Part 9

"Oh?" I said. "You did, eh? Well, I'm sorry to hear that. But Ian beat you to it and quit."

"I know. Ian's one of the best. It's rough on him. It's also rough on Stew Macon. World Wide rushed him down here to replace Ian and he's wandering around like a dog with skunk-smell all over him, poor guy."

"Stew? Where is he?"

"He's in your office."

"I'd better go cheer him up. Look, I'll see you and the other guys later. Josh used to hold his daily briefings about eleven, didn't he? I'll try to have something for you then."

"Okay," Rod said. "Good luck."

"Thanks." I didn't say I'd need it, but I sure thought it.

I knew where the Press Secretary's office was from earlier junkets to Washington. I went in and found Stew pacing up and down the room, smoking.

"Hi, chiefie," he said. "Boy, am I glad to see you. I feel like a pariah."

"Misery loves company, eh?"

"You can say that again. Boy, do you look terrible. Aren't you happy here in the old lap of the gods?"

"Happy as the ninth pup at feeding time," I said. "I spent the night getting drunk with your predecessor and I've got the grandfather of all hangovers."

"Poor Ian," Stew said. He sat on the big desk that was now mine and put his cigarette out in an oversized ashtray. "Poor me, too. I thought this was going to be a big deal, taking over the Washington bureau. John Hyatt told me Ian quit, but he didn't tell me why. I thought my biggest problem was going to be getting along with Reb Sylvester, who must have figured he was in line for bureau chief. But this is another kettle entirely."

"I suppose you're _persona non grata_ in the press room?"

"The chill is on, believe me. Continental's in the same boat. But their man didn't even show up this morning."

Ian had mentioned that Continental Broadcasting Corporation had also been bought up.

"Look," I said. "You don't have to go back to the press room. Ian said last night WW's moved into the White House. All we have to do is find Door C. That's where he said it is. Let me ring the old bell and find out where Door C is."

"I'd rather be in the press room," Stew said, but I found a button and pressed it.

"Yes, Mr. Kent?" a woman's voice said.

"Where's Door C?"

"I beg your pardon?" The voice sounded vaguely familiar.

"Where is World Wide?"

"Oh. It's just on the other side of your office, Mr. Kent. I'll be glad to show you."

"Good."

One of my three doors opened and Joy Linx came in. "Good morning, Sam," she said.

"Well, good morning," I said. "What are you doing here?"

Then I remembered that Gov had said she'd be with me in Washington.

"I'm your secretary," Joy said. "I thought they told you."

"They did and I'm delighted," I said. "Forgive me for not remembering. I'll need every friendly face there is. Joy, I want you to meet another fly in the web--Stew Macon. Stew, this is Joy Linx, somebody's Girl Friday. I guess now she's mine."

"Some people have all the luck," Stew said. "Hi, Joy. I'm delighted, too."

"Now for that door," Joy said. She opened the third door and said, "Behold, World Wide."

It was virtually a duplicate of World Wide's New York newsroom. There were the banks of teletype and the piles of newspapers and the desks. Reb Sylvester sat in the slot, a cup of coffee on the desk next to a row of freshly sharpened pencils. He was smoking a pipe and reading the comic page of the _Washington Post_.

"What's new, Reb?" I said.

He put down the paper. "Funny you should ask that, Sam," he said. "Nothing is. It's absolutely dead. Have you got a dispatch, perchance?"

"Hi, Reb," Stew said.

"Hi, Stew. What's happening at the crossroads of the free world? What's the true poop? Are there any bulletins or flashes to be sent this humid forenoon?"

Reb was obviously in a bitter mood. He'd been passed over for promotion, not to mention being sold out.

"What's on the wire so far?" I asked him.

"Out of Washington? Well, we've got a hundred words on the little girl who was mauled by the lion in the zoo and a fifty-word follow-up on the woman who had quadruplets yesterday. Aside from that it's been rather quiet. At the moment we're waiting, you might say, for the morning briefing by the Presidential Press Secretary to learn whether our proud Ship of State is still afloat."

This was a boy who needed stepping on. Or else he was a thoroughly disillusioned reporter masking his true feelings with quips.

I gave him the benefit of the doubt and said, "The old ship has survived a lot worse than this. As for the other, I'll be seeing Gov in a little while. That might produce a little news."

Stew said, "See you later, then. I'll stay here and try out the typewriters."

My hangover was waking up again and I was glad to get out of the newsroom and back to my own office. Joy Linx was waiting for me with an Alka-Seltzer and a cup of coffee.

