Short fiction complete, p.100
Short Fiction Complete, page 100
“I know, I know. Your first time on television. The thrill of show business. The excitement. Takes your breath away, doesn’t it?”
Don nodded. Hardesty glowered.
“Let’s just see the tapes and find out what you really said,” von Kluge went on. “I’ll bet you don’t remember yourself, do you, Don?”
“No . . .”
Shrugging, von Kluge said, “It’s probably no big deal. We’ll just play it cool until it all blows over.”
His office door opened slightly and Ms. Tucker, a black secretary of such sweetness and lithe form that she could make bigots vote pro-bussing, said softly:
“Phone for you, Dr. von Kluge.”
“I can’t be disturbed now, Alma.”
“It’s Senator Buford,” she said in an awed whisper.
Von Kluge’s eyes widened. “Excuse me,” he said to Don and Hardesty as he picked up the phone.
He smiled broadly and said, “Senator Buford sir! Good morning! How are you . . .”
And that was all he said for the next twenty-two minutes. Von Kluge nodded, grunted, closed his eyes, gazed at the ceiling, stared at Don. As he listened.
Finally he put the phone down, slowly, wearily, like a very tired man at last letting go of an enormous weight. His ear was red.
Looking sadly at Don, von Kluge said, “Well, the Senator wants you to appear at his Appropriations Committee hearing. Tomorrow morning.”
Don expected the hearing chamber to be packed with newsmen, cameras, lights, crowds, people grabbing at him for interviews or comments.
Instead, the ornate old chamber was practically empty, except for the few senators who had shown up for their committee’s session and their unctuous aides. Even the senators themselves seemed bored and fidgety as a series of experts from various parts of NASA and the Office of Management and Budget gave conflicting testimony on how much money should be appropriated for the space program.
But flinty old Senator Buford, the committee’s chairman, sat unflinchingly through it all. His crafty gray eyes drilled holes through every witness; even when he said nothing, he made the witnesses squirm in their seats.
Don was the last scheduled witness before the lunch break, and he kept hoping that they would run out of time before they called on him. Hardesty and von Kluge had drilled him all night in every aspect of the space agency’s programs and budget requests. Don’s head hadn’t felt so burstingly full of facts since his senior year in college, when he had crammed for three days to get past a Shakespeare final exam.
By the time Don sat himself cautiously in the witness chair, only four senators were left at the long beige-covered table facing him. It was a few minutes past noon, but Senator Buford showed no inclination to recess the hearing.
“Mistah Arnold,” Buford drawled, “have you prepared a statement for this committee?”
“Yes, sir, I have.” Don leaned forward to speak into the microphone on the table before him, even though there was no need to amplify his voice in the nearly-empty, quiet room.
“In view of the hour,” Buford turned hour into a two-syllable word, “we will dispense with your reading your statement and have it inserted into th’ record as ’tis. With youh permission, of course.”
Don felt sweat beading on his forehead and upper lip. “Certainly, sir.” His statement was merely the regular public relations pamphlet the agency put out, extolling its current operations and promising wonders for the future.
Senator Buford smiled coldly. Don thought of a rattlesnake coiled to strike.
“Now what’s this I heah,” the Senator said, “ ’bout livin’ in space prolongin’ youh life?”
Don coughed. “Well, sir, if you’re referring to . . . ah, to the remarks I made on television . . .”
“I am, suh.”
“Yes, well, you see . . . I had to oversimplify some very complex matters, because . . . you realize . . . the TV audience isn’t prepared . . . I mean, there aren’t very many scientists watching daytime television talk shows . . .”
Buford’s eyes bored into Don. “Ah’m not a scientist either, Mr. Arnold. I’m jest a simple ol’ country lawyer tryin’ to understand what in the world you’re talkin’ about.”
And in a flash of revelation, Don saw that Senator Buford was well into his seventies. His skin was creased and dry and dead-gray. The little hair left on his head was wispy and white. Liver spots covered his frail, trembling hands. Only his eyes and his voice had any spark or strength to them.
