Aftermath a-1 Page 16

  He saw nothing but an endless wasteland of mud.

  Sydney was gone. What had replaced it bore no more signs of human influence than the satellites of Neptune.

  Brisbane, Australia. An open expanse of water and, miles to the west, a new coastline. The satellites used absolute latitude and longitude to pinpoint their images. Brisbane now lay beneath the Pacific Ocean.

  Had any of the models predicted tidal waves, earthquakes, and massive sea-level changes? If they had, no one had presented those results to Saul. Perhaps they had been discarded, on the grounds that they were “implausible.”

  He stayed with it for a few more scenes. The whole southeast of Australia, judging from the images of Adelaide and Melbourne, had shared the same fate as Sydney and Brisbane.

  Saul asked for an image of Canberra, which lay inland and on high ground. It should have escaped damage from the sea. Perhaps it had. It was impossible to tell, because the area was covered by impenetrable clouds. Their sinister tinge of dull red suggested that the surface beneath had been blown high into the atmosphere.

  In his scan of the list of incoming calls, Saul had noticed nothing from Australia and New Zealand. Now he knew why.

  He heard the creak of chairs behind him. Someone was increasingly excited or impatient. For the moment, he had seen enough. Saul killed the display, watched as a snowy vista gradually reappeared outside the window, and finally turned around.

  “Good morning. Excuse me if I did not greet you earlier. I felt that I — and you — ought to examine firsthand what is happening around the world.”

  Saul knew that the smiles greeting him were as hollow as his own words. The two visitors made a splendid study in contrasts, proving once again that politics was flexible enough to accommodate every human strength and weakness.

  Sarah Mander had an unlined, guileless face. Yet she was probably the most secretive person in Washington, man or woman. She was also cultured, witty, well educated, vengeful, racist, and anti-Semitic. It depressed Saul that conversations with such a witch could be so enjoyable.

  Senator Nick Lopez was round-faced and brown-complexioned. The hair above his broad brow was set in a high, old-fashioned pompadour that resembled a frizzy black hat. Saul wondered where Lopez found a hairdresser willing to perpetrate such a monstrosity. Lopez had degrees in mathematics and law, but openly disdained “book learning.” He was fast-talking, confident, and supernaturally bright, and after a meeting with him Saul always came away feeling that he had somehow been tricked, in a way that he didn’t quite understand. Nick Lopez also had his darker side, one that would not be revealed in public.

  “The House Minority Leader and the Senate Majority Leader visiting me together,” Saul said musingly. “I’m not sure what the appropriate protocol is for such a rare combination of forces.”

  Sarah Mander smiled. “Count the spoons when we leave, I guess.”

  In spite of himself, Saul found he was grinning back at her.

  “It’s our dollar.” Lopez made no attempt at small talk. “I guess we should explain why we came.”

  “And we’ll be brief,” added Mander. “You’re a busy man, Mr. President. Two thousand calls to return.”

  Eighteen hundred and forty-seven. But that was twenty minutes ago, by now she was probably right. After the meeting he would learn where she had learned the number. But then it would hardly be worth knowing, since obviously she expected him to find out.

  “Thanks for your consideration, Sally. Go ahead.”

  “Cheap shot, Mr. President. You can do better than that.”

  And she was right. It was a cheap shot. He knew she preferred “Sarah” and hated the more informal version of her name. Sally Mander. Lizard woman. She must have been taunted with jibes like that since she was a kid.

  “Sorry, Sarah. I’m in a bad mood today and I feel stupid.”

  “Sure. Pull the other one. Nick?”

  “This is only a preliminary meeting.” Lopez picked up without hesitation. “We want to present an idea. I’m glad we saw those images, because they reinforce our point.”

  “Which is?” Saul sensed the change. The overture was over, the action had begun.

  “This country has taken a real beating, but we will recover. And I think we’ll be like a broken bone, stronger than ever when we heal.”

  “God, I hope you’re right. I keep telling myself that, but then I look outside.” Saul gestured to the window, where the snow fell constantly.

  “It was in the latest weather forecasts, and it’s not the Fimbulwinter,” Sarah Mander said. “It might last three days, but it won’t last three years. It will end. I spoke with Science Adviser Vronsky early this morning. The supernova is fading.”

  “And about time.”

  “But other countries have not been so fortunate.” Lopez ignored the others’ comments, they were a sidebar to the main theme. “Australia, Micronesia, and South America are ruined. I don’t know if they exist anymore. South Africa is silent, and the rest of the continent is chaos. United Europe has fragmented to its pre-Union nationalism. The Sino Consortium was about to walk all over us in trade, now the members are back in the Stone Age. The Golden Ring is broken, and their radio reports suggest a total collapse of central authority. Congresswoman Mander and I have compared notes. Outside of western Europe we cannot discover a single foreign entity that today deserves the name of nation.”

  “I agree.” Saul wondered at the line of logic. Nick Lopez was a dedicated isolationist, while Sarah Mander hated not just blacks, Hispanics, Jews, and Native Americans, but every foreign group that came into her sights. “What are you suggesting? I hope you are not proposing to resuscitate the foreign aid program. It ruined every country that ever received it.”

