Interface

51

The Cozzano campaign was a third-party effort, which meant that it had to fight for every voter and every state. It had gotten off to a relatively late start in July and hadn't really gotten rolling until August; then Cozzano had suffered in the polls for a couple of weeks from his surprising choice of Eleanor Richmond as running mate.

Since then, Cozzano had crushed everything in his path. In city after city he strode up to the microphones, utterly relaxed and con­fident, shrugging off his aides, ignoring the notes and tele-prompters, and spoke. The words poured out of him effortlessly. He wasn't speaking to the journalists; he seemed to be speaking directly to the American people. In his homburg he looked like a figure from the middle of the century, like one of the men who had defeated Hitler and charted the course of empires and alliances. Compared to the sniping, weasely sons of bitches who had been leading America for the last few decades, he seemed like a throw­back to the days when leaders were leaders, when there was such a thing as a great man. He looked as if he would have been right at home at the Yalta Conference, sitting with Roosevelt, Churchill, and Stalin. Whether he was meeting with foreign leaders or tipping a hotel doorman, he conducted himself with surefooted dignity and gentlemanly grace mixed with a kind of earthy, scab-knuckled vigor.

He did not seem to be running for anything at all. He seemed to be going around the country just being himself.

Mary Catherine didn't know a lot about presidential politics, but she knew it was significant when they ended up in Boston for an overnight stay. Massachusetts never went to anyone except Demo­crats; the fact that Cozzano was there meant that it was now up for grabs. It meant that her father was heading for a fifty-state sweep.

They stayed at a magnificent hotel along the waterfront with a huge arch that opened up like a gateway on Boston Harbor. This was, of course, Ogle's choice; the arch made a great backdrop for television appearances, and the proximity to the harbor made it easier to bash the Democrats on environmental issues.

The campaign had rented out a floor of suites. Mary Catherine and William A. Cozzano shared a two-bedroom suite, which was normal. She came straight from the airport and got settled in while her father hit a number of campaign stops, including tours of some high-tech firms in Cambridge.

The Cozzanos traveled with a lot of luggage, which was an easy thing to do when you never had to carry it yourself, and you had your own airplane. Not all of it was clothing. Some of it was equipment that Mary Catherine had bought for use in her father's therapy. Early in the campaign this had been simple stuff, like wads of stiff putty that Cozzano would squeeze in his left hand to develop strength and dexterity. By this point in the campaign, late in September, he was way beyond the putty-squeezing stage. He was now almost completely ambidextrous. In fact, he could sign his name with both hands at the same time. The left-hand signature looked similar to his pre-stroke version, albeit bigger and lazier. The right-hand signature was completely unfamiliar, though she had to admit it looked more presidential.

They had flown into Boston's Logan Airport from a string of campaign appearances in Arizona. Mary Catherine had insisted that since it was going to be a long flight, Dad should write her a letter, and he should do it with his left hand. He had grumbled at this suggestion and tried to find ways to avoid it, but she had insisted, and finally he had buckled down to the job, ejecting all journalists and aides from his private cabin and sitting down with the big fountain pen gripped securely in his left hand and a pad of lined paper on his lap, writing the letters carefully, in block capitals, one at a time like a schoolboy.

She had left him alone to the task. But when she came back an hour later, he was typing on a laptop computer.

"Dad!"

"Peanut," he said, "it was driving me crazy. I thought my head was going to split open."

"But you need to work on your right-hemisphere-"

"Spare me the neurobabble," he said. "Please observe that I am typing. I am typing a letter to you. And I am using both hands."

Now, alone in the hotel, she turned on Dad's laptop and opened up the file named "Letter to MC."

Ddeeaarrest 3Maarryee Ccaattheerine,

3As eyqowuals claentter sle3e my therapy is progressing well. I have you to thank

wfaovres rtahveage gdraedast sbterlifdreese I have made since you signed onto the

tcearmapfaeiegn. wlrtcs whealsl been a constant joy having you with me. As you

hdaavde pfreoabrasbly naovteirceeed Ibad carmew having some involuntary twitches in the

fdiandgers aodfres emwye left hand, but under your super­vision I have no doubt

tgheatt stchriasbble small problem will clear up sooner or later and then I can

tgeoll b3aeclk to my old southpaw ways. I hope that this letter is long

eenroausgeh Ifeotrter me to receive at least a gentleman's C.

Yxoxuxrs affectionately,

ydoaudr Father

She spent a while looking it over. The letter consisted of eleven lines. The first few words of each line were garbled, but she could usually puzzle them out from the context. For example, the word campaign at the beginning of line 4 was spelled tcearmapfaeiegn. It had been contaminated by several extra letters. Mary Catherine opened up a new window on the computer's screen and teased out the extra letters: they spelled terafee.

Terafee didn't mean anything. If you said it fast, it almost sounded like therapy. While Mary Catherine was typing it into the new window, she noticed that all the letters were on the left hand side of the keyboard.

The letter complained of involuntary twitches in the fingers of the left hand. As he was typing, Dad much have noticed his left fingers pounding out a few unwanted letters and been unable to control it.

