Aftermath (43 page)

"Dana Berlitz."

Art leaned across. "Art Ferrand."

"Were you going back to Washington anyway?"

"North of there," Dana said, and Art was glad she was not more specific.

"Well, then this trip won't be totally wasted for you. And you will be doing a valuable service."

"I don't know about that," Dana said, while Art wished she would just shut up so the woman would go away. "It's my impression that Washington wouldn't recognize a service if it fell on them. The sooner I'm out of there, the better."

"You've had bad experiences?"

"More like
no
experiences. Even before the supernova, I could never get anywhere with the government. What it's like today I can't even imagine. It's always an endless trail of forwarded messages and useless holograms. I can never tell if it's the people who are halfwits or the smart programs derived from them. We'll get there this time, and either have to talk to a machine or some dim gas cloud of a bureaucrat."

Art caught on to what Dana was doing. People who are in trouble rarely cause more trouble; they want to draw as little attention to themselves as possible, so they keep quiet and don't complain. Dana's aggrieved air was very persuasive.

The woman smiled for the first time. It lit up her face and made her even more attractive.

"I'm sorry you've had such rotten experiences in the past, and have such a low view of government services. But tomorrow, I really think you'll have the ear of someone who can get things done."

She walked away to a seat closer to the front of the converted bus.

"And you thought she was gorgeous
before
she smiled," Dana said. "Tomorrow, eh? I guess we're stuck with a night in Washington."

"And a bed," Art added. "I can feel my skeleton poking through and touching the metal. A bed, a bed, my kingdom for a bed."

"Me, too. And a
shower,
even more than a bed. I wonder where Seth will sleep tonight?"

It was the wrong question. Art, just beginning to feel that he could relax, thought again of his cabin in Catoctin Mountain Park. Dana, sensing the change in his mood, said nothing more. The buses started moving and rumbled their way north, while the two sat in silence. Snow still lay on the fields and by the side of the road, but the air was warm as early summer. The solid partition across the bus's cargo compartment supported Art on his right, Dana's thigh was a comfortable presence on his left. Despite the discomfort of the seat he found himself drifting off.

It was a change in the note of the engine that brought him back to the present. The bus had stopped. It was deep dusk.

"Are we there?"

"No." Dana was leaning far out over the side. "We're nowhere. There's a kid standing by the side of the road. Maybe seven years old. He only has pants and a shirt—no shoes—and he's crying. We've picked him up."

"Good." They were moving again. Art was ready to settle into a dazed but hungry torpor when Dana suddenly asked, "What's the current world population?"

"Eh? The population. Today it has to be anybody's guess. Before Supernova Alpha I think it was about eight billion."

"Right." She leaned toward him and laid her head on his shoulder. After another minute she added, "You know, we get it all wrong. We say the supernova was a disaster."

"Are you suggesting it
wasn't
?" Art loved Dana's head on his shoulder and the soft hair against his cheek, but her comment made no sense at all.

"I'm telling you it wasn't. It wasn't
a
disaster, a single disaster. It was eight billion separate and individual disasters—to you and me and Yasmin Silvers who lost her brother, and Desmond Lota's family, even if they don't know he's dead and that poor little boy we just picked up. They are all disasters. Every one of them was awful, and every one is important. But all we'll ever learn about in detail is maybe half a dozen."

"Mm." She was right, of course.

"But you don't feel like discussing it," she said, reading Art's mind. "That's all right. You don't have to. I'm just talking philosophy."

"Mm."

"Better that than politics, if I know you. Don't worry, I won't talk either one. Have your nap, sweetheart."

Art felt like saying he had been doing fine with the sleeping before he was interrupted. Instead he closed his eyes and decided that he was just like Joe's dogs. You could cuss and swear at any one of them as much as you liked, and all the dumb thing heard was its own name. The mutt sat there and thumped the ground with its tail every time it heard that one word.

What Dana had been saying for the past few minutes was already fading. The only thing Art had transferred to long-term memory was that she called him
sweetheart.

