Starfire

13

Nick Lopez was waiting for Celine when Suborbital One touched down at the New Rio port. As they taxied in she saw him waiting on the tarmac. His broad, simple face and warm, welcoming smile made her think, not for the first time, I’m the President, but he’s the politician.

How could you dislike somebody so cheerful and so positive? How could you resist that sunny smile? When you were with him, you couldn’t. Only when you went away and read the thirty-year catalog of suspicions and rumors and unsuccessful charges against him did the doubts come back.

“Good flight, Madam President?” He engulfed her hand in his warm brown paw as she reached the bottom of the glide stair, and grinned down at her from his thirty-centimeter height advantage.

Celine shrugged. The plane had squeaked in under the nose of a July storm racing in from the northwest, and during the final approach a bout of turbulence had been too much for the stabilizers. “You know what they say — if you can walk away from a landing, it was a good flight. Actually, I’ve known better. But we had to do our final approach from the south because of the weather. And I wondered, are those new beaches that I saw?”

“Under construction.” Nick fell into step beside her. “New beaches, but with the old names. Copacabana, Ipanema, Leblon, Gavea. Don’t you just love them, the dreams from the past? Though of course, I don’t plan to visit the new beaches; they’re for the younger generation.”

Celine was not so sure. Nick’s file was a thick one. Long before the supernova, U.S. Senator Nick Lopez had been a frequent visitor to the Rio de Janeiro beaches. He had not been above bringing his young male pickups back to Washington and showing them off around the halls of Congress. Now he wore his trademark hairstyle, a shaped high pompadour, deliberately gray, but he was in excellent physical shape. It would be no surprise if he still followed his old habits. It was Nick, after all, who had decided that the main headquarters for the World Protection Federation would be in New Rio.

Still, no one could argue with his logic. New Rio had space available, and lots of it. The old line “And I alone lived on to tell the tale” applied literally to Joachim Salazar, an inhabitant of the old city of Rio de Janeiro. After the supernova, rain had fallen continuously and torrentially in the Serra dos Orgaos, the mountains to the west of Rio; rain from March 2 to September 5, one hundred and eighty-eight days and nights. At the end of that time the city was gone. The great bridge across the harbor had been riven from its supports and lay on the bed of Guanabara Bay. The airport on Ilha do Governador had disappeared, along with the island itself. The famous beaches south of Rio, Copacabana and Ipanema and the others, had vanished.

So had Rio’s seven million residents. The post-supernova surveys found no trace of them. Only Joachim Salazar survived. Huddled inside an inverted mobile home, he had washed out to sea on a vast slurry of mud and water surging into the Atlantic between Sugarloaf Mountain and the Parrot’s Beak promontory. He had floated in the open ocean for thirty-nine days and been picked up, dehydrated and demented, six hundred miles out to sea. Salazar’s memories, such as they were, provided the only record of the last days of Rio.

Guanabara Bay, the splendid natural harbor north of Rio, remained in altered form after the floodwaters receded. Where better, then, to make a fresh start and build the wonderful New Rio, a fitting headquarters for the World Protection Federation?

That had been Nick Lopez’s argument. Celine had not been deeply into politics at the time, but she could not remember any opposition to Nick’s idea. Only recently had she come to realize that Lopez was, for all practical purposes, the final authority on everything that happened in New Rio.

“What’s the population now?” It seemed to Celine that there were fewer people around than she remembered on her last trip.

“About one hundred thousand.” They had reached the limo, and Nick opened the door for her. “The road northwest is finished, and the interior is once more accessible. Lots of space to fill.”

That was an understatement. Celine had seen the satellite maps, old and new. Brasilia was gone; Manaos was gone. Eight million square kilometers of Brazil’s heartland lay empty.

“The inland region is a big draw for young people,” Nick went on. “I don’t mind that at all. New Rio is close to the right size.”

The right size? Celine thought. He means the controllable size. I bet no one realized at the beginning that this was going to become Nick Lopez’s private domain.

Sometimes, struggling to serve a hundred and fifty million people in fifty-three states scattered over ten million square kilometers, Celine wondered if Nick Lopez didn’t have the better idea. Find a place small enough, and manage it completely. The United States — even with its population halved by Alpha C and with an infrastructure far less than fifty percent of what it had once been — often felt unmanageable. It was an act of faith that said progress was possible, that the country could be united to rise to and surpass its past; that there would one day be another Mars expedition, a strong program in basic science, a confident populace, and faith in the future.