A phrase from the old Army Air Corps song of Don’s childhood skipped through his memory: We live in fame or go down in flames.
Taking a deep breath and sitting up straighter in the witness chair, Don said, “Well, sir: there are two ways to look at any piece of information—optimistically or pessimistically. What I’m about to tell you is the optimistic view. I want you to understand that clearly, sir. I will be interpreting the information we have on hand in its most optimistic light.”
“You go right ahead and do that,” said Senator Buford.
They lunched in the Senate dining room: dry sherry, mock turtle soup, softshell crabs. Just the two of them at a small table, Don and Senator Buford.
“I finally got me a NASA scientist who can talk sense!” Buford was saying as he cut through one of the little crabs.
Don’s head was still reeling. “You know, Senator, that there will be lots of experts inside NASA and outside who’ll make some pretty strong arguments against me.”
Buford fixed him with a baleful eye. “Mebbe so. But they won’t get away with any arguments ’gainst me, boy.”
“I can’t guarantee anything, you realize,” Don hedged. “I could be completely wrong.”
“Ah know. But like you said, if we don’t try, we’ll never know for sure.”
This has got to be a dream, Don told himself. I’m home in bed and I’ll have to get up soon and go testify before Buford’s committee.
“Now lessee what we got heah,” Buford said as the liveried black waiter cleared their dishes from the table. “You need the permanent space station—with a major medical facility in it.”
“Yessir.” Don took a breath. “And the all-reusable shuttle.”
Buford looked at Don sharply. “What’s wrong with th’ Space Shuttle we got? Cost enough, didn’t it?”
“Yessir, it did. But it takes off like a rocket. Passengers pull three or four gees at launch. Too much for . . . er, for . . .”
“For old geezers like me!” Buford laughed, a sound halfway between a wheeze and a cackle.
Don made his lips smile, then said, “An advanced shuttle would take off like an airplane, nice and smooth. Anybody could ride in it.”
“Uh-huh. How long’ll it take to get it flyin’ ?”
Don thought a moment, considered the state of his soul, and decided, What the hell, go for broke.
“Money buys time, Senator,” he said carefully. “Money buys time.”
Senator Buford nodded and muttered. mostly to himself, “I finally got a NASA scientist who tells me the truth.”
“Sir, I want you to realize the whole truth about everything that I have been telling you . . .”
But Buford wasn’t listening. “Senator Petty will be our major obstacle. Scrawny little Yankee . . . thinks he’s God’s chosen apostle to watch out Over the Federal budget. He’ll give us trouble.”
The name of Senator Petty was known to make scientists weep. NASA administrators raced to the bathroom at the sound of it.
Buford waggled a lean, liver-spotted hand in Don’s general direction. “But don’t you worry none ’bout Petty. Ah’ll take care o’ him! You just concentrate on gettin’ NASA to bring me a detailed program for that space station—with th’ medical center in it.”
“And the advanced shuttle,” Don added, in a near whisper.
“Yeh, of course. The advanced shuttle, too. Cain’t ride up there to your geriatrics ward in th’ sky on a broomstick, now can I?”
“The twins were twelve years old today.”
Don looked up from the report he was writing. It had been nearly midnight by the time he’d gotten home, and now it was well past one.
“I forgot all about their birthday,” he confessed.
Judith was standing in the doorway of his study, wrapped in a fuzzy pink housecoat. There were lines in her face that Don hadn’t noticed before. Her voice was more sharp than he’d remembered.
“They could both be in jail for all you think about them!” she snapped. “Or me, for that matter.”
“Look honey, I’ve got responsibilities . . .”
“Sure! The big-shot executive. All day long he’s running NASA and all night long he’s out at parties.”
“Meetings,” Don said defensively. “It’s tough to deal with congressmen and senators in their offices . . .”
“Meetings with disco bands and champagne and lots of half-naked secretaries prancing around!”
