Kilgore's image had just blinked off when a group of experts appeared to discuss the situation. One, a calm guy with marquee looks spoiled by a too-neat mustache, thought the Administrator was responding with brilliant leadership to the emergency. "We're fortunate to have the right guy in the job," he said. "The people who want him out are crazy. You can't really blame him when a star explodes, but he's doing everything you could reasonably expect to counteract the effects." "We've known about this for decades," said another, an angry-looking academic type. "The Greene story confirms it." And another, a young woman who was visibly seething: "Greene aside, we've always known Callistra was a candidate for a supernova. Or something bigger. We should have been watching it. How we could have failed to do that, I'll never understand." The moderator addressed himself to her: "Dr. Bjorg, did you ever recommend that we do a study?" "Not my field," she said. "So whose is it?" demanded Alex.
"Alex," I said, "you're talking to the holograms again." He does that when he gets upset.
We'd have fought the impoundment of the Belle-Marie , but there was nobody to fight. Whoever we called referred us to someone else. I was proud of Alex during that period. He refused to get angry, refused to blame me for not having left when we had the chance. We made several more efforts during the next few days to get through to Kilgore. The result was always the same: We were placed in his in-box. We checked on the compensation we'd get for the Belle-Marie , which, it turned out, would be considerably less than the ship was worth. That brought up another problem: The value of Coalition funds off-world would be crashing. The money we got would never buy anything for us. We called Bentley DeepSpace, which was the transport system that ran the liners to Rimway and Toxicon. They were weekly flights, and they'd been reported filled. But we tried anyway. "I'd like passage for two to Rimway," I told them, "on the next available flight. The voice on the other end belonged to an AI. "I'm sorry, ma'am. The flights are full." "How long's the waiting list?"
"We're booked to the end of the year."
"Is that really the best you can do?"
"We've requested assistance from several transport companies in the Confederacy. So we expect we'll be able to help you shortly."
"Can we get on the waiting list?"
"Yes, ma'am. What's your name, please?"
Alex waved me off. "Let it go," he said. "If we have to, we'll get in touch with somebody at home and have them come get us." "Who did you have in mind?" "To be honest, I don't know any pilots other than you. But we should be able to lease somebody." He stared out at the night sky. "This trip has had its downside."
There was a confirmed report of a shoot-out between Confederate and Ashiyyurean warships. This time, a Mute vessel had broken open, and there'd been fatalities. Each side was claiming encroachment by the other, and issuing warnings. Each side was threatening war. It was obviously an outbreak waiting to happen. Alex commented that, like so many conflicts through the ages, it would be a war neither side wanted. More like a train wreck. But both sides had politicians who were solidifying their positions by stirring up antagonism. That often secured election, but it had the effect of backing them into a corner. It struck me that Kassel hadn't been entirely honest when he claimed that Mutes couldn't deceive one another. Meanwhile, Kilgore's optimism had to be crumbling. Mathematicians were doing most of the damage. They showed up on every conceivable talk show and blew gaping holes in the government strategy. There wouldn't be enough space in the shelters. Not nearly enough. The quantities of materials needed to protect private homes would overwhelm production facilities. Tens of millions would die during the initial blast. The survivors would quickly run out of food and other necessities. The capability to bring adequate resupplies in from the Confederacy was, at best, doubtful. And if war broke out with the Mutes, as seemed increasingly likely, that capability would probably go to zero. "There just isn't time to do everything that needs to be done." We heard that refrain over and over. We'd been in the hotel on Samuels for about a week when the AI announced an incoming call. Alex, gloomier than I'd ever seen him, asked sardonically whether I thought it might be Kilgore. Then he told the AI to put it through. It was Wexler. "Hello, Benedict," he said. "I hope you're satisfied." He was outside somewhere, leaning against a stone wall, dressed in a white pullover and the sort of slacks you'd wear for a walk in the woods. He ignored me, looked straight at Alex. "I assume," he said, "you understand now how much damage you've caused."
Alex bristled. "At least something's being done. You were prepared to sit by and watch everybody die."
"Something's being done. You really think this government can do anything but talk? There are too many people. They'll save a few million, but we'd have saved almost as many. And given everybody else three relatively peaceful years. All you've accomplished is to create chaos."
"Kilgore doesn't think so."
"Kilgore's a politician. What else would you expect him to say? He believes what he's telling the voters, but this is exactly the reason we didn't want him to know. The people around him understand what's coming. So does every physicist on the planet. But they won't say anything. Other than the idiots who want to see themselves on the news shows." He bit his lip and actually wiped a tear from his cheek. "But everybody knows what's really going to happen when the tide comes in. "The gamma-ray burst itself will pass quickly enough. But there'll be a particle shower, and it'll go on for days. Everything green will die off. The ozone layer will be swept away. Ultraviolet light will make Salud Afar a death trap for years to come. Nothing will grow. They'll probably try to put together some shielded greenhouses, but that won't do any more than delay the inevitable." He shook his head, made a rumbling noise in his throat. "Well done, Mr. Benedict."
There was still no word on child evacuations. Not that it mattered anymore. Polls indicated that pessimism was growing. Eighteen percent of those surveyed described the situation as hopeless. Peifer showed up on Capital Round Table to discuss the severe inflation that had set in. The Administrator was on every other night. He usually sat in the room with the fireplace, and he went back to dressing casually. He spoke in generalities, praising his audience for their patience and their courage, dismissing the polls, which showed confidence steadily shrinking. The message was always the same: We are working to save each other. One way or another we will get the job done. His critics kept after him. He was tightening seat belts on the Korinbladt . But Kilgore always managed to get the last word. "If I took them seriously," he said, "then yes, of course they'd turn out to be right. But my critics lack imagination. They want to give up. They underestimate what we, you and I together, can do. We won't let them cause us to lose hope. We will find a way forward. Together."