As the limousine rolled along the splendid avenue that led to central New Rio and the WPF headquarters, Nick Lopez noticed Celine’s subdued manner. He pointed to the chauffeur beyond the sliding glass panel and said, “We tried an AVC system for a few years. But a human can do things that Automatic Vehicle Control will never do. Did you ever ask an AVC to bring you a beer and a sandwich?”

Celine came back to the present and inspected the silent chauffeur. “No, but it could be done. Why not add a rolfe to the car? That would be smart enough.” Nick nodded, but Celine doubted if beer was the issue. A rolfe kept a complete log of when and where it went. So did the AVC. Unlike a human driver, they could not be paid to “forget” a midnight trip or a destination.

“Is he listening?” she asked.

Lopez shook his head. “He doesn’t speak English. And in any case, you don’t need to worry. He’s my man. We can talk. Just how bad is the problem?”

Ten years ago Celine would have been shocked by the question. Now she wondered if it was possible to keep anything secret, ever, in Washington. She stared north, to where a dense black thundercloud hovered over the bay. Already it was raining there. “How much do you know, Nick?”

“Rumors only. Word that shit will hit the fan sooner than we thought.”

“That’s all?”

“All I know. Of course, I can make guesses. When you ask for a meeting and become annoyed when my staff can’t find me, it’s a marker. When you tell me you’ll fly down to New Rio for that meeting, that’s another marker.”

“You said you were willing to come to Washington.”

“I did and I was. But I also said that I couldn’t make the trip for three days. When you ignore that and fly here, it means you have something that can’t wait so long. That’s when I begin to worry.”

“Join the club.”

They had reached the WPF building, a tall pyramid of white limestone and glass standing out against the dark sky. Celine wondered how they would get inside without getting soaked. Rain lashed the avenue in front of them, and the building was at least fifty meters from the road. To the north, jagged spears of lightning flashed down in concert, a multilegged angular monster stalking across the bay. The storm would intensify before it blew away to the east.

Well, this year it seemed to be always raining. And there were worse places than a limousine for a private conversation. It could be bugged, but the only person likely to listen to the record was Nick Lopez himself. A bigger worry was whether the other plane, leaving Norfolk at almost the same time as Celine had left Washington, would be able to fly in and land. She ought to have checked that before she left Suborbital One.

Nick was waiting patiently. As he had implied, this was her move. “I didn’t know you when you were a Senator,” she began.

“Not quite true.” His voice and relaxed manner took away any suggestion of criticism or correction. “I was a Senator when you captured the Eye of God and brought her to Washington. I also stood in line and shook your hand as one of the survivors of the first Mars expedition.”

First and only expedition, Celine thought. Earth has other priorities at the moment. But you have to keep the faith. We’ll survive the particle storm, and someday we’ll go back to Mars.

She said, “Happy days. You know, when I was on the Mars expedition, we used to tell each other that it was really important to build a permanent base there, so that if something happened to Earth, the human species wouldn’t become extinct. It never occurred to any of us that something might be so widespread that it could wipe out life on both planets.”

“Me neither. While you were on the Mars expedition, I didn’t give a second’s thought to issues like that. If all politics is local, then I was all politics.”

“I didn’t work with you when you were in the Senate. I’ve talked to people who know you, though, and I’ve checked your reputation.”

“Ah. Now it’s coming. The old scuttlebutt.” Lopez reached forward to pull out the service module in front of the seat, and waved his hand at the array of choices. “Something for you?”

Celine declined with a shake of her head. “Nick, I’m not talking about what you do with your private time. If you screw, who you screw, when you screw, that’s none of my business.”

“Madam President, you disappoint me.”

Was he deliberately trying to distract? Even after years in politics, Celine still had doubts about her own ability to read a situation. She said, “I’m talking about your professional reputation.”

Nick nodded. He said nothing more, but sat watching her with an intent expression. He had taken a bottle of Calvados and poured an ounce or two into a snifter. Now instead of drinking the apple brandy he held the balloon glass under his nose. The thunderclouds were directly overhead; there was a darkness like nightfall, and continuous thunder rolled around the limousine. Reflected lightning flickered pale on Nick’s face.

“What I heard wasn’t all good,” Celine said. “You made enemies when you were in the Senate. I found people who said you couldn’t be trusted with anything, large or small. I met people who said you always looked out for yourself, first and last. I found someone who would have stuck a knife in you if they could have got away with it.”