"Thanks, Joy. How'd you know?"

"It's my job to know, Mr. Kent."

"Cut out that Mr. Kent stuff. I'm just old Sam, the confused man. What do you know about all these new goings-on?"

"Which new goings-on in particular? There've been a whole passel of them."

"Oh, there have, have there? Tell me about World Wide and Continental for a starter."

"It all ties in with the big picture," Joy said. "We want the Americans to have the true official position when the big stories break."

"Who's _we_? And why couldn't the free press be depended on to give the true story? It always has."

"_We_ is the government, of course. As for the other, I think it has to do with point of view. The facts have a way of being misinterpreted by a hostile press."

"Oh, and it'll be the job of World Wide and Continental to spoonfeed the official line down the public's throat?"

"That's a rather crude way to put it, but I'd say it's accurate. We've hired Clyde B. Fitchburn to help."

"What?" I said. "Not the Voice of Doom?"

Joy smiled. "The same. We couldn't afford to have him on the other side, spreading hysteria. So he's been persuaded to join up."

"It's amazing," I said, "what a lot of money will do."

"Don't be cynical, Sam."

Joy said no more than that. She didn't have to. As a dweller myself in a big glass house I was especially vulnerable to rocks. I took a contrite swallow of coffee and said, "Okay. We'll ease away from that one. Now what are the big stories? It seems to me that I'm the least-informed Press Secretary of all time."

"Well, there's the summit conference," Joy said. She couldn't have been more off-hand about it if she had said "It's ten o'clock."

"_What_ summit conference?" I practically yelled. "When? Where?"

"I'll start with _who_," Joy said. "It'll be the heads of government of the United States, the Soviet Union, Britain, France, Germany, India, Israel, the United Arab Republic, Japan and China. Both Chinas. I think that's all. Oh, and the Secretary-General of the United Nations and the Monolithians, of course."

"Of course," I said, dazed. "And when is this little huddle taking place? It's bound to take months of preparation."

"Not at all. It's scheduled for Saturday."

"Saturday! Not _this_ Saturday? The day after tomorrow?"

"That's right. Saturday, August ninth."

"You'd better make me another Alka-Seltzer."

"Okay," she said. "That'll give you a chance to brace yourself for the _where_."

I poured down the fizzing drink and felt it start to work in my poor stomach.

"I guess I'm ready now. Where is this crazy summit conference going to be held? Here? London? Moscow? If it's here I'm going to cut my throat right now. It's bad enough covering such a free-for-all, it'll be murder organizing it."

"Put your razor away," Joy said. "It's not going to be held here. It's going to be held in space."

* * * * *

The President buzzed for me while I was still trying to take it all in. He was very businesslike, with none of the man-to-man intimacy of the other night. He welcomed me to the job, said he assumed Miss Linx had filled me in on the summit conference and told me he wanted me to make the announcement at my 11 o'clock press briefing. He handed me a prepared statement that he said was being issued more or less simultaneously in London, Moscow, Cairo, Paris and all the other capitals concerned.

Gov looked tired. I tried to question him but he said most of the answers were in the statement, which ran to about 600 words. Everything else was off the record and I'd have to say "no comment."

As for himself, he was not going to hold a press conference this week and there probably wouldn't be any other news until after everybody got back from Ultra.

"Ultra?" I asked.

"That's the name of the space station where we'll be meeting. The Monolithians moored it out there in whatever the hell it's called--cislunar space. This side of the moon. It's in the handout."

"Yes, sir," I said, glancing through it quickly. "When will you be leaving?"

"Tomorrow morning, but that's off the record. You'll be going, too, Sam, and so will Miss Linx, so you'd better pack an overnight bag."

My reaction to that must have shown in my face, because the President said, "I'm not looking forward to the trip, either, Sam, but it has to be made and we might as well reconcile ourselves to getting it over with. Everything ought to be a lot simpler afterward."

I was curious to know what hidden meaning, if any, there was in that last remark, but he waved me out.

My first meeting with the press, which I had been dreading, went off beautifully. Any personal or sarcastic questions the reporters might have asked were forgotten as I made the summit-in-space announcement and passed the handout around. I answered a few questions without going beyond the words of the announcement, but then, on being pressed, I made up a headline phrase to summarize the purpose of the precedent-shattering conclave. Its aim, I said, cribbing a bit from the Constitution, was to secure the blessings of interplanetary peace, friendship and liberty. Actually, that was what the 600-word statement added up to, more or less.

Just before they began their mad dash to the telephones I told them the lid was on--that there'd be nothing further from the White House today.