“Judy, for God’s sake, I’m juggling a million and one details! The space station, the flyback shuttle booster, and now Senator Buford’s in the hospital . . .”
“I hope he drops dead and Petty cuts your balls off!” Judith looked shocked that the words could have come from her mouth. She turned and fled from the room.
Don gave out a long, agonized sigh and leaned back in his desk chair. For a moment he wanted to toss the report he was writing into the wastebasket and go up to bed with his wife.
But he knew he had to face Senator Petty the next morning, and he had to be armed for the encounter. He went back to his writing.
“I think you’re pulling the biggest boondoggle this nation’s ever seen, since the Apollo project,” said Senator Petty, smiling.
Don was sitting tensely in a big leather chair in front of the Senator’s massive oak desk. On Don’s left sat Reed McCormack, NASA’s Chief Administrator, the space agency’s boss and childhood chum of the President. McCormack looked like a studious, middle-aged banker who kept in trim playing tennis and sailing racing yachts. Which was almost entirely true. He was not studious. He had learned early in life that you can usually buy expertise—for a song. His special talent was making people trust him.
Senator Petty didn’t trust anyone.
From the neck up the Senator looked like a movie idol; brilliant white straight teeth (capped); tanned, taut handsome face (lifted, twice); thick, curly, reddish-brown hair (implanted and dyed). Below the neck, however, his body betrayed him. Despite excruciating hours of jogging and handball, his stomach bulged and his chest was sunken.
“A boondoggle?” McCormack asked easily. “Your colleagues in the Senate don’t seem to think so.”
Petty’s smile turned acid. “Funny thing about my fellow senators. The older they are, the more money they want to appropriate for your gold-plated space station. Why do you think that is?”
“Age brings wisdom,” said McCormack.
“Does it?” Petty turned his mudbrown eyes on Don. “Or is it that you keep telling them they can live forever, once they’re up in your orbital old-age home?”
“I’ve never said that,” Don snapped. His nerves were frayed, he realized, as much by Senator Buford’s hospitalization as by Judith’s and the kids’ growing unhappiness at home.
“Oh, you’ve been very careful about what you’ve said, and to whom, and with what qualifications,” Petty replied. “But they all get the same impression—live in space and you live forever. NASA can give you immortality, if you vote the funds for it.”
“That is not our policy,” McCormack said firmly.
“The hell it isn’t,” Petty snapped. “But old Bufe’s terminal, they tell me. You won’t have him to steer your outrageous funding requests through the Senate. And that means you’ll have to deal with me.”
Don knew it was true, and saw the future slipping away from his grasp.
“That’s why we’re here,” McCormack said. “To deal.”
Petty nodded curtly.
“If you try to halt construction of the space station, your colleagues will outvote you overwhelmingly,” said McCormack.
“Same thing applies to the new shuttle,” Don added.
Petty leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “I know that. But I can slow you down. OMB isn’t very happy with your cost overruns, you know. And I can always start an investigation into this so-called science of life-extension. I can pick a panel of experts that will blow your immortality story out of the water.”
For the first time, McCormack looked uneasy.
“There’s no immortality ‘story,’ ” Don said, testily. “We’ve simply reported the conclusions of various studies and experiments. We’ve been absolutely truthful.”
“And you’ve allowed the senators to believe that if they live in orbit they all can become Methuselahs.” Petty laughed. “Well, a couple of biologists from Harvard and Berkley can shoot you down inside of a week—with the proper press coverage. And I can see to it that they get the coverage.”
Don gripped the arms of his chair and tried to hold onto his temper. “Senator Buford is dying and you’re already trying to tear down everything he worked to achieve.”
Petty grinned mischievously. “You bet lam.”
“What do you want from us?” McCormack asked.
The Senator’s grin faded slowly.
“I said we’re here to deal with you,” McCormack added, speaking softly. “The President is very anxious to keep this program going. Its effect on the national economy has been very beneficial, you realize.”