“If you’d looked harder, you’d have found more than one.” Still Lopez only sniffed at the brandy. “And yet you flew here?”

Celine nodded. She was oddly reluctant to get to the point. “You told me once that you learned a lot from President Steinmetz.”

“A great deal. I sometimes think I was frightened of Saul Steinmetz. No insult, Madam President, but he was the master of us all.”

“I agree completely. He told me something many years ago, when he first suggested that I ought to enter politics. You’ve got the fame already, he said, and that’s half the battle. Leader of the survivors of the Mars expedition, no one has to ask who you are. You ought to take advantage of it. President Eisenhower had it, Saul said, and damn little else except a famous bald head, and he rode it all the way to victory and a two-term presidency. You can probably win the election already, but if you’re to stay the course you need something more. You have to be able to work with your enemies as well as your friends. You have to be able to work with anyone.”

“Ah.” The dark heart of the storm hovered overhead, lightning-free. Nick Lopez had become a dark bulk with an invisible face. Celine could see him slowly nodding. Rain rattled on the roof and half obliterated his words.

“That’s the authentic Steinmetz. He said the same to me when I took over the World Protection Federation. For some reason he thought I was prejudiced against foreigners.”

“And you’re not?”

She saw his teeth flash in the gloom. “Only Koreans. I hate those fuckers — but don’t quote me. Madam President, are you saying we have to work together? If so, I thought we already were.”

“I won’t quote you. I’m going to quote President Steinmetz instead. He said that Nick Lopez pretends to be straightforward and simple, but he has the most complex mind in the U.S. Senate. He never works with a single agenda.”

“That used to be true, but my Senate years were a long time ago. I don’t know if that’s the case anymore. I’m getting old, Celine. At my age people worry about their monuments, how they’ll be remembered.”

“Nick, if you don’t mind my saying so, that is one hundred percent pure bullshit.”

He laughed so hard that the car shook. Then he was silent for a long time. The rain was ending, and when at last he spoke his quiet words were hardly audible against the background grumble of departing thunder. “I have no children of my own, Celine. That makes my personal survival very important to me, because I’m the last of the line. I hate the idea of leaving this old world, and I take precautions to minimize my own chances of dying. But I also love the planet, and even when I’m gone I don’t want anything bad to happen to it. If I’m still around when the particle storm has passed, I hope Earth won’t have changed too much. I want it to be a place I will recognize and can enjoy. Things and people I know, familiar sights and sounds and smells, not some alien landscape. If that’s multiple-agenda, then I’m multiple-agenda.”

“If you want the Earth that you know, Nick, you have to listen to the scientists I’m bringing in. You have to understand what they say, and see if you agree with me that it is correct and important.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re smart — everyone agrees on that, even your enemies.”

“You want me to listen and give you a second opinion?”

“No. I’ve had a second opinion, and a third. My senior Cabinet members were all briefed, and they didn’t buy what they heard. I want some assurance that I’m not off my head.”

“Celine, I’m no scientist.”

“You are more than you pretend to be. You cultivate a simple public image, but it’s bogus. You speak several languages, and you quote romantic poetry in all of them — but only when you think no one is there to record your words.”

“Now you’ve been listening to Auden Travis. Never have an affair with the Vice President. Of course, he wasn’t VP at the time. He was just an aide.” Lopez sighed and shook his head. “What a beauty he was, back when I first met him. That curling brown hair, the sensitive mouth, that lovely straight Greek nose. And eyes to die for.”

“Auden says nice things about you, too.” Celine knew that a second conversation was going on below the surface. She and Nick Lopez were feeling each other out, testing the chemistry. His presence was oddly relaxing. You had to remind yourself constantly that Lopez had a dark side to him. She went on, “The Vice President also confirmed my other impression of you. Publicly you claim suspicion of technology, but actually you respect science and scientists.”

“Let’s say I believe, generally speaking, that scientists know what they don’t know better than most people. But they’re often wrong in what they do know. Or think they do.”

The rain had stopped. The storm was speeding away to the east, and the soaked walkway leading from the car to the white pyramid reflected prismatic colors. Celine glanced back toward the airport. No planes seemed to be taking off or landing.

“Wilmer Oldfield is a scientist, and a good one,” she said.

“I believe you.” Nick was opening the door of the limousine. He had drunk not a single drop of the Calvados, and placed the glass on a shelf in front of the seats. “But I don’t know him.”

