Williams cast a murderous look over his shoulder at Martell, then opened the door.
Thirty-seven votes. Shiva’s blood! The narrow margin still made Martell shudder.
Three weeks had passed, and for the first time since the election—no, the first time since March—Martell had time to relax. He sank into the plush leather chair in his study and sipped at his Scotch.
There had been a recount, of course. Medea helped pick precincts for special attention, and the margin rose to a few hundred. Out of 8 million votes.
Krishna! Williams’s aborted fraud would have tilted it the other way. Hell, he could have forged several hundred more ballots before Pauli got there, if Martell hadn’t kept him tied up on the church steps.
Out of the whole campaign, the image that stayed with Martell was of that little church. Pauli, lounging back in a folding chair, eyes half closed but missing nothing, blue pin-stripe trousers under the smoking jacket; he explained later that Siemens had suggested it for the image of an irate official dragged out of bed. Two Guardsmen standing ramrod stiff by the door, eyes ahead, ostentatiously ignoring everyone, but impossible to ignore. Dave Williams, staring at a ballot, studiously marking a tally, drawing on his cigarette, glaring at Pauli, glaring at Martell, standing up, walking around the table, sitting down and picking up another ballot. All night long.
What was it that he’d said to Williams, while they were arguing about ID? Something about not having testimonials. Well, he didn’t need testimonials, and he didn’t need a Wizard to tell him he had a heart. He could no longer pretend to himself and to the world that he was an icy automaton.
Yes, he’d felt passion: rage at Williams; fear at the whole plan slipping away… and guilt, at the blood he’d caused to be shed “for the greater good.” It wasn’t right to bury that passion. This wild scheme, this grand Plan could too easily slide into inhuman madness if he tried to wall away his feelings.
On the glass table, next to his Scotch, lay his clarinet. He’d played it this evening for the first time in years. It wasn’t lack of genius that had driven him away from painting, sculpture, and music… it was lack of passion. He could never let go, he’d thought that he didn’t have the passion, and he knew that he’d never get beyond mediocre without it.
Martell looked at the agni by the fireplace, but it held no solace. It was a reminder of the Hindu writings that he treasured, but in itself it meant nothing. His gaze rose to the ceiling, and the miniature video lens hidden there.
Medea, cast me a spell, show me the future, send me a True Dream. Have we won a great victory?
Or have I sown the dragon’s teeth?