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45

Eleanor went straight to her hotel room after the debate, talked to her kids in Alexandria, watched some TV, went to bed, and slept until ten Friday morning. When she opened her eyes, she knew without looking at the clock that she had lost control of herself and overslept massively. The red light on her phone was flashing like a police car, the blackout curtains on her hotel room windows were limned with the hot, hysterical white light of midday. She felt wizened and dehydrated and headachy.

She opened her curtains about six inches, letting a slab of arid light into the room, ordered some room service (yogurt, a large infusion of juice, and lots of coffee), and took a shower. The yogurt arrived with a stack of message slips from various journalists, most of whom had deadlines that had already expired. She was still sitting on her bed in her hotel bathrobe, trying to get the coffee into her system as fast as possible, sorting these messages into stacks, when someone knocked at her door. Shave and a haircut, two bits.

It was her girlfriend Mary Catherine Cozzano, turned out in a smashingly professional navy blue ensemble. Mary Catherine was doing some major grinning, showing some serious dimple action this morning.

"I'm not worthy," Eleanor said, placing one hand to the breast of her white terrycloth bathrobe.

"My daughter costume," Mary Catherine explained.

"Well, I knew I overslept," Eleanor said, ushering her into the room, "but looking at you I feel like I am way behind the curve."

"You don't know how right you are," Mary Catherine said provocatively. She groped for the curtain pull and yanked it decisively, flooding the room with light. Then she turned around and sat down on the unmade bed, facing Eleanor, who was squinting between her fingers.

"You have this look on your face like you are in possession of important state secrets that you can't wait to blab," Eleanor said. "So let me assure you that I have a Top-Secret Alpha clearance. Coffee?"

"No thanks," Mary Catherine said. "I had breakfast four hours ago."

Eleanor laughed and pretended to be ashamed of herself. "In Alexandria my neighbor's dog starts barking at five a.m. sharp," she said, "so I never get the opportunity to sleep in."

"Well," Mary Catherine said, "I think you'll find that the accommodations are much quieter on the grounds of the Naval Observatory."

"Naval Observatory?"

"Yeah," Mary Catherine said innocently.

The Naval Observatory was a circular patch of land along Massachusetts Avenue, northwest of downtown D.C., in a part of town that Eleanor had rarely visited while growing up there. Its function was to provide very nice housing to a few important Navy types who needed quick access to the White House. And it contained the official residence of the Vice President of the United States.

She inhaled sharply and looked at Mary Catherine's face. Mary Catherine was sucking in her cheeks, trying not to break out laughing.

"I'm going to be made an admiral?" Eleanor said.

Mary Catherine shook her head.

The idea was too stunning. Eleanor couldn't speak. It couldn't be.

If Cozzano were a fringe candidate, she'd understand it. A purely symbolic candidacy, like the Libertarians or the Socialists, might pick someone like her as a running mate. But Cozzano was no fringe candidate.

Hell, Cozzano was the leader. All the polls had him out in front. It was impossible.

"You're playing with me, girl," Eleanor said.

Mary Catherine just shook her head. She put one hand over her mouth, trying to contain herself.

That one gesture finally brought it home to Eleanor. This wasn't just some nice young lady she had made friends with at a convention, after all. This was the daughter of the candidate himself. And the way she was dressed-

"You came here to do some serious business," Eleanor said.

Mary Catherine nodded.

"You came here to NOTIFY ME!" Eleanor said, and finally she couldn't hold back any longer; she slid forward out of her chair, on to her knees, put both hands over her face, and started screaming. Mary Catherine, laughing hysterically, wrapped Eleanor up in her arms and held her tight.

In some deep, remote part of her soul, Eleanor knew that she was acting just like the winning contestants on the game shows that she used to watch when she was unemployed. But she didn't care. Come to think of it, it wasn't a bad analogy. She had gone on the biggest quiz show of all time and won the penultimate prize.

The results were so odd and yet so important that Cyrus Rutherford Ogle ran one more test, shortly before the announce­ment. They were starting off the broadcast with a round-table discussion among the four metapundits whom Ogle had hand-picked from Central Casting.

One of them was a gruff, grandfatherly old man who projected traditional American family values. He had made a comfortable living playing a cowboy patriarch in various Westerns and an admiral on Star Trek: The Next Generation. Another was a tweedy academic (lab-coat wearing pseudoscientist on a couple of drug commercials). Then there was a middle-aged, professional-looking young women whose role was to puncture the egos of the two men (occasional lawyer on L.A. Law). Finally, they had a stylish, younger black woman with a Hispanic surname and generically progressive politics (roommate/best friend to better-known actresses in various films). All four of the metapundits would gather every evening and engage in a spirited discussion of political issues that had come up during the day's events at the National Town Meeting. All four of them had, at one time, worked in soap operas and had the ability to memorize dialogue rapidly, which came in handy since Ogle and his staff scripted the discussions.

During tonight's discussion, the tweedy academic metapundit delivered a bombshell several minutes into the program by announcing that he had spoken with a high-level Cozzano operative minutes before the program and that this person had confirmed that Eleanor Richmond would be the vice-presidential candidate.