“You do, from a long time ago. Wilmer was with me on the Mars expedition.”

“Hm.” Lopez frowned. “Mars expedition.”

“Nick, we’re alone. You don’t have to act dumb for me; I know you remember.”

“Ah.” The head shaking changed to a nod. “Big, balding, sort of sloppy-looking? Sure.”

“What did you think of him?”

The analytical flash in the brown eyes came and went like the departed lightning. “He struck me as lucky in his choice of work. That much uncompromising concentration and focus is dangerous. If he’d picked religion as his business, by now he’d be a saint or a martyr. What became of him?”

“He’s here. At least I hope he’s here. I want you to listen to what he has to say. I need help on this more than I want to admit.” Celine glanced again toward the airport. “Assuming his flight made it on time. It was supposed to land right behind us. But we sneaked in just under the storm.”

“You should have said so. I can easily check.” Lopez left the car door open and queried the telcom set on the arm of his seat. After a few seconds he nodded. “They had a twenty-five-minute hold at the airport because of the storm, but now planes are landing again. I’ll make sure your friend is brought to us at once. We can go inside and wait.” He climbed out of the car, then turned back to Celine as she followed. “What makes you so sure that I’ll be willing to listen?”

“You do. You say you love this world, and you don’t want anything to kill it.”

They set off side by side along the paved rainbow walkway. After a few seconds Lopez gave Celine a wry sideways glance. “I also said I’d hate to leave the world. And you were the one accusing me of multiple agendas.”

The ground floor of the building that they entered seemed even bigger from the inside. It was one huge, open plaza, with a floor of intricate marble mosaics and an inner atrium that became suddenly sunlit as they walked in. Curved escalators, of a design unknown to Celine, wound their sinuous way to higher floors. Nick Lopez nodded at the uniformed men and women who stood around without apparent function on the plaza floor and bowed as he passed. He ushered Celine onto one of the gleaming metal escalators, stood close behind her, and said softly, “I’m not keen on pomp and ritual, but it’s expected for someone in my position. I blame it on the South American tradition. Come down here sometime for Carnaval.”

Celine wondered: If you were the boss, couldn’t you control the amount of bowing and scraping? Then she reflected. She had not been able to stop people fawning and groveling, or installing extra features in her office that she neither needed nor wanted. Why should Nick Lopez be able to do any better?

The office that they came to on the third floor at first suggested that Nick was no different. His name and title were embossed in gold on the outer door. The room beyond was vast and sumptuously furnished. Its floor was covered with a deep-piled Persian rug, and every wall held paintings that looked both genuine and old.

Farther on, however, deep in the interior of the suite, they entered Nick’s private office. There was no name on the door. The furniture was simple, almost spartan, with one terminal, one desk, and two chairs. The four walls held one picture each, three of them watercolors and one a black-and-white photograph. On the desk sat one telcom, with a red, single-purpose handset with no video unit next to it. The set was beeping as Nick ushered Celine into the room.

“Damnation.” Nick walked across and picked up the handset. “I told my people to hold all calls, but this one bypasses the general circuits and comes straight to my office. Excuse me for a moment.”

He spoke into the unit. “Yes? . . . Yes, it’s just the way I told you it would be. It rings only here, in my private office. If I’m not here, no one else will answer. And it makes no recording.”

He paused for a few seconds, then said, “Well, that’s true, if you call and I’m not here, you’ll have no way to get a message to me. But that’s the way we agreed to do it. I hope it’s the same at your end. I don’t want to be making broadcasts when I talk to you. Are you underground or at your other place?”

Lopez shot Celine a quick glance as he spoke the final sentence. She walked across to the wall and made a big show of studying one of the watercolors. She was no artist, but she had seen the picture somewhere before. It was famous — and this looked very like the original.

She moved to the wall on her left and examined the black-and-white picture. The man in it was familiar, though this shot seemed different from any photograph that she had ever seen. Was this maybe Lopez’s brother? The man was young, very tall, big-nosed, grinning, and wearing a Stetson hat.

Behind her, Nick Lopez was saying, “I’ll call you back, and we’ll make sure this is two-way. But I can’t do it now — I have visitors.” He winked at Celine as she turned around, and spoke again into the set. “Well, as a matter of fact, it’s one visitor, if you know what I mean. So this isn’t a good time for you and me to talk . . . Sure. We can do that. Later.”

He dropped the handset back into its cradle. “There. That’s how a man’s reputation gets ruined. Take my advice, Celine, and never put in a scrambled private line.”

“I never will. I don’t believe there is any such thing as an unbreakable ciphered message.”

“I’m inclined to agree. But an associate insisted on a direct line between us, person to person. So now we have one.” Lopez nodded to the photograph on the wall behind Celine. “I saw you studying him. You know who he is, don’t you?”

“I think so, but he looks so young. It’s Lyndon Baines Johnson, isn’t it? President Johnson.”

“No. It’s LBJ all right, but that’s Senator Johnson, before he became President. The person you are looking at was a much greater and wiser man than President Johnson.”

“I didn’t know you were an admirer of LBJ.” Celine was genuinely astonished. Nick Lopez was not the person to have pictures of personal idols on the office wall.

“I’m not his admirer.” Nick came to stand beside her and studied the picture. “He’s there to remind me of something important. LBJ knew how to run the U.S. Senate better than anybody, ever. He could squeeze and coax and reward and punish, and he got just about anything he wanted. Then he became President, and he was a disaster. His ego was too big. He wouldn’t admit when he was wrong. He got stuck in a war that he couldn’t control, and now people look back on him as one of the worst U.S. Presidents. I keep him there because I believe that you can learn more from failure than you can from success. LBJ sent my grandfather off to war, and killed him. So I hate the son of a bitch. But I also know that he was once a great, great Senator. Past success doesn’t guarantee future success, and you can do one thing very well and another very badly.” Lopez stared at Celine, who was smiling. “Which part do you think is funny?”

“None of it. I smile because I’m like you. I keep a holo display just for me in the corner of the Oval Office.”

“The way that Saul Steinmetz had one of Disraeli? But I’ve never seen yours.”

“You never will. I only turn it on when I’m alone, and I don’t show it to anyone. I daren’t. Want to make a guess as to who it is?”

“Well, with those rules it can’t be Saul, though I know he’s your hero.” Nick puffed out his cheeks and frowned in thought. “I’ll skip the obvious guesses, because you wouldn’t hide any of the Presidents. I’ll bite. Who?”

“I have a hologram of Adolf Hitler.”

“Hitler! Why not Pontius Pilate? That’s heavy stuff.” Lopez wandered over to the desk and sat at the chair behind it. He placed his elbows on the uncluttered top and cupped his chin in his hands. “Not my guess as to your first choice — or your second, third, or fiftieth.”

“Want to know why he’s there?”

“No. Not yet. Let me think. Isn’t that what you want me to do?” He sat silent, staring straight ahead. Celine caught a glimpse of another Nick Lopez, a man as concentrated and tightly focused as Wilmer Oldfield.

“Obviously it’s not because you admire him,” he said after a few seconds. The telcom unit on the desk was beeping again, but he ignored it. “And my picture of Lyndon Johnson must have something to do with it. He’s there to remind you that you must never forget something. But what? All right. I give up.”

“It’s not as direct a reminder as yours. Hitler’s my symbol for the analogy between today and the state of the world a hundred and twenty years ago. In the 1920s, everyone knew that they had been through a terrible disaster. The world war had been frightful, but they had survived and it was over and everything was peaceful. The ’war to end wars,’ they called it, and it seemed part of the past. Only a few people recognized that there was trouble ahead. Hitler was ahead, just a few years away. But most people took no notice of the danger signals. They didn’t prepare for trouble until it was too late.”

Lopez had walked across to stand by the desk. He had his hand poised over the telcom unit, but he did not touch it. He said, “The supernova was our First World War. We survived it. Now we’re between disasters, but most people don’t understand how much trouble we’re in. Half of them don’t even believe in the particle storm. We have the equivalent of a Second World War in our future. Right?”

“We do. We have to learn from history.”

” ’Ancestral voices prophesying war.’ ” Lopez nodded and pressed the telcom switch. “Yes?”

“The other visitors from the United States are here.”

“Bring them in.” Lopez raised an eyebrow at Celine. “Visitors? More than one?”

“I don’t know.” Celine stared blankly at Lopez, then toward the half-open door. “It should just be Wilmer. Unless — he’d better not, I told him—”

She was speechless. The open doorway was empty no longer. A black hand had appeared around the edge of the door. It was followed a moment later by a black, grinning face.

Celine realized again what she had first learned thirty-odd years ago: What you told Wilmer to do and what Wilmer did were not always the same.