None of these things used her degree, but that wasn’t to be expected at this point. And then she’d been asked to write this white paper, an actual white paper to be read by Senator Nunn about the situation in the Former Yugoslav Republic! She’d put fifty hours into it in four days, and Elizabeth could say with all confidence it was her best work. It was the best thing she’d ever done. Now he wanted to talk to her about it. Her palms were sweating as she opened the office door.
“Come on in, Ms. Weir,” he said from behind his desk. He was middle aged, affable, looking more like a high school chemistry teacher than a senator. Mild-mannered, her mother would have said, meaning it as a compliment. He had an aww-shucks Georgia drawl and glasses. He gestured to one of the two visitors chairs, a nightmare in orange Naugahyde that must have been the height of fashion about twenty years ago.
“Senator Nunn. It’s a pleasure, sir.” She stuck out a hand with what she hoped was moxie and firmness.
He shook it, then sat back down. Her paper was open in front of him. “So how’s DC treating you?”
“It’s great,” Elizabeth said. “I like it very much. But since I went to Georgetown, I already know my way around.”
“Of course you do.” He glanced down at the typewritten pages. “An excellent school.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said. The excellence of Georgetown was a nice, safe subject.
“I’d like to talk to you about this white paper,” he said slowly, turning one page. “Your analysis of the situation in Bosnia.”
“Yes, senator.” She caught herself before she added, that’s what it is, yes, you’ve correctly identified this white paper. That was smart ass. She was smart, not smart ass.
He touched his glasses, peering at the page. “You attribute the situation to militarism.”
And now was her chance to score, to make a mark. “Senator, disarmament is the only possible…”
He glanced up, his voice mild. “Ms. Weir, no one is a greater champion of disarmament than I am. In fact, if you’re familiar with my record, you know that I am one of the primary designers of the Nunn-Lugar Cooperative Threat Reduction Program to dismantle weapons of mass destruction.” He closed the white paper. “And this paper is a load of malarkey. If you’re attributing what’s going on in the Former Yugoslav Republic to militarism, you are missing about the last thousand years of European history. I suggest you dig a little deeper.” He tossed the paper back to her across the desk. “Ever been there? Ever met any Croats or Serbs or Bosnians? Ever read any Serbian poetry, any Croatian novels? Do you have any insights deeper than rehashing previous analysis?”
Elizabeth opened her mouth and then shut it again, her face burning.
“You’ve done just what they trained you to do in college, dig up some sources and cite them. But this is the real world. Anybody can look up some statistics. The point of writing white papers is to inform to provide new and insightful synthesis of what’s going on. It’s a big world, Ms. Weir. I rely on my staff to keep me informed of what’s going on all over the world independently of the US military and independent of what the State Department chooses to share with my committee. And that means actually telling me something I don’t know. Tell me why.”
“Why?”
“Tell me why, Ms. Weir. I can read what leaders say in the Washington Post. I want to know why. I want to know who’s thinking what, and what the cultural background behind it is. I want to know what buttons we’re punching, what narratives we’re stepping into, what stories we’re playing from their point of view. Do you understand?”
“Yes, senator.” And she did. She’d never in her life felt embarrassment so acute, but she knew what he meant. No one had ever asked it of her before. “Everyone has a narrative, a story that says what they think is going on, and that’s based on their culture and their heritage.”
“And we need to know what it is, and what role we’re playing in their story. We already know what role they play in ours.” He tapped on the edge of her paper. “You’ve got a fine mind, Ms. Weir. But I expect people have told you that.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Have you got a fine heart?”
Elizabeth opened her mouth and shut it again.
“The center of diplomacy is understanding, and understanding is built on compassion. You have to want to get the other guy. You have to put yourself in his shoes, no matter how unpleasant those shoes may be. You have to see where he’s coming from. We like to treat politics like it’s rational, but it’s not. Hell, anyone who’s ever worked for a campaign knows it’s not! People vote based on how they feel about the candidates and the issues. People go to war over how they feel, not over what’s rational. Rational self-interest is all very well, but don’t count on it to move things your way. Not when pride is involved. Pride, history, belief, prejudice, hope — those are a lot more powerful than rational self-interest.” He nodded down at the paper. “You’ve got some ideas. But you need more than that. You need to understand the data you’re looking at. You need to see what it means. What are you planning to do next year?”
Elizabeth blinked at the abrupt change of topic. “I’m planning to apply for graduate work at Yale,” she said.
“Don’t.” Senator Nunn smiled. “Get out in the field. Go to Bosnia. Go to Somalia. You’ve got all the academic credentials to come back later, but for now get out there. See what it’s really like, what refugees are really like, what war is. You can’t campaign for disarmament if you don’t know what war is. Get out of the box and have some experiences. See if your heart is as good as your mind.” He pushed his chair back from his desk. “This town is full of young people who think they know things. Be one who actually does.”
Elizabeth blinked awake. She had been nodding in a chair in the common room, but a jolt had shaken the ship and she started.
“It’s nothing,” Atelia said from where she stood by the window with her son. “Just docking. Come and see.”
Elizabeth got up and came to the window. She had been dreaming again, of an office and a man. The government of some world? Of her own world, wherever that might be? In her dream all those names and places had meant something.
“We’ve come up next to Durant,” Atelia explained. “They’ve just run the walk across. That bump was the latch on.”
Through the window Elizabeth could see another ship alongside them, larger but equally battered, as though parts of various ships had been welded together haphazardly into a conglomeration that should be barely spaceworthy. A long plastic tube, segmented like a child’s toy, extended from a hatch on the other ship’s side to some point on this one further forward, presumably to their own airlock.
“Now we can go back and forth,” Atelia said. “Trade goods, trade people back and forth between ships.”
“Is your husband coming aboard?” Elizabeth asked.
Her face fell. “I doubt he’s back yet. But they may have some word.” Atelia stepped back. “If you’re still looking for a ship that can take you to a Stargate quickly, I expect Durant can. And there’s a man there who may be able to help with your memories.”
“A doctor?” Elizabeth asked.
“I suppose you’d say so,” Atelia said grimly. “I’m not sure we’d have called him a doctor on Sateda, but he’s the best we have.”
“Then I’ll be glad to talk to him,” Elizabeth said. “Anything to help me remember.”
Crossing from one Traveler ship to another was a nerve wracking experience. Elizabeth did not consider herself especially fearful, but crossing through the plastic tubes was frightening. It wasn’t that it was confining. Yes, the tubes were less than her height in diameter and there was no gravity, meaning she had to swim through, using the ribbing of the walls to propel herself forward. It wasn’t that. It was that the plastic was clear.