It was interesting that the twitches only occurred toward the beginning of each line. Mary Catherine went through the letter line by line, teasing out the left-hand letters and leaving behind only the ones that made sense. The letter her father had intended to write went like this:

Dear[est] Mary Catherine

As you can see my therapy is progressing well. I have you to thank for the great strides I have made since you signed on to the campaign. It has been a constant joy having you with me. As you have probably noticed I am having some involuntary twitches in the fingers of my left hand, but under your supervision I have no doubt that this small problem will clear up sooner or later and then I can go back to my old southpaw ways. I hope that this letter is long enough for me to receive at least a gentleman's C.

Yours affectionately,

your Father

The letters that had been typed by the "involuntary twitches" of William A. Cozzano's left hand read as follows:

DEAREST 3AREE CATE

3 EQWAlS 1ETTER 13

WAVES RAVAGE DADS BE1FREE

TERAFEE WRCS WEll

DAD FEARS A VEREE BAD CREW

DAD ADRES EWE

GET SCRABBlE

TEll 3El

ERASE 1ETTER

XXX

DAD

Someone knocked on the door of the suite. Mary Catherine jumped.

It had to be someone in the campaign, or else they would have been stopped by the Secret Service. Unless it was Floyd Wayne Vishniak, of course. But the famous spree killer of Pentagon Plaza would have made a lot more noise.

She went to the door and peered through the peephole. Then she opened it up.

"Hello, Zeldo," she said. "I thought you'd be with Dad."

He rolled his eyes. "Touring high-tech firms," he said, "is not my idea of an interesting time."

"Would you like to come in?"

He seemed uncertain. Maybe a little wistful. "I have to catch a plane," he said. He nodded toward the window of the suite. "Going to take the water taxi over to Logan and fly back to the Left Coast."

"You're done with the campaign, then?"

"For now," he said. "I've been called back. Your dad's been perfect for the last couple of weeks, there's no point in my tagging along anymore... we have other patients to work on in California." Zeldo reached into his satchel and pulled out an unmarked manila envelope, half an inch thick. "I've put together some data that is relevant to your efforts," he said, "and I thought you might like a hard copy."

"Thanks," she said, taking the envelope.

She sensed that something was going on. Something in Zeldo's tone of voice, his careful and vague phrasing, reminded her of the conversation in James's bedroom on the Fourth of July.

"Well, stay in touch," she said.

He seemed inordinately pleased by this offer. "Thank you," he said. "I will. I respect your activities very much and I respect you too. I can hardly say how much," he added, looking significantly over his shoulder. "Tell your dad I'm going to take a few liberal arts courses, as per his suggestion. Good-bye." Then he turned around, slowly and decisively, as if forcing himself to do it, and walked toward the elevators.

The envelope was full of laser printer output. Almost all of it was graphs and charts tracking various new developments in William A Cozzano's brain. There was a cover letter, as follows:

Dear Mary Catherine,

Burn this letter and stir up the ashes when you are finished with it. Your suite has a working fireplace that will be suitable. Let me make a few general statements first.

Politics is shit. Power is shit. Money is shit. I became a scientist because I wanted to study things that weren't shit. I got involved with the Radhakrishnan Institute because I was excited to take part in a project that was at the leading edge of everything, where neurology and electronics and information theory and philosophy all came together.

Then I learned that you can't escape politics and power and money even at the leading edge. I was about to resign when you came back to Tuscola and insisted on being made the campaign physician. This did not make Salvador happy but they had no choice but to let you in.

I knew what you were up to before you even started: you were putting your father through therapies designed to create new pathways in his brain that by-passed the biochips. I volunteered to stay on and follow you and your father on the campaign because I knew that otherwise Salvador would put someone else in my place, and he would eventually figure out your plan, and tip off the bad guys.

For the last three months I have been tracking your work, following developments in your father's brain through the biochip. I have not said anything because I didn't want to tip them off, so I will say it now: you are on the right track. Keep it up. In another four months (Inauguration Day) he should be able to function without the biochip, not perfectly, but good enough.

I have enclosed a schematic for a small device you can solder together using parts from Radio Shack. It will emit noise in the microwave band over small ranges (<100 ft.). This noise will cause your dad's biochips to put themselves in Helen Keller mode. You might find it useful.

Let me know if I can be of further use. I am fond of you and I hope, perhaps fatuously, that one day if we cross paths again you will allow me to take you out to dinner or something.

Pete (Zeldo) Zeldovich

Mary Catherine wandered out on to the suite's balcony. The harbor view was magnificent. Immediately to the north she could see the skyscrapers of downtown Boston's financial district standing out against the brilliant blue sky of the New England autumn. Logan Airport was just a couple of miles away, directly across the harbor, and beyond that she could see the Atlantic stretching away so far that the curvature of the earth was almost visible.

The airport water taxi was just pulling away from the hotel wharf. Zeldo was standing in the back, his Hawaiian shirt blazing among dark business suits. He had his legs planted wide against the rolling of the small boat, and he was looking directly up at her.

She waved to him. He raised his fist over his head in a gesture of solidarity, drawing stares from the men in suits. Then he turned away.

Mary Catherine went back to the suite, burned the letter from Zeldo in the fireplace, and erased the files on her dad's computer.

The schematic for Zeldo's microwave transmitter was buried in the middle of a stack of graphs. He had hand-drawn it in ballpoint pen on a sheet of hotel stationery. It was a network of inscrutable electronic hieroglyphs: zigzags, helices, stacks of parallel lines, each one neatly labeled with Radio Shack part numbers. Mary Catherine folded it up and put it in her wallet.