Cy Ogle was ensconced in the Eye of Cy at the moment his line was delivered, and the results were intense and striking. There were a few discrepancies between the new information and last night's debate results, but they were not big discrepancies. Richmond had a hard core of support that would never change. There was also a smaller but strong anti-Richmond segment, led by Byron Jeffcote (Trailer-Park Nazi, Ocala, Florida) and by a few others like the Post-Confederate Gravy Eater and the Orange County Book Burner.

But reaction among more moderately conservative whites was not half-bad. And the big surprise was still there: Chase Merriam loved Eleanor Richmond. Cy Ogle picked up the phone and got his press secretary.

"Go ahead and announce it," he said. "The demographics are perfect."

"Richmond?" the secretary said, still a little uncertain about this whole idea.

"Eleanor Richmond," Ogle said.

On the other end of the line, he heard keys whacking on a computer keyboard. The press release was now being transmitted digitally to the wire services, computer-faxed to every press outlet in the Western world. Cozzano's state and local campaign managers, in all fifty states, were receiving information packets on Eleanor Richmond - pictures, videotapes, and canned sound bites for them to toss off to the local media. It all happened in an instant.

"It's done," his press secretary said.

"Good" Ogle said. "White House, here we come. I gotta go," he concluded. "I have a call on another line."

It wasn't just any old phone line. This was a special line that Ogle had agreed to keep open. The only person who had this phone number was Buckminster Salvador. Cy Ogle's boss. Rarely heard from, rarely seen, but always there.

"Ogle," Ogle said.

"Hold everything!" said the voice of Mr. Salvador, which was barely recognizable; his throat was tense to the point of strangula­tion. "Don't move! Don't push any buttons or make any phone calls or let anyone do anything!"

"I am alone. Alone and powerless," Ogle said. "You have my undivided attention."

"Thank god I reached you in time," Salvador said. "I knew there was something wrong with that whole Eleanor Richmond thing."

"What do you mean?"

Salvador spent most of his time hanging out in ODR's fake headquarters in the office tower above Pentagon Plaza, so that he could monitor all of the PIPER 100 data at the same time as Ogle did. And he did so constantly, as Ogle had learned; scarcely a single campaign event went by that Bucky Salvador didn't phone him up right in the middle of it and provide his own commentary on how the PIPER 100 were reacting. He fancied himself something of an expert. And, dilettante that he was, he completely failed to grasp the mediagenic advantages of Eleanor Richmond.

"Chase Merriam called me just a few minutes ago. He just got out of the hospital."

Ogle laughed. "Haw, haw, haw," he said, "don't tell me. He had an operation. He was on laughing gas or something during the debate."

"Worse than that. He was in a car crash. Wednesday night. Some hoodlum stole his watch. We have no idea who's wearing that thing!"

"A late-middle-aged black female homeless person with good education and traditionalist values," Ogle said.

Salvador was caught off guard. "Oh. You've found the watch, then?"

"Nope," Ogle said, "just an educated guess."

"Well," Salvador said. "Well."

"Well what?"

"This changes everything!" Salvador said, shocked by Ogle's seeming indifference. "The statistics are completely fouled up!"

"If all the PIPER 100 got together and traded watches, that would foul up the statistics," Ogle said. "One person doesn't foul them up too bad."

Deep in his heart, Ogle knew Salvador had a point. But he didn't want to agree with him. He did not really get along with Salvador very well.

"That's ridiculous!" Salvador said. "You told me yourself last night that the single strongest thing in Richmond's favor was the fact that Chase Merriam loved her. You said it was a key factor in making your decision."

"Hey," Ogle said, "try to keep this in perspective. We're talking about the goddamn vice presidency here. It just doesn't matter."

"So you admit that Richmond is the wrong choice. Salvador said triumphantly.

"From here on out, she's the right choice. She's a brilliant choice. A daring, incisive, masterstroke of leadership on Cozzano's part," Ogle said, "because she's a choice we already made."

"Not true," Salvador said, "the formal announcement doesn't happen for another hour."

"The formal announcement doesn't mean diddly," Ogle said. "We already unleashed the cascade. Stories have already been filed. Hell," Ogle said, grabbing a remote control and clicking channels on a nearby TV monitor, "I got Koppel on screen right now with a picture of Eleanor Richmond over his shoulder. And when Eleanor's peering over Ted Koppel's shoulder on national TV, and Koppel's got that smirky know-it-all look on his face, it's just too goddamn late."

"Good lord." Salvador sighed, sounding quiet and defeated.

"When I got into this thing, I never realized how complicated it was going to be."

"Cheer up," Ogle said, turning his attention back toward the Eye of Cy. "Look at the screens. I am seeing a generally green color this evening. The electorate is mellow and satisfied. If Richmond turns out to be a wrong choice, we'll just send her to kiss babies in Guam."

"I see a case of measles," Salvador said. "I see a lot of red screens. Look at Economic Roadkill! Economic Roadkill is a key bloc. And tonight, Economic Roadkill is frightened."

Ogle looked at the screen labeled FLOYD WAYNE VISHNIAK. As Salvador had pointed out, it was bright red. "It's nothing," Ogle said. "He does that all the time. He's in another bar fight."

Suddenly, Vishniak's screen turned bright green. Ogle and Salvador both laughed. "Ha ha!" Salvador said, I'll wager his opponent is out cold on a barroom floor in Davenport, Iowa!"