«Transportation and Urban Renewal Department?» I asked. «Since when …»
«Last year’s reorganization,» Driver said, heading for the revolving door. «They put the two agencies together. Next year they’ll pull them apart, when they reinvent the government again.»
«Welcome to TURD headquarters,» said Tracy Keene, once we got inside the building’s lobby.
Keene was Anson Aerospace’s crackerjack Washington representative, a large round man who conveyed the impression that he knew things no one else knew. Keene’s job was to find new customers for Anson from among the tangle of government agencies, placate old customers when Anson inevitably alienated them, and guide visitors from home base through the Washington maze. The job involved grotesque amounts of wining and dining. I had been told that Keene had once been as wiry and agile as a Venezuelan shortstop. Now he looked to me like he was on his way to becoming a Sumo wrestler. And what he was gaining in girth he was losing in hair.
«Let’s go,» Keene said, gesturing toward the security checkpoint that blocked the lobby. «We don’t want to be late.»
Two hours later Keene was snoring softly in a straightbacked metal chair while Driver was showing the last of his Powerpoint images to Roger K. Memo, Assistant Under Director for Transportation Research of TURD.
Memo and his chief scientist, Dr. Alonzo X. Pencilbeam, were sitting on one side of a small conference table, Driver and I on the other. Keene was at the end, dozing restfully. The only light in the room came from the little projector, which threw a blank glare onto the wan yellow wall that served as a screen now that the last image had been shown.
Driver clicked the projector off. The light went out and the fan’s whirring noise abruptly stopped. Keene jerked awake and instantly reached around and flicked the wall switch that turned on the overhead lights. I had to admire the man’s reflexes.
Although the magnificent TURD building was sparkling new, Memo’s spacious office somehow looked seedy. There wasn’t enough furniture for the size of it: only a government-issue steel desk with a swivel chair, a half-empty bookcase, and this slightly wobbly little conference table with six chairs that didn’t match. The walls and floors were bare and there was a distinct echo when anyone spoke or even walked across the room. The only window had vertical slats instead of a curtain, and it looked out on a parking building. The only decoration on the walls was Memo’s doctoral degree, purchased from some obscure «distance learning» school in Mississippi.
Driver fixed Memo with his steely gaze across the conference table. «Well, what do you think of it?» he asked subtly.
Memo pursed his lips. He was jowly fat, completely bald, wore glasses and a rumpled gray suit.
«I don’t know,» he said firmly. «It sounds … unusual …»
Dr. Pencilbeam was sitting back in his chair and smiling benignly. His PhD had been earned in the 1970s, when newly-graduated physicists were driving taxicabs on what they glumly called «Nixon fellowships.» He was very thin, fragile looking, with the long skinny limbs of a preying mantis.
Pencilbeam dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out an electronic game. Reformed smoker, I thought. He needs something to do with his hands.
«It certainly looks interesting,» he said in a scratchy voice while his game softly beeped and booped. «I imagine it’s technically achievable … and lots of fun.»
Memo snorted. «We’re not here to have fun.»
Keene leaned across the table and fixed Memo with his best here’s something from behind the scenes expression. «Do you realize how the White House would react to a sensible program for a supersonic transport? With the Concorde gone, you could put this country into the forefront of air transportation again.»
«H’mm,» said Memo. «But …»
«Think of the jobs this program can create. The President is desperate to improve the employment figures.»
«I suppose so …»
«National prestige,» Keene intoned knowingly. «Aerospace employment … balance of payments … gold outflow … the President would be terrifically impressed with you.»
«H’mm,» Memo repeated. «I see …»
I could see where the real action was, so I wangled myself an assignment to the company’s Washington office as Keene’s special assistant for the SSZ proposal. That’s when I started learning what money and clout—and the power of influence—are all about.
As the months rolled along, we gave lots of briefings and attended lots of cocktail parties. I knew we were on the right track when no less than Roger K. Memo invited me to accompany him to one of the swankiest parties of the season. Apparently he thought that since I was from Anson’s home office in Phoenix I must be an engineer and not just another salesman.
The party was in full swing by the time Keene and I arrived. It was nearly impossible to hear your own voice in the swirling babble of chatter and clinking glassware. In the middle of the sumptuous living room the Vice President was demonstrating his golf swing. Several Cabinet wives were chatting in the dining room. Out in the foyer, three Senators were comparing fact-finding tours they were arranging for themselves to the Riviera, Bermuda, and American Samoa, respectively.
Memo never drank anything stronger than ginger ale, and I followed his example. We stood in the doorway between the foyer and the living room, hearing snatches of conversation among the three junketing Senators. When the trio broke up, Memo intercepted Senator Goodyear (R., Ohio) as he headed toward the bar.
«Hello, Senator!» Memo shouted heartily. It was the only way to be heard over the party noise.
«Ah … hello.» Senator Goodyear obviously thought that he was supposed to know Memo, and just as obviously couldn’t recall his name, rank, or influence rating.
Goodyear was more than six feet tall, and towered over Memo’s paunchy figure. Together they shouldered their way through the crowd around the bar, with me trailing them like a rowboat being towed behind a yacht. Goodyear ordered bourbon on the rocks, and therefore so did Memo. But he merely held onto his glass while the Senator immediately began to gulp at his drink.
A statuesque blonde in a spectacular gown sauntered past us. The Senator’s eyes tracked her like a battleship’s range finder following a moving target.
«I hear you’re going to Samoa,» Memo shouted as they edged away from the bar, following the blonde.
«Eh … yes,» the Senator answered cautiously, in a tone he usually reserved for news reporters.
«Beautiful part of the world,» Memo shouted.
The blonde slipped an arm around the waist of one of the young, long-haired men and they disappeared into another room. Goodyear turned his attention back to his drink.
«I said,» Memo repeated, standing on tiptoes, «that Samoa is a beautiful place.»
Nodding, Goodyear replied, «I’m going to investigate ecological conditions there … my committee is considering legislation on ecology, you know.»
«Of course. Of course. You’ve got to see things firsthand if you’re going to enact meaningful legislation.»
Slightly less guardedly, Goodyear said, «Exactly.»
«It’s a long way off, though,» Memo said.
«Twelve hours from LAX.»
«I hope you won’t be stuck in economy class. They really squeeze the seats in there.»
«No, no,» said the Senator. «First class all the way.»
At the taxpayers’ expense, I thought.
«Still,» Memo sympathized, «It must take considerable dedication to undergo such a long trip.»
«Well, you know, when you’re in public service you can’t think of your own comforts.»
«Yes, of course. Too bad the SST isn’t flying anymore. It could have cut your travel time in half. That would give you more time to stay in Samoa … investigating conditions there.»