29

Grace Mackay left Saul's office at close to two o'clock. He worked nonstop for the rest of the afternoon, devouring his backlog of calls and throwing off decisions with a speed and energy that had Auden Travis in a daze. Dozens of items were delegated to agency heads, with a brief scribbled note:
Handle as you consider appropriate, feedback to me only if problems.

At five-thirty, Saul poured himself a stiff single malt on the rocks. He went on working. At five forty-five he refilled his glass with ice and whiskey.

At six precisely, Auden stuck his harried head inside the door.

"You told me not to tell you before six o'clock whether or not Mrs. Goldsmith had arrived. It is now six. Mrs. Goldsmith arrived at five-thirty. Major Gallini took her to the small west wing dining room, poured her a glass of white wine, and sought to engage her in conversation. She expressed a preference to be left alone, but asked him to leave the bottle."

Travis seemed tired, but he also had an air of excitement. Saul looked for, and did not find, any hint that the aide disapproved of what he must surely regard as a coming presidential tryst.

"Thank you, Auden. Would you please pass the word to Mrs. Goldsmith that I will join her in ten minutes."

"Certainly, sir."

Auden retreated. Saul swirled melting ice cubes in his tired drink and drained the remaining half inch of whiskey. He walked over to the portrait on the wall and spoke aloud to it.

"I'm nervous, you know."

"I realize that."

"What would you advise, Dizzie, speaking as an old friend?"

"Marry an older woman, as I did. Mary gave me both a fortune and unceasing devotion."

"Isn't it rather late for me to consider that solution?"

"I do not see why. In political terms, you are a young man."

"But this isn't politics. You were only in your early thirties when you married. I'm in my mid-fifties. Anyway, I wasn't asking for advice in the long term. I meant, what would you advise for
tonight.
"

The room remained silent. The hologram projection area sat empty, as it had been for two weeks.

Another casualty of Supernova Alpha; Saul had loaded into the Persona every recorded word spoken or written by Benjamin Disraeli. The Persona had a realtime bus to every relevant history site. Each incident of the Prime Minister's life, well known or newly discovered, was contained in the data base, and the Persona employed a state-of-the-art expert system. Two months ago, this dialogue would have been real rather than imagined. The Disraeli Persona would have offered useful advice. Now it was not clear that the Persona existed even in backup storage. Had any of it been placed in a medium unaffected by the electromagnetic pulse?

"I guess I'm on my own."

Saul walked through to the outer office. The two drinks had been strong ones, and he felt slightly off balance.

"Auden, I don't think I will be back in the office this evening."

"Very good, sir."

"I will not be leaving the White House. I will have no need of security, and short of another supernova or a major war I do not want to be interrupted."

"Yes, sir."

Still no hint of censure, but as Saul walked past, Travis added, "Sir?"

"Yes?"

"Since you will not be working here, I would like to go out for the evening. Friends of mine are holding a small party, and they have invited me."

"Go, Auden, go. Have some fun. Fill the cup that cheers. You know what they say, all work and no play . . ."

He walked on, wondering what had made Auden Travis jerk up in his chair at those final words. Did Auden have some assignation of his own? If he did, good luck to him. The man deserved a break.

The interior of the White House was unusually quiet. Saul's heart was thumping as he walked slowly to the west wing dining room. He wondered why he was having dinner with Tricia at all; it no longer seemed a good idea.

She was the only person in the room, seated at a long, low-backed green couch on the wall by the window. As he entered she came to her feet and turned toward him in a single graceful movement.

"Saul! It's wonderful to see you."

No hint in her manner of any breakup. No suggestion of a two-year separation. Tricia was elegant as ever, dressed in a knee-length dress of midnight blue that outlined her small, firm breasts and showed off one bare shoulder. The kiss on the cheek that she gave Saul was a model of proper formality. But before she moved away she kissed him again, a quick and searching contact of lips and tongue with quite a different message.

"Here," she went on calmly. She turned to the side table, picked up two glasses of white wine, and handed the fuller one to Saul. "I was drinking before you arrived. I don't want to get too far ahead—you know me, two glasses and I'm out of it."