“So you say.”
“What do you want?” McCormack repeated.
“The groundbased medical center that’s going to be built as part of your life-extension program . . .”
“In your state?”
“Yes.”
McCormack nodded. “I see no reason why that can’t be done. It would be rather close to the Mayo Clinic, then, wouldn’t it?”
“And one other thing,” Petty said.
“What is it?”
He pointed at Don. “I want this man—Senator Buford’s dear friend—to personally head up the space station operation.”
Don felt his incipient ulcer stab him as McCormack’s face clouded over.
“Mr. Arnold is program manager for the space station program already,” McCormack said, “and also serves as liaison to the advance shuttle program office.”
“I know that,” Petty snapped. “But I want him up there, in the space station, with the first permanent crew.”
Don stared at the Senator. “Why . . .?”
Petty gave him a smirk. “You think living up in space is such a hot idea, let’s see you try it!”
Senator Buford’s intensive care bed looked more like a spacecraft command module than a hospital room. Electronic consoles surrounded the bed, monitoring the dying old man. Oscilloscope traces wriggled fitfully; lights blinked in rhythm to his sinking heart rate; tubes of nutrients and fresh blood fed into his arteries.
Don had to lean closer to the old man’s toothless sunken mouth to hear him wheeze:
“Predate your comin’ to see me . . . got no family left, y’know.” Don nodded and said nothing.
“Looks like I cain’t hold out much longer,” the Senator whispered. “How’s the space station comin’ along?”
“We’ve got Petty behind it,” Don answered. “For a price.”
Buford smiled wanly. “Good. Good. You’ll get th’ whole Senate behind you. They’re all gettin’ older. They’ll all want to go . . . up there.”
“I’m only sorry that we’re not ready to take you.”
Cackling thinly, Buford said, “But I’m goin’I Ah made all the arrangements. They’re gonna freeze me soon’s I’m clinically dead. And then I’m gonna be sent up to your space station. I’ll stay froze until the science fellas figure out how to cure this cancer I got. Then they’ll thaw me out and I’ll live in orbit. I’ll outlive all o’ you!” He laughed again.
“I hope you do,” Don said softly. “You deserve to.”
“Only trouble is, once I’m froze I won’t need that advanced shuttle to boost me into orbit. Coulda saved th’ taxpayers all that money if I’d known. I can ride the regular shuttle, once I’m dipped in that liquid nitrogen stuff.”
He was still cackling to himself as Don tiptoed out of his room.
“I’m coming home, honey! For once, I’ll be home in time for the twins’ birthday.”
Don was floating easily in his “office”: a semi-circular desk welded into a bulkhead in the zero-gee section of the space station. There was no need for chairs, a few looped straps sufficed to keep one from drifting too far from one’s work.
Don took a good look at his wife’s face as it appeared in the telephone screen of his desk. Her mouth was a thin tight line. There were crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. Her hair was totally gray.
“What happened to your hair?” he asked. “It wasn’t like that the last time we talked, was it?”
“I’ve been dyeing it for years and you never noticed,” Judith said, her voice harsh, strained. “The style is gray this year . . . now I dye it so it’s all gray.”
“That’s the style?” Don glanced at his own reflection in the darkened window above his desk. His hair was still dark and thick.
“How would you know anything about fashion?” Judith snipped. “Living up in that tin can in the sky.”
“But I’m coming home early this year,” Don said. “Things are going well enough so I can get away a whole month earlier than I thought. I’ll be there in time for the twins’ birthday.”
“Don’t bother,” Judith said.
“What? But the kids . . .”
“The kids are nineteen and they don’t want their Mommy and Daddy embarrassing them, especially on their birthday. The want to be with their friends, out on the farm.”
“Farm?”
“In Utah. They’ve joined the Church of the Latter Day Saints.”
“Mormons? Our kids?”
“Yes.”
Don felt confused, almost scared. “I’ve got to talk to them. They’re too young to . . .”
