Skyfall

10

“Tell him to get his ass up here. Now.”

Bandin slammed the receiver back onto the phone and reached for the cup of coffee. Afternoon in Russia, crack of dawn in Foggy Bottom, and he had had maybe an hour's sleep. He pulled his bathrobe more tightly around him and sipped the coffee. Like ice.

“Lucy!” he shouted, then remembered that the room was soundproofed. He stabbed the intercom button and her voice quavered in. “Yes.”

“Coffee. A goddamn pot of coffee.”

He switched off before she could answer. There were servants who could have brought it, but Lucy in the-morning with the coffee was the habit of a lifetime. He had never asked her if she minded doing it or not, he rarely asked people this kind of question. He just took it for granted. If he was up, Lucy was up, preferably earlier to make sure the coffee was freshly brewed. She brought it in, a pale, ageing Barbie doll. He took the pot without thanks and poured a fresh cup full, then added four spoons of sugar.

“Will there be anything else you want?” she asked in a whisper of a voice. He shook his head and grunted no and wasn't even aware she had gone. The intercom bleeped softly and Charley Dragoni's voice announced Simon Dillwater.

“Send him in.” He sipped the hot coffee and glared at the closed door. Although the room was warm enough he felt chilled with fatigue; he wrapped his bathrobe tighter about his legs.

There was a light tapping on the door then Simon Dillwater let himself in. He was very tall, very thin, very distinguished looking with the wings of white hair above his ears. There was something in his movements that came only after a life of assurance; good family, best prep school, then Harvard — and behind it all far more money than he could possibly spend if he lived to be two hundred. Bandin envied him the ease with which life had treated him, had handed over all the good things on a golden platter. Would Dillwater have been the same man if he, like Bandin, had been the son of a Kansas druggist, had gone to a second-rate Bible-belt college, then dragged himself up through the ranks of the party machine? Dillwater was what he was and, though he never admitted it even to himself, Bandin was envious.

“Dillwater! Just what the hell is all this about?”

“A hold with Prometheus, Mr. President. I thought…”

“I thought you could keep an eye on the shop while I got some sleep? While you were dreaming I was trying to get one word ahead of-that s.o.b., Polyarni.”

“I am sorry about your sleep, Mr. President. I do not imagine any of us on the project have been to bed for days. I would have handled this matter, I assure you, if it had been routine. It is not. Therefore, acting upon your instructions, I notified you at once.”

“All right — so what the hell is it?”

“A major hold. The engineering details…”

“Can wait. How long is it going to be?”

“At least four hours, possibly more.”

“So…?”

“The technical people say that system instabilities will develop after three hours and there is danger of mechanical failures from the cryogenic fuel.”

Bandin took a long noisy slurp of the coffee. “Tell them to stay with it,” he said. “They're bright boys, they can lick any problem, or so they have been telling me for years.”

“Not this one, Mr. President. The danger is too great. They wish to terminate this operation and reschedule…”

“No! Absolute goddamn no! Are they out of their minds? The entire world is watching this thing, and after what we've promised we had better damn well deliver. I have my balls on the line for this and I don't want to see them chopped off. The lobbies and the papers and now the goddamned Congress is talking about the time and cost overruns on Prometheus. We've got to get that bucket of bolts up there and working. I don't care if all they produce is enough electricity to light a hundred-watt bulb. I want it. I need it. We are not canceling. That's final.”

“The danger…”

“None of us is going to live forever. The astronauts knew what kind of a job they were signing up for so I know they'll agree with my decision. And I'll bet you dollars to doughnuts that Polyarni will go along.”

Right on cue the phone buzzed and Bandin picked it up, listened, grunted and slammed it back down.

“I told you. Hot line to Moscow. Stay right there,” he said as Dillwater began to ease towards the door. “I want you to hear this historical decision so it will go on record that our two great nations are in complete agreement at this time.”

He picked up the red telephone and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief at the same time. It no longer felt cold in the room.