Saul took a cautious sip. It tasted like a fine Puligny Montrachet, with none of the additives that Tricia on occasion indulged in. She didn't know he'd had two substantial scotches and was actually ahead of her.

Or did she? She might well have smelled whiskey on his breath. Tricia was alert in all her senses.

And she was as beautiful as ever.

"It's good to see you, too, Tricia. Where's Pomerance? He was supposed to be here."

"He was. I told Mungo that if he didn't mind I wanted to serve dinner for you myself. I've known him for ages, and like a dear he agreed."

Tricia's comment went beyond a simple statement of fact. Her acquaintance with the White House extended beyond Saul's tenure. He could certainly deal with Mungo Pomerance, the White House head of arrangements and master of the kitchen for fifteen years, but he would hesitate to attempt what Tricia had done, banishing the majestic and magisterial Pomerance from his own domain.

See,
Tricia was saying.
I know how to handle the White House staff, and they like me. Wouldn't I make a wonderful First Lady?

The truth was, she would. Tricia had all the charm and social graces that Saul felt he lacked. She was at ease with diplomats and ministers. At the same time, her early years had given her a rapport with service personnel from waitresses to window washers. She would make a marvelous First Lady for President Saul Steinmetz.

There was, of course, a minor problem. Tricia happened to be married to someone else.

"How's your husband?" Saul asked abruptly.

Tricia glanced at him over the top of her glass, her dark eyes catching color from her dress. "Joseph is fine."

It was a typical Tricia answer. She had never said one negative word to Saul about her former husbands, why would she be any different with her current one? But there was an obvious next question: Does Joseph Goldsmith know you are here tonight, dining alone with a former lover?

Saul did not ask. Tricia could reply, in ail innocence, that she had no idea they would be dining alone. Hadn't Saul told her that he had business to conduct, and others would be present?

On the other hand, she knew his strong preference for one-on-one meetings.

She gestured to the table, where two places were set on the red cloth. "I don't want to rush you, but if I don't get some food soon, the wine will make me woozy."

Saul sat down. He had offered the dinner invitation, but Tricia was apparently in charge. She was over by the side table, adding dressing to the endive salad, tossing it, and transferring it into two bowls using a long silver fork and spoon. She lifted the lids of the serving dishes and rapidly served medallions of beef, green beans, roasted peppers, and potato croquettes. The portions were generous.

"Pour the wine, would you?"

Again there was an unstated message.
I know you like to handle the wine. I know you like your salad served at the same time as your entree. I know you like your plate well filled. I know you'd starve rather than eat a parsnip. I know your tastes, you see
—all
your tastes. Don't we make a wonderful couple?

We do indeed. But we're not a couple anymore.
Saul poured the wine, a Jordan Cabernet Sauvignon '05. Tricia possessed an uncanny ability to ferret out his likes and dislikes and remember them exactly. She would never wear yellow when they were together, or serve him cheese at less than room temperature, or pour wine into small glasses, or bring cooked cabbage or tomato juice within a mile of him.

"Here's to us." She slipped into her usual seat on his left, squeezed his hand for a moment, and raised her wineglass. "You'll have to say if this is all right. I opened it to let it breathe, but you know me and red wines. I never can tell."

Saul tasted the wine, aware as he did so that her fingers were gently rubbing his palm. "It's fine. In fact, better than fine. Splendid."

It was as if there had been no breakup between them, no election, no long separation, no supernova; the world not in chaos, whole continents not blighted, darkened Washington beyond the curtained window not torn by upheaval worse than the burning of the sixties or the Turnabout riots of '07.

Oh, call back yesterday, bid time return.
The temptation was strong. For one evening at least, bring the past alive; eat, drink, talk, and laugh together, and see where the night leads.

But to do that, you must forget the suffering beyond the White House walls. While you are enjoying your meal, dining as well as if there has been no worldwide disaster, what are Americans across the country eating? Are they eating at all?