«Shouldn’t I? I love you. I love the life we have, the lives our children have; I think everything is being threatened, and I’m scared to death.»
Andy looked down at his wife, his expression kind but his eyes remote, seeing her, yet not focusing sharply. «I am, too, I think… Why?… All right, the ‘why.’ Because the truth might be that I can. I’m not kidding myself; I’m no genius. At least, I don’t feel like one—whatever way a genius is supposed to feel. But I don’t think the presidency requires genius. I think it does require the ability to absorb quickly, act decisively—not always impartially—and accept extraordinary pressure. Perhaps, above all, to listen. To distinguish between the legitimate cries for help and the hypocrisy. I think I can handle almost everything but the pressure—I don’t know about that; not to the degree that’s required… But if I can prove to myself that I can jump that hurdle—and one other—I think I want to get into the fight. Because any country that allows a Genessee Industries needs all the help it can get. Frank Baldwin quoted something I made a joke of when he first approached me. He said no man can avoid what he’s supposed to do when the time comes for him to do it. I think that’s pretentious as hell, and not necessarily accurate. But if through a series of accidents the political cupboard is damned near empty and a good man is going to make it bare by leaving—and the king-makers think, for their own reasons, that I can cut it—I’m not sure I’ve got a choice. I’m not sure we’ve got a choice, Phyl.»
Phyllis Trevayne watched her husband carefully; coldly, perhaps. «Why have you chosen … no, that’s not right; why have you let this party choose you, and not the other? If the President isn’t going to run for a second term—»
«For practical reasons,» interrupted Andy. «I don’t think it makes a whit of difference which banner a man runs under anymore. Both parties are splintered. It’s the man that counts, not the bromides of Republican or Democratic philosophy—they’re meaningless now… The President will wait until the last possible minute before announcing his withdrawal; he’s got too many bills in Congress. I’ll need that time. If only to find out I’m not wanted.»
Phyllis remained staring at her husband, without discernible reaction. «You’re willing to expose yourself—and us—to that kind of agony, knowing that it might be a complete waste?»
Trevayne was by the side brick wall of the outsized fireplace. He leaned his back against it and returned his wife’s look. «I’d like your permission to… For the first time in my life, I’m aware of a threat to everything I think I believe in. It’s got nothing to do with parades and flags and enemies—no easy heroes and villains. It’s a gradual but certain erosion of choice. Bonner uses the word a lot, ‘programmed.’ Though I don’t think he really knows what it means, what its implications are… But it’s happening, Phyl. The men behind Genessee Industries want to run the country because they’re convinced they know better than the voter on Main Street, and they have the power to convey their ideas into the system. And there are hundreds like them in corporate board rooms everywhere. Sooner or later they’ll get together, and instead of being a legitimate part of the system, they’ll be the system… I don’t agree with that. I’m not sure yet what I do agree with, but I don’t agree with that. We’re ten steps away from our own particular police state, and I want people to know it.»
Trevayne pushed himself off the brick wall and walked back to the couch. He smiled at Phyllis, a little embarrassed, and slumped down beside her.
«That’s quite a speech,» she said softly.
«Sorry… I didn’t mean it to be.»
She reached over and took his hand. «An awful thing just happened.»
«What?»
«I just put that frightening title before your name, and it didn’t sound at all unreal.»
«If I were you, I wouldn’t start redecorating the East Room… I may freeze in my first Senate speech, and it’s back to the coupons.»
Phyllis released his hand, astonished. «Good God, you’ve been busy! Do tell. In case I should order new Christmas cards or something. What Senate?»
45
James Goddard backed his car out of the sloping driveway and started off down the road. It was a clear Sunday morning, the air cold, the winds swirling out of the Palo Alto hills, chilling everything in front of them. It was a day meant for decisions; Goddard had made his.
He would finalize it, organize its implementation within an hour or two.
Actually, the decision had been made for him. They were going to let him hang, and James Goddard had promised himself that he wasn’t for hanging. No matter the promises, regardless of the guarantees that he knew would be offered. He wasn’t going to allow it. He wasn’t going to let them solve their problems by having the accusing arrow settle in his direction; accepting the responsibility in exchange for the transfer of money into a coded Swiss bank account. That would be too easy.
He had nearly made that mistake himself—without any settlement. His preoccupation with past history—Genessee history—had blinded him to the fact that he was using his own figures, his own intricate manipulations. There was another way, a better way.
Someone else’s figures. Financial projections that couldn’t possibly be his.
It was December 15. In forty-six days it would be January 31, the end of the fiscal year. All plants, divisions, departments, and assembly control offices of Genessee Industries had to have their year-end reports in by that date. Submitted in final form to his office.
They were simple P-and-L statements with lengthy addenda of required purchases and payroll adjustments. The thousands upon thousands of figures were fed into computer banks where necessary alterations and imbalances were spotted and taped out for correction.
They were balanced against the master tape of the previous year’s budgets.
Simple arithmetic that leaped into the economic stratosphere of billions.
The master tape.
The master plan.
Every year the master tape was sent to the comptroller’s office in San Francisco and kept in the Genessee vaults. It arrived sometime during the second week in December, on a private plane from Chicago. Always accompanied by a president of one division or another, and armed guards.
Every complex industry had to include budgeting projections for all contractual obligations. But Genessee’s master tape differed from the control data tapes of other corporations in a profound way.
For the commitments of others were generally public knowledge, while Genessee Industries’ master tape included thousands of unannounced commitments. And each December brought new surprises seen by less than a dozen pairs of eyes. They spelled out a major portion of the military armaments program of the United States for the next five years. Pentagon commitments that neither the Congress nor the President knew existed. But they existed as surely as the steel and the politicians could be tempered.
Since the master tape was processed on the basis of five-year data—each December brought a fresh fifth year and constantly swelling information for the years preceding. Nothing was ever deleted, only added.
It was Goddard’s function as the financial keystone of Genessee Industries to absorb and coordinate the massive influx of listed and unlisted—old and new—material with respect to changing market conditions; to allocate financing to the divisions as necessary; and to distribute contractual workloads among the plants—always operating on the assumption that 120 percent of capacity was the median. Sufficient for optimum local employment statistics, yet not excessive to the point of affording unions undue strength. Seventy percent of that capacity was convertible without profit concern; to be given or taken away as the children behaved.