‘Much further to go?’ the passenger asked, his eyes still shut.
‘We’re nearly there, sir. We’re past Hagerton, going along Hunting Creek.’
The road was climbing steeply, approaching a one-in-ten gradient. The fog was thickening by the yard. The twin halogen beams of the limo lit up a sign for Catoctin Mountain Park, and the driver slowed and turned right. Two deer, startled in the headlights, leaped nimbly into the dark.
Logie Harris gave up on his nap. He sat upright in his seat, pulling at his safety belt.
The road levelled. Lights were piercing the fog and an indeterminate shape resolved itself into a metal gate, like the entrance to a high-security prison. A handsome young Marine took a document from the driver, examined it carefully and peered into the car. ‘Welcome to Camp David, sir.’
Red Oak, like the other guest cottages, was a simple two-bedroomed wooden cabin with a lounge, all wood panelling and timber beams, and an open fireplace. Someone had lit a fire and he was enveloped by a comfortable warmth. The call from the President had come at midnight and he had frantically scoured his library until the car had come to collect him at 2 a.m. It was now 5 a.m. and he had barely slept. He threw off his clothes and put on pyjamas. He kneeled briefly by the bedside and murmured, ‘Lord, forgive my sins. Help the President in his troubles, and give me the wisdom to guide him. Amen.’ Then he slid between warmed sheets and listened to the silence. His mind drifted back, to the goosepimpling midnight call from the President, to his weird question, and to his closing words: ‘… above all I need someone I can trust.’
Seth Bull, the evangelist deduced, was falling back on his reserves, summoning up the unique bond that half a lifetime of friendship produced. But if the President of the United States couldn’t trust the people around him …
He was wakened by a powerful roar. He jumped out of bed and drew back the curtains just in time to glimpse a large blue and white helicopter sinking amongst the snow-covered trees a few hundred yards away. The early-hours fog was gone and the sky was blue. A chipmunk scurried over some rocks in front of the cottage. The air was pure and scented. He dressed quickly in casuals and sweater and put on the blue windcheater a steward had given him. He was just pulling on his shoes when he heard a tap on the door. ‘Logie, glad you could make it. Come over to my place for breakfast.’
In the sun lounge of Aspen, at a table with orange juice, Granola and toast, Bull waved his arm towards the window. Beyond the patio was a snow-covered lawn and beyond that a frozen pond. Flurries of snow drifted down from a tree, tracing the route of some creature jumping from branch to branch. Light mist floated up from the Monocacy Valley.
‘I can see why Truman called this place Shangri-La, Mr President.’
Bull’s tone changed; he became businesslike. ‘A good place for clearing out the cobwebs. And believe me, I need a clear head for this one. Finish your breakfast while I change, Logie, and then we’ll get down to it.’
Harris strolled on the patio, the President’s Berchtesgaden. This was indeed a wonderful place for rejuvenation. Here a President could go for a solitary walk, listen to the birds and watch his dog chasing the squirrels. The last time he’d stood here, the patio steps had been bordered with flowers, courtesy of Nancy Reagan. ‘Of all the things Ronald misses about the Presidency,’ she’d told him, ‘his Camp David weekends come top.’ Now the flowers were gone and there was ice in the air: at eighteen hundred feet up it could be rough. He turned up his collar. A pristine blanket of snow covered the roof of the lodge, the lawn and the trees, and thin ice coated the hour-glass swimming pool over to the right.
The President appeared wearing a navy-blue windcheater and casual trousers to match. White hair protruded under a baseball cap with a badge showing the Presidential yacht. The word Titanic was emblazoned beneath the vessel. The men went down the steps and strolled past the pond and the little artificial stream on the west side of the lodge.
‘Logie, I need answers in a hurry.’ They were in step together, a slow, rhythmic pace. There was nobody else in sight. ‘What is the theological position on life out there?’
‘Read up on it as soon as I got your call, Seth. But I already knew that the Scriptures give clear guidance on the issue, as they do in so much else in life. But I also looked into the writings of the great thinkers of the past, to see how they handled the question.’
‘So what does the Bible say?’
‘The Bible is silent on the question of extraterrestrials. I believe the silence is significant. God created Man in His own image. The Bible says nothing about creatures beyond the Earth because there’s nothing to say about them. They don’t exist.’
‘Well, that’s simple enough.’ Bull’s tone was sceptical. ‘Is that it?’
‘The heavy hitters in this area were the medieval thinkers. Nobody has surpassed them for depth of thought, even in modern times.’
‘I guess if you’re a monk with nothing else to do all day but think … Sometimes I wish I was a monk.’
‘They were against the idea of life out there on grounds that are still valid today. They were thinking about it before we even knew the Earth is a planet.’
‘Incredible,’ said the President.
‘Incredible. Saint Augustine opposed the alien concept in his City of God, likewise Thomas Aquinas in his Summa Theologica. They said that mankind, here on Earth, is the focus of God’s love. Creatures on other worlds wouldn’t have the Creator’s love and there would have been no point in creating them.’
Bull’s mouth twisted in annoyance. ‘Logie, I can’t take executive action on the basis of stuff like that. Are medieval monks all you’ve got?’
‘I have all I need, namely the Word of God. If there are people on other worlds, have they sinned as Adam sinned? Would the Saviour have to go from planet to planet, dying again and again? Do we expect this of a God of Love?’ The evangelist waved an arm. ‘Only a God of Love could create beauty like this.’
‘He had a little help from Roosevelt.’
The evangelist seemed not to have heard. ‘Are we to believe that Jesus is some sort of travelling redeemer? There just can’t be men out there in need of salvation. This has been pointed out over the centuries from William Vorilong in the Middle Ages through Melanchthon in the Renaissance to Thomas Paine in the Age of Reason.’
‘Maybe aliens don’t need salvation.’
‘Mr President, all men need salvation, and it can only be attained through Divine Incarnation. That’s core Christian doctrine.’
The valley mist had reached them and snowflakes were beginning to drift lightly down. They were into the trees: maple, birch, hazel and dogwood surrounded them.
Harris went on relentlessly. ‘Look, Seth, if there were men on other worlds, then men here on Earth wouldn’t be of unique importance to the Creator. You just have to open a Bible to see the absurdity of that belief. The Bible tells us that man was made in the image of God. We’re special to Him, like children to a father. God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten son…’
‘Turn left here. It’ll take us back while our ears are still attached to our heads.’ The President was frowning. ‘Logie, how far do we go back?’
‘’Nam.’
‘Right. And as Christians go, would you call me a lousy one?’
Harris grinned. ‘You want a sin list? I’ve picked you up legless from the sidewalk a few times. There was the drink driving charge which the media have miraculously overlooked. There was that business with the Saigon hostess…’