  As he was speaking, Saul realized that he knew quite well where Lopez was going. His own mention of foreign aid was a way of marking time, thinking the idea over — and rejecting it.

  “Foreign aid, never.” Lopez’s face in repose showed a natural easygoing good humor, part of his success as a politician. The fire and conviction that sat on it now was something that no voter would ever see. “Mr. President, we can offer something much better. We, the United States, are in a position to assume a more central role in the world. We have an opportunity that may never arise again, to assert global dominance. Our military has overwhelming superiority. Our food reserves form an invaluable asset. We will soon once more have working communications, a strong infrastructure, and a stable government. We cannot lose — and people everywhere in the world will bless us for rescuing them from barbarism.”

  “You paint an attractive picture, Senator. And a plausible one.”

  And who would lead that global empire? Saul knew the answer — and he felt the lure in his bones.

  “With you as leader.” Sarah Mander was reading his mind. She wore the inviting smile of a Siren. “President Saul Steinmetz. First President of — may I say it? — the United States of the World.”

  President Steinmetz. And, as a reward for their initiative and support, positions of global power and influence for Sarah Mander and Nick Lopez. After that, presumably, a voice in the succession.

  “I’m not sure I’d look good on a gold coin.” Saul, deliberately, moved the level of intensity down a couple of notches. He tapped his nose. “I’m very fond of this, but it’s a bit too Semitic, don’t you think? Remember, I’m the man who goes to temple and gets pointed out as ’that Jewish-looking guy over there.’ Maybe in full face, rather than profile?”

  He felt the relaxation. Since he did not reject their suggestion out of hand, they assumed he was thinking it over. They would not expect him to buy the idea at once — it was far too radical. And some of Lopez’s words raised other questions that really needed thought. Our military has overwhelming superiority. Had Lopez seen the rough airborne beasts slouching toward Andrews AFB and National Airport? What was the basis for such an assertion?

  “If anything is to be done we must go beyond gen
eralities,” Saul said at last. “We need a specific plan. Staffing levels, resources, schedules, approaches. Of course, we can’t do anything concrete until our own crisis eases. And I will need full congressional approval.”

  The exchange of glances came and went in the flicker of an eye.

  “Of course.” Lopez stood up. “This meeting was no more than a preliminary discussion of principles. An enormous amount of work remains to be done. However, we think we can guarantee you the overwhelming support of both Houses.”

  In other words, we did our homework. But Saul could have guessed that. There had to have been the usual backroom quid pro quos, although he did not know the details and the stakes were bigger than usual. You have my support, provided that my wife’s family has control of Congo copper production? Or maybe, Offshore oil leases in Argentina, in exchange for three locked-in votes.

  Saul stood up, too. “Our surveillance systems will give us a more accurate world picture within a week. We’ll know better then what has to be done. Why don’t we meet again in five days?”

  The usual handshakes — firm and brisk from Nick Lopez, while Sarah Mander clasped Saul’s hand warmly in both of hers — and they were gone.

  He smiled until they left, then sat and seethed. The witless bastards. A President had to be ambitious, sure, otherwise it would be the worst job in the world. He was certainly no exception. But every President also had an eye on posterity. What would people remember about you, a hundred or two hundred years from now?

  Not, you hoped, that you had waited until the rest of the world was at a low point, then made a cheap power grab. Mander and Lopez were living in the wrong century. What they were proposing was some form of a Pax Americana. There was no way that such an entity could survive for very long, unless you were willing to grind the people of other countries into absolute servitude.

  And probably not even then. It had been tried. You ran the risk of plagues of frogs and locusts and pools of blood, and the loss of your firstborn child.

  Almost always, the moral high road was the right road, even if it was seldom the popular way.

  Saul glanced at the portraits that lined the office wall.

  He divided them into two groups: wrong but romantic, or right but repulsive. Sarah Mander would have told him in an instant the name of the book from which he had stolen the two categories. Nick Lopez might know, but he would deny the knowledge.

  They both had a special interest in politics. How was a President usually remembered by the general public?

  By trivia, some of them false.

  You chopped down a cherry tree. You charged on horseback up a useless piece of real estate called San Juan Hill. You used a wheelchair. You were so fat you got stuck in the White House bathtub. You were as stingy with words as a miser with his gold. You recorded your own crimes — and kept the recordings. You rented bedrooms for one-nighters at the White House. You were shot in a motorcade, and set off the biggest conspiracy theory in history.

  And Saul Steinmetz?

  The first Jewish President, but the hell with that as a claim for immortality. Kennedy was the first Catholic President, Reagan the first divorced President. Who remembered them that way? No one.

  Jewishness was merely an obstacle, a fence that he had already cleared on the way to the White House. What he needed was something as memorable as ending slavery, as important as bringing the nation out of the Depression. Suppose he put the country back on its feet now, and made it stronger and better than it had ever been? That might do it. His recent meeting would not make that job any easier.

  He glanced toward the empty corner of the office where the Persona had once maintained its hologram, then he slid open a drawer of his desk and looked inside. A handsome face with long hair pushed Byronically back from the brow stared straight at him from the old painting. The Presidents on the wall were your predecessors, Saul; but I am your spiritual Papa.

  Benjamin Disraeli had fought every one of Saul’s battles, and won, to become the Prime Minister of the biggest empire the world had ever known. And he had done it in a century where jew was a verb.

  If Disraeli were here, what would he be doing now?

  He would be asking his universal question. What if ?

  What if Saul had given Sarah Mander and Nick Lopez a flat and immediate no?

  They must have come prepared for such an answer. They would have alternate strategies able to neutralize or bypass Saul. For that to be possible, they needed a high-level insider within the White House itself. Preferably someone with detailed information on military strength and disposition.

  The same question was in his head again: What did Sarah Mander and Nick Lopez know about the condition of the country’s military machine that Saul didn’t?

  By definition, he could not answer that. Yet.

  If Presidents had one common weakness, it was the disguised fondness for introspection. Saul roused himself and hit the intercom. When Auden Travis appeared — with his usual speed, and carrying a yellow folder -

  Saul asked, “Are we able to use hidden personnel tracers yet?”

  “No, sir. Security says it may take months. We first need to build a factory to make the microchips.”

  “I was afraid of that. Is General Mackay here today?”

  “I think so, sir. Would you like to see her?”

  “No, I want you to make sure that she receives a piece of information, through as indirect a route as possible. I want her to be told that she is under surveillance.”

  “Yes, sir.” Travis hesitated. “Do you want me to try to arrange for surveillance?”

  “No. I’m not planning that at the moment.”

  “Very well, sir.” Auden Travis, quite reasonably in Saul’s opinion, looked baffled. When it was clear that Saul was going to say no more, Travis proffered the folder. “This is the list of calls, sir, reorganized in a suggested order of priority for action. Cases where the staff could not make a decision are marked with a star.”

  “Fine.” Saul took the yellow folder, but still Auden Travis hesitated. “Is there something else I need to know?”

  “I think so, sir. Thirty-four of the calls were from the same person.”

  “I suppose that’s good. That many less to answer.”

  “Yes, sir. All those calls are from Mrs. Patricia Goldsmith. She said you know her as Tricia.”

  His face asked the question. Auden was a relative newcomer to his White House job, and it proved he knew less about Saul than he imagined. He must have looked for Patricia Goldsmith in Saul’s contact file, and found her identified as a wealthy local resident and prominent socialite.

  Saul opened the folder. “Did you speak with her yourself?”

  “Yes, sir. On her thirty-fourth call. I thought I ought to find out what she wanted. But she refused to tell me any more than she told anyone else.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “That you have been terribly busy with numerous crises. That you are flooded with calls.”

  “What did she say?”

  Auden Travis’s face flushed a bright pink. “Something I prefer not to repeat.”

  “It’s all right. I know how Tricia can be. Remember, quoting someone isn’t the same thing as saying it yourself.”

  “I told her that I would pass on her message, but you were in an important meeting and could not be interrupted. She asked my name, and I gave it to her. She asked me how old I was. I said I didn’t think that was relevant. Then she said that she had heard of me, but if I wanted to go anywhere in this job I must not block access to the President by his old friends. Sir, I don’t do that.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, Auden. Think of it as the habits of the very rich. They are not used to being frustrated.”

  “Yes, sir. I try to treat this sort of thing as part of my job.”

  “It is, but it ought not to be. Don’t worry, I’ll take it from here.”

  As Travis left, Saul examined the ranked list of callers. Eight foreign
heads of state, thirty-three congressional representatives, nine state governors, fourteen heads of government departments, eighteen heads of industry and major party contributors. They all needed to speak with him “urgently and immediately.” And that was just the first page.

  He flipped through the list, sheet after sheet. Everyone was looking to Washington. Judging from the message summaries, every caller had outstretched hands. Nick Lopez and Sarah Mander were right. A country with food and weapons and a working infrastructure had never been so powerful.

  He came to the final page. There they were, Tricia’s calls, right at the end, with her number and his staff’s priority assignment. She had been assigned the lowest level. No one knew why she was calling. Nor, for that matter, did he.

  Automatic call routing had died with Supernova Alpha’s gamma-ray pulse. Saul went to his private line, one that could not be monitored by Auden Travis or anyone else, and entered the sequence by hand. He was half hoping there would be no reply, but it was answered immediately.

  “Hello?” Tricia’s voice was clear and high-pitched, a little faint over the noisy line but easily recognized.

  “Hi.” He felt breathless. “This is Saul.”

  “Saul! Mr. President! It’s been ages.”

  Strictly speaking, that was not true. She and Saul had been at the same reception, just before Christmas. They had eyed each other from across the room. Very slim and taller than Saul even without heels, she stood out above the crowd. Her black hair was as sleek and stylish as ever, setting off a pale, flawless complexion and fine cheekbones. She was not with her new husband, Joseph Goldsmith, but even so she and Saul had kept their distance.

  He said nothing now, and after a few moments she added, “Saul, are you there? How are things?”

  “It’s a mess — a mess all over the country. All over the world. We’ve been hit hard, but we are better off than most.”