping Raymond himself would pick up and not Klaus or Barchet or someone like that.
Raymond did. He looked inquisitively out of the screen and Harker told him exactly what Winstead had said. When he had finished the flat, weary recital, he added, “I’m going to Washington on Monday. But if Thurman gives me the brushoff, we may be in trouble.”
Raymond grinned with unconvincing heartiness. “We’ll get through somehow, Jim. Have faith.”
“I wish I could,” Harker said.
He sipped the drink Chris put in his hand, and after a little of the cold gin had filtered into his bloodstream he felt better. It was a false comfort, he knew, but it was comfort all the same. He went upstairs to the sitting-room, picked out a musictape almost at random, put it on. The selection was a mistake: Handel’s Messiah, Part III. He listened to the big alto aria that opened the section:
. . . I know that my redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth:
And though worms destroy this body, yet in my fish shall I see God.
For now is Christ risen from the dead. . . .
After the final notes of the aria had died away came the Chorus, slow, grave:
. . . Since by man came death, by man came also the resurrection of the dead.
For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive. . . .
The jubilant tones of “Even so in Christ” sent startling shivers of illumination through him; it was as if he had never listened to these words before (“Since by man came death, by man came also the resurrection of the dead…”). The words pursued him everywhere.
Twenty minutes later, after the last melisma of “Amen,” he abruptly turned the set off; dinner was about ready, or at least it should be. It was. He ate quietly, deep in thought.
On Saturday he was a little more lively; he worked around the house, took Chris and Paul for an hour-long hike in the early afternoon, spent some time before dinner watching the telecast of the Yankee-Dodger interleague game from Los Angeles. He and Lois visited neighbors in the evening; it was a pleasant, relaxed three or four hours. He was beginning to think he could forget about the problem that was starting to grow.
But Sunday his short-lived forgetfulness ended. It was breakfast-time; Paul was struggling under the bulk of the Sunday Times, which had: been left in the box outside, and Lois was bringing the pancakes to the table. As he took the paper from his youngest son, Harker turned to Chris and said, “Switch on the audio. Let’s see what the morning news is like.”
There was a click. A resonant, almost cavernous voice said:
“... he saith unto them, Our friend Lazarus sleepeth; but I go, that I may awake him out of sleep. Then said his disciples, Lord, if he sleep, he shall do well. Howbeit Jesus spake of his death: but they thought that he had spoken of taking rest in sleep. Then said Jesus unto them plainly, Lazarus is dead. And 1—”
Impatiently Chris reached out and changed the station. Harker.;.shook his head, annoyed. “No, Ghris. Get that back. I wanr.to hear it.”
“The Bible, Dad?”
Harker nodded impatiently. As Chris searched for the ori-ginal station Lois said, “That’s St. Matthew, isn’t it?”
Chuckling, Harker said, “St. John, unless I’ve forgotten all my Sunday Schooling. Your father ought to hear you say a thing like that.”
Lois’ father had been a stern Bible-reading Presbyterian; he had never approved of Harker. The radio preacher said:
“. . . Then they took away the stone from the place where the dead was laid. And Jesus lifted up his eyes, and said, Father, I thank thee that thou hast heard me. And I knew that thou hearest me always: but because of the people which stand by I said it, that they may believe that thou hast sent me. And when he thus had spoken, he cried with a loud voice, Lazarus, come forth! And he that was dead came forth, bound hand and foot with graveclothes; and his face was bound about with a napkin. Jesus said unto them—”
“All right,” Harker broke in suddenly. “You can change the station now.”
Chris said, “How come you wanted to hear that, Dad?”
“It’s a very famous passage.” Harker smiled. “And I have a feeling we’re all going to get to know it pretty well before summer comes.”
After supper Sunday he packed for his trip to Washington; he took an extra change of clothes, because Thurman’s secretary had warned him that the Senator was very busy and might not be able to see him until Tuesday. Harker reflected privately that that was fine treatment to accord a man who had once been virtually the titular head of the party, but complaining would have done him less than no good.
He came downstairs again after packing, and spent the next several hours watching video with the family: a silly, mindless series of programs, ideally designed to give the mind a rest.
At quarter past nine, in the middle of an alleged ballet sequence, the screen went blank. Harker frowned, annoyed; then an announcer’s face appeared.
“We interrupt this program to bring you a special announcement from our newsroom.
“Richard Bryant, hero of Earth’s first successful voyage to another planet, died quietly in his sleep an hour ago, in his Manhattan apartment. He would have been seventy-four next month.
“He was assured of immortality on the first of August, 1984, when he radioed from Mars the triumphant message, ‘Have landed Mars One safely. Am on way back. Mars is pretty dreary.’ From that day on, Rick Bryant was a hero to billions.