The president had a busy afternoon coming up. “I have to get moving, Ray.”
“Okay, sir.” Ray started for the door.
“Wait one.”
“Yes, George?”
“Are any of the Watergate burglars still alive?”
Ray checked his BlackBerry. “One. Eugenio Martinez. Lives in Georgia.”
“Okay. Let’s have Milt talk to him. We need to get control of this situation.”
“It’s a long time in the past.”
“I’m talking about handling Blackstone.”
“Oh.” Ray’s face scrunched up. “If we want to get the FAA involved, it’s getting late.”
“No, we can’t do anything like that. If we start throwing up obstacles, Blackstone will scream, and the media will be all over us. Why don’t we try something different?”
“What do you suggest?”
“Talking to the happy billionaire.”
“We’ve tried that.”
“Let’s try again.”
“Okay. I guess we can’t lose anything. You want me to take care of it?”
“Yes.” He smiled. “You might try appealing to his patriotism.”
—
Cunningham’s afternoon was booked. There would be the weekly CIA briefing, and meetings with the Director of National Security, with members of the National Education Committee, with a planning group for the nation’s highways, and with the Lone Eagles, who were advocates for wildlife protection. In addition, he’d be giving awards to several Afghan veterans. The big conference, though, would be tomorrow morning, when the World Committee for Safe Population Levels would be in town.
Global population was just beginning to get serious attention. Many nations had chosen to follow China’s lead, limiting families to one child. The Chinese had instituted the policy in 1978.
One of the several consequences of this unhappy approach was that families tended to favor male children. They were aborting girls by the millions. Consequently, the world was facing a growing crisis: Males in large numbers around the planet, especially in poorer nations, were coming of age in a world that didn’t have enough women. The conference would be an effort to—at the very least—sound an alarm. Millions of angry males without women. And probably without jobs. If that wasn’t a formula for disaster, the president had never heard one.
After dinner, he and Lyra would be hosting an evening with Manny Garfield, the Pulitzer Prize–winning poet. He didn’t particularly care to spend two hours listening to poetry he didn’t even understand, but it was part of his responsibility as president. No way he could disappear from the proceedings. Next week, Maury Petain would be in to play his violin. Ray had warned the president against trying to pass himself off as a lover of the arts. Political enemies would accuse him of being an elitist. Cunningham had explained patiently: It wasn’t a matter of passing himself off as a lover of the arts. It was a matter of serving as a responsible host.
And anyhow, he had a taste for Rachmaninoff. What’s wrong with that? I’m president of the United States. I’ll listen to whatever music I want.
26
“Blood pressure: 127 over 68 . . . pulse, normal . . . heart, missing.”
Bucky sighed as he sat on the edge of his desk. “Most people get a doctor. Me, I get a comedian.”
“Just repeating what I read in the papers,” said the medic, with a smile.
“I thought it was my brain that was supposed to be missing.”
The medic shook his head. “The White House is claiming you could have hired more than two hundred thousand men and women for the money you’re spending on the Moon shot. That means you’ve cost two hundred thousand Americans and an unspecified number of illegal immigrants their jobs.”
“They really said that?” asked Bucky, amused.
“Don’t you listen to the news?”
“Not when I can help it.”
“Well, you’re a heartless, mendacious villain who’s costing us jobs,” said the medic.
“Can’t argue with that, not when Cunningham’s keeping a bunch of caddies and golf courses in business.” Bucky began putting on his shirt. “So, am I fit to go?”
“You’re fit to fly to Montana. You’re even fit to breathe in that thin mountain air. I don’t know if you’re fit to fly to the Moon.”
“I thought I passed all the tests back in your clinic last week,” said Bucky, frowning.
“And you were fit to go to the Moon last week. As for today, I can’t state it with certainty unless I run another barrage of tests.”
“Fortunately, you don’t have to. I’m the guy who makes the final decision.” Suddenly he grinned. “Admit it. Would you rather it was my hand on the button?”
“I thought we got rid of all our nukes.”
“Except for the ten or twelve thousand we held back for self-defense.”
“You’re really feeling your oats this week,” said the medic. “I think maybe the best thing we can do with you is stick you on the Moon.” He paused. “Do you really think Sidney Myshko landed there?”
“Absolutely.”
“Why?”
“Ask me when I get back.”
“If he didn’t land, are you coming back?”
Bucky smiled. “I’ve been wrong before, I’ll be wrong again. I’m not ashamed of it.” His face hardened. “But I’m not wrong this time.”
“I know you and the guy you hired away, Jerry what’s-his-name, think the two of you know something the rest of us don’t know. But answer me one question: If Myshko was the first man on the Moon, why the hell would he keep quiet about it?”
“That’s what I plan to find out.”
The medic shook his head. “You’re not following me. I mean, if it was me, if I was the first man on the Moon, nothing in the world could have kept me from bragging about it.”
“And nothing in the world did keep him from bragging about it,” agreed Bucky. The medic looked at him questioningly. “Something on the Moon kept him from bragging about it.”
“What?” insisted the medic. “Little green men?”
Bucky shook his head. “He’d have brought one back to show us. Or maybe they’d have kept him to show their people.”
“Then what could keep him quiet?”
“Like I said, ask me in a month.”
“You’re a very frustrating man to speak with,” said the medic grumpily. “I’ll bet your blood pressure hasn’t changed in an hour. Mine’s probably gone up forty points just during this conversation.”
Bucky laughed and put an arm around the medic’s shoulders. “Then we’d better get you out of here while you’re still alive,” he said, walking him to the door. “And thanks for coming.”
“Thanks for paying for the clinic’s new wing.”
“Well, you never know. I might get my face slapped by a beautiful redhead right in front of the clinic and have to come in to have you staunch the bleeding.”
The medic turned to face him. “You are a loud, vulgar, arrogant, brilliant, manipulative, conscienceless man, and I wish I didn’t like you so much, so that I could hate you just a little.”
“Don’t give up hope, Doc. Your day may come.”
The medic left the office, and Bucky sat down at his desk.
“He’s right, you know,” said Gloria, swiveling her chair to face him.
“Are you going to start in on me, too?” asked Bucky.
“No,” she said. “I happen to admire those qualities. It means the corporation won’t go under anytime soon.”
“I knew there was a reason I hired you, besides the way you look when you walk away.”
“I haven’t looked like that in twenty-five years,” said Gloria. “Well, twenty, anyway.”
“I have an active memory.”
“But thankfully you don’t have active hands, at least not around me.” She smiled. “There was a time when I wondered why not, what was wrong with me.”