It was astonishing how important these little things were. Tommy did them very well. He had begun when he was five. Now he had thirty-five heavyweights on his list for personal greetings. Of course, his brother had fifty, the even heavier political people around the state that he would call from Washington on his WATS line, and, even more of course, his father would be the one to call the dozen and a half big money contributors and old family friends. It was a nice personal touch. Christmas cards were computerized, gifts could be left to Myrna and the girls. But Christmas calls had to come from a member of the family.
It did not, however, require a functioning brain to make them. All the time he was working down the list of VIPs, or Fairly IPs, his eyes were on the couch that he and Myrna had found so many good uses for, and his thoughts were on the evening. Not the early evening—that was compulsory attendance at the tree-lighting. Not the late evening, that was Christmas Eve church services with his family. But the three hours between six and nine, when he would stop by Myrna's flat and give her her Christmas gift, and she would give him her very special gifts in return. She was a good person, Myrna, Tommy thought indulgently. The best thing about her was that she really, seriously did not expect, or even want, to think about marriage.
He finished the list of calls and took a moment to review the other list he kept with him all the time, on paper or in his head. The political list. The bills to be interested in, the constituents to placate, the alliances his brother wanted to make. The performance of every member of their staff— every member of all their various staffs, really. They had half a dozen: personal-political; personal-domestic; Senate committee; Foundation; ad hoc groups. Because the holy tide of Christmas all other did deface today's list was short. There was no sense worrying about political moves just now, because every other senator was making good- i fellowship Christmas moves, just like he, and his brother, and all their merry elves.
Time to report. He patted Myrna's bottom as she bent over the paper shredder, whispered a reminder of their j date for that night and headed for his father's office.
When he got to the corner suite his father did not acknowledge his presence at first. He was glowering at the newspaper spread out on his desk. The headline said:
PRIME RATE, QUAKE FEAR DEFLATE L A. HOME BOOM
"I already read it, Dad," Tommy reported efficiently.
"I read it too, and then I called up the fellow who wrote it," said his father, "and he got it backward. It isn't the interest rate. It's this Jupiter stuff. "
"Right, Dad! We're on top of it. I've been kicking ass with those scientists, and we're going to book one of them on the Sunland Saturday program to talk about it."
"Which one? Sonderman? Some radio personality! He talks like a gravedigger."
"He sounds like a scientist, and anyway I'm going to tell him what to say ahead of time."
"Get Townsend on it too," his father ordered, and spun his chair moodily to gaze out the window. It had begun to rain again, but nevertheless there were Jupes at the traffic lights, running out to solicit the drivers of stopped cars. "When I came in this morning," he said, "I took one look at Dave, the elevator starter, and what do you think I saw? He had a streak of black on his forehead. Just like it was Ash Wednesday, for Christ's sake."
"Dave? He's been working for us for twenty years!"
"And I told him if he wanted to stay to collect his pension he'd get his face cleaned up. And he's not the only one. " He turned to stare at his younger son. "Tommy, you want to lead the people, you've got to stay in front of them. Not much in front. But in front; and, the way it looks to me, on this one the voters are getting away from us."
Earthquakes can sometimes he predicted by measuring sight lines with surveying instruments. It doesn't always work. On October 10,1980, a geodetic survey team made a morning's worth of measurements near El Asnam, Algeria, and went back to their hotel for a well earned lunch. While they were eating an earthquake measuring 72 on the Richter scale shook the building down on them and killed them.
Thursday, December 24th. 4:15 PM.
Dennis Siroca paid his Christmas call on his grandparents, and got what he expected. Two cups of mulled wine, a storebought cashmere scarf for his neck, all the storebought Christmas cookies he could eat, and no information. Meredith Bradison was sweet about it. "You take everything I tell you and use it for those hippies of yours, Dennis, and so I just don't want to tell you anything more."
"I don't use it for anything bad, Grandmerry," he said, nibbling another cookie.
"No, but you use it. No offense. We're going to make a public statement sometime soon, and then I'll tell you anything you want to know. Would you like some more wine?"
His grandfather reached encouragingly for his cup, but Dennis shook his head and got ready to leave. It was time to go—not only because Saunders Robinson was waiting in the car, but because his grandfather's hand was more and more frequently pressing his grandmother's knee. Dennis knew that what they really wanted was to be alone.
"Nothing," he reported to Robinson as he put the car in gear. Robinson shrugged and passed over a joint.
"Long's you're the one that has to tell Danny-boy," he said. It had been at least a week since their pipeline to the Pedigrue committee had produced any results. "You gonna be there for the Christmas party tonight?"
"Might as well. My old lady's still in Florida. I got no other place to go." He took a hit on a fresh cigarette and leaned back, resigning himself to the traffic. Santa Monica Boulevard was bumper to bumper, in spite of the fact that it was raining again. He peered into the cab of a pickup truck next to them at a light, and nudged Robinson. "Hey, see that guy?" The driver was a young man in jeans, and his forehead bore a black smudge. "We're sure getting a lot of people scared, " he said.
"Yeah."
Robinson's tone caused Dennis to look at him. "What's the matter, Robby? This is all for real, you know."
"I guess."
"No, really! Never mind this scientific crap. It's in the Zend Avesta and all, and even old Immanuel Velikovsky says the old Greeks knew about it. Like Heraclitus. He told us the earth gets destroyed every ten thousand eight hundred years."
"Not like ten thousand nine hundred?"
"What's the matter with you, Robby? I didn't make all this up. In the Patagonian peat bogs there's all this volcanic debris that comes from 9,000 B.C. If you add nine thousand to 1981, what do you get? Close enough, right?"
Robinson didn't answer. After a moment he peered out at the Pedigrue Center Mall, where the great Christmas tree was standing. "Hey, they didn't light it yet. Step on it, will you? Maybe I can take Feef over to see them light the tree."
Dennis swung over to Wilshire, which was almost as bad, then down to the crummier, more dilapidated avenues to the south. Even so, it was slow going. He parked in front of the ashram. Robinson jumped out, collected Afeefah from her chore of stringing popcorn for the tree in the anteroom, and was gone.