Joy closed the door behind the last of them and I collapsed into my chair. She gave me a sympathetic smile.

"So much for that," she said. "I think it went very well. Now is it time to lock up the shop and pack for our space journey?"

The old keyboard test, designed to cover all contingencies, came to my mind. "Pack my bag with six dozen liquor jugs," I said. "And maybe that wouldn't be a bad idea."

18 (AUG. 8, FRI.)

They did not see it until the atomic bombs burst in their fumbling hands.

--H. G. Wells, 1914

Mae had heard the news on the radio and TV, of course, and she was pretty well prepared for what I had to tell her--that I was going off into space with the world's big wheels. Naturally she didn't like it, but for a reason I hadn't suspected. She told me about it in the morning over my Pep and eggs.

"It seems to me, Sam, that you've been acting very peculiar ever since you took this new job. And I don't just mean your worry about your new responsibilities. I can understand that. What I don't understand is why you've become so cool towards me."

"Why, honey!" I said, really surprised. "That's not so at all."

"Oh, isn't it! I get the impression that I'm being taken for granted; that I'm supposed to be satisfied with a little pat on the head now and again while you cavort around with your high and mighty new friends. You never take me anywhere any more. Why? Is it because I'm so ugly--so--so--misshapen?"

"Mae!" I was shocked. "Now you cut that right out!"

"Well, sometimes I wonder. Then there's that Linx girl. You never told me about her--and you should have, if there's nothing to hide."

"For heaven's sake, Mae," I said. "Of course there's nothing to hide. Why, you're _jealous_, aren't you?"

"Certainly I'm jealous. Is that so strange? It isn't as if you'd been honest with me and said there was this girl, but that I'm prettier in spite of my condition----"

"Now, Mae," I said. "You are prettier--and it's _because_ of your condition. Who told you about Joy anyway? I'll bet it was that Ann McEachern--she's jealous herself because I've got a good job and her Ian's temporarily out of work. There's nothing about Joy, any more than there is to tell about my three telephones. I never had three telephones before, either."

"Well ..." Mae said. "If you're sure."

"Sure I'm sure. Now you just stop worrying your pretty head about stupid nonsense like that and give me a kiss good-bye. I'll be back by Sunday or Monday." I picked up my bag.

"All right," she said. "I'm sorry. I don't want you to go, but I know you have to. And I feel better knowing _she_ won't be going, either."

I put the bag down again.

"Mae," I said. "Listen, Mae."

She burst into tears.

"Now, Mae!"

"She _is_ going!" Mae sobbed. "Oh-h-h!"

"Yes, she is. And so is the President, and so are several prime ministers and premiers and that imbecile Addison Madison and Mox and protocol officers and the Secretary-General and a whole gaggle of Monolithians. For Pete's sake, Mae! This is probably the most important conference ever held in the history of man, not a week end at Atlantic City!"

It took me half an hour to calm her down and get away. I was much lower in my mind by then and not at all convinced that Mae understood, though she had put on a brave face.

* * * * *

Joy, the object of my wife's concern, was waiting for me at the office with a new crisis.

"Sam," she said, "I tried to get you at home, but you'd left."

"You mean you talked to Mae?"

"Yes. She's sweet. We had a nice chat."

I groaned. "You'd better get her back for me. Never mind; I'll get her later. What's the matter?"

"The press is coming, too."

"That's impossible! We'd have to take at least one from every country represented. There isn't room."

"Yes there is. The Monolithians provided another ship. I've got the list drawn up. All you have to do is check it over."

"All right. Let me see it."

They were all there: AP and UPI, representing a North American press pool; radio and TV men, magazine writers, Reuters, France Presse, Tass, Press Trust of India, New China News and so forth. Somebody had exerted the influence of the host country and worked in such supernumeraries as the Voice of America, World Wide, Continental Broadcasting and our old friend Clyde B. Fitchburn. I was glad to see Stew Macon's name next to WW's.

"Fine," I said, initialing the list and handing it back to Joy. "When do we leave? Same time?"

"Yes. Noon by helicopter from the back lawn."

"Good. You all ready yourself, Joy?"

"Yop. Got my toothbrush, wash-'n'-dry undies and spare lipstick." She gave me a wink I didn't entirely fathom and went into her own office, saying, "Better call your wife, now."

I dialed our Bethesda number and talked to Mae for about five minutes. You can say a lot in that time, but for the life of me all I could remember of Mae's conversation was, "I love you and I know you love me. I'm sorry I made that fuss about Joy Linx. We had a nice chat. I think she's sweet."

I went out to the helicopter a very confused man.

* * * * *

At Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland we transferred from the helicopter to two space ships. The helicopters had been jam-packed, but there was room to spare on the ships.

I had a cabin next to the President's suite, and Joy's was next to mine. World Wide, the Voice of America and Continental shared one across the corridor, but the AP, Reuters and the other independent agencies were on the second ship, fuming, I'm sure, at the discrimination--especially since the British, French and German summitters were on ours. Presumably there was going to be a sort of sub-summit conference en route.

I had a big question that I wanted answered before the press got at me and, as soon as we were settled, I knocked at the President's door.

"Come in," Gov said. "Oh, hello, Sam. What's up?"

I asked my question: "Who represents the Monolithians?"

"Shut the door, Sam, and sit down. I can answer that several ways. One, by saying they all represent each other, like bees in a hive or ants in a hill--a sort of group intelligence with nobody's thinking very far out of line from anybody else's. Two, by saying their big wheel at the moment is that Addison Madison, or Frij, fellow, a more insulting parody of an American Earthman than I could have imagined possible. Three, by saying I haven't the faintest idea who they'll produce when they get us to Ultra--quite possibly someone who's never been to Earth at all. Any other questions?"

"Yes, sir, if you don't mind. What are you and the Big Three Europeans going to discuss before you get to Ultra?"

"I frankly don't know, son, but I can make a guess. We'll probably have a few drinks and talk about the good old days when all we had to worry about was the Russian or the Chinese menace."

I started to interrupt, but Gov held up a hand. "I know you can't put that in a communiqué. All right, you can say we had a frank and wide-ranging exchange of views and vowed to take any steps, consistent with honor, that would advance the cause of international and interplanetary peace. That ought to be diplomatic and obfuscatory enough for anybody."

I grinned. "Yes, sir. The cast may change, but never the language."

Gov smiled back, but with an effort.

"Better get back to your cabin now and batten down," he said. "I understand a Monolithian blast-off is a lot kinder to the kidneys than anything our astronauts had to go through, but it's still no bed of nasturtiums. The things they expect an old boy to put up with for his country.... I'm glad I've taken my last oath of office."

I left the President settling down into his padded couch and went to my own.

The blast-off was a short nightmare of vibration and pressure. Then it was over. There was a moment of nauseous weightlessness before the artificial gravity took hold and a soothing chime sounded which, we'd been told, meant we could get up and move about normally.

My door opened and Stew Macon started to come in. He changed his mind when he saw the British Prime Minister, the French President and the German Chancellor go by on their way to Gov's suite. But Stew was back soon.

"They won't talk," he said. "I didn't really think they would."

"Never mind," I told him. "I've got it all here."

"What they're going to say?"

"What they will have officially said. It's not very much."

"Let me have it now. I'll put it out under embargo."

"No you won't. You'll get it after they come out and I've radioed it to the boys in the other ship. I don't want them any sorer at us than they are already."

Stew looked hurt. "I thought we were pals."

"Pals-schmals, this is official business. Why don't you go up to the bridge and see who's driving? That ought to make a dandy feature."

"Continental's doing that on tape. They're going to fill me in later."

"What's the Voice doing?"

"Rehashing the AP and Reuters," Stew said disgustedly. "I tell you, this being subsidized is for the birds. You're further away from the news than anybody else."

"True," I said. "And if I were still with WW I'd complain."

"Yeah? To who?"

"To the Presidential Press Secretary, for instance."

"That's you. A big help you are."

"Them's the conditions that prevail."

"Funny man," Stew said. "Jimmy Durante."

There was a knock on my door and Joy Linx came in.

"Hello, men," she said. "How are the old space voyagers?"

"Nuts," Stew said. "I've had bigger thrills on the Staten Island ferry."

"Sam, I've got the radioteletype set up for the communiqué. Want to check it out?"

"Sure." We all went into her office-cabin.

"Just the one machine," Joy said. "The press ship is tuned in and drop copies go to WW, Continental and the Voice here."

"Fine." I sat down and typed:

KENT HERE. TESTING.

The reply was: WHIRLPOOL HERE. GA.

"Whirlpool?" I asked Joy. "What have they got, a sponsor?"

She laughed. "It's their code name. It stands for World Press Pool."

"Oh." I typed:

WESTERN BIG FOUR BEGAN SHIPBOARD SUBSUMMIT TALKS AT 1607 EDT. EXPECT TO HAVE BRIEF COMMUNIQUE SOON. ALