Mars

WASHINGTON: THE WHITE HOUSE

In bygone years the Map Room had been used by Franklin D. Roosevelt as a situation room where he could follow the course of World War II. Located on the ground floor of the mansion’s central section, it was easy to get to from the Oval Office, even in a wheelchair.

Now the President used the room for his weekly private lunches with the Vice-President, a tradition neither of them cherished.

The first Hispanic to serve as President and the first woman to be Vice-President, the duo had inherited from the previous administration a Mars program that they would have canceled, except that it had gone too far to stop. Instead, they worked to win for themselves the credit for the first human landings on Mars while cutting expenditures for the program back to the bone. As political cynicism goes, theirs was almost trivial.

They made an odd-looking couple. The President was rotund and bald, with a dark moustache and large soft brown eyes. His skin was not so dark as to frighten non-Hispanic voters. On television he looked like a friendly smiling uncle or perhaps the easygoing guy who ran the hardware store. The Vice-President was wiry, ash blonde, and strident. When she raised her voice it took on the urgency of a dentist’s drill.

She was incensed.

“Do you realize how this looks to the media?” she asked, waving a gold salad fork in the air.

The President glanced past her irate face to the portrait of Franklin Pierce hanging against the cream-colored far wall. The least-remembered of all the men who had lived in the White House. The President cherished Pierce’s portrait: it served as a reminder and a spur. At least I can do better than he did.

“You’re not even listening to me!”

The President returned his attention to his veep. She had never entirely outgrown her origins as a public schoolteacher in New Jersey. She was quick to anger, slow to forgive.

“I understand the situation,” he said softly. “All sorts of people have been hounding me about this Native American business, too.”

“Well, what are we going to do about it? If we let the media have that videotape interview he’ll look like a goddammed saint. If we refuse to release it to the media we’ll look like bastards.”

The President winced at her choice of words. He was essentially a gentle man. He felt relaxed among the luxurious burgundy draperies and lustrous Chippendale furnishings of the Map Room. Even the huge Persian carpet soothed him with its glowing colors and intricate geometric designs.

“I saw the video,” he answered. “The young man simply said he wasn’t involved in politics. I don’t see how that can hurt us.”

“He’s become a hero to the Indians,” the Vice-President snapped. “And if we release that tape he’ll become a hero to every minority group in the nation.”

“But those are our own people…”

“Yes! Right! Our people. But if we let the media turn him into a hero, how long do you think it’ll take Masterson and those other bastards to turn him into a front man for their own organization?”

The President shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Sure! You’re retiring after next year. I’ve got to face all the primaries. It’s tough enough being a woman without having to deal with a Native American who’s been to Mars!”

“But he’s not interested in politics,” said the President.

“Then why did he start that Indian crap?” The Vice-President was fuming, her lunch lying before her untouched. “He’ll be getting back from Mars just in time for the first primaries. I don’t want him being used against me!”

The President, who understood something of politics, thought swiftly. “Suppose he becomes one of your supporters?”

She shook her head doggedly. “Masterson’s in tight with the high-tech crowd. He’ll grab this redskin before we can; you know that. Remember, I was the one who got the Space Council to vote against funding for further Mars missions until we get the results back from this one! Masterson will crucify me for that! And this Indian will help him. He’s already helping him!”

Pushing his chair back slightly, the President gazed around the room for support. None of the portraits offered a bit of help, not even the one of FDR in his Navy cape.

“Well, what can we do about it?” he asked.

“Muzzle him,” the Vice-President replied immediately. “Get him off the team on the ground there on Mars and put him up in one of the orbiting ships. That way he’ll be ignored by the media. They’re only interested in what’s going on, on the ground.”

“But won’t people think that we’re hurting this scientist for political reasons?”

“We can find a reason to get him off the ground team. Not right away, of course. In a week or two. That will be plenty of time. The media might squawk, but I’d rather have them squawking now than a year from now when he gets back here.”

“Do you think we can get away with that?”

“A year from now he’ll be forgotten. Nobody’s got an attention span that long.”

The President smiled gently. “You do.”

His Vice-President grimaced back at him. “In our business you need a long memory. And claws.”

“And the video?”

“Tell the media he refused to be interviewed. Make him look like a stuck-up scientific type instead of a noble Indian trying to call attention to his people’s plight.”

The President nodded slowly. It might work. And this power-hungry woman sitting across from him might just make herself the first female President of the United States. She had the fire in her gut for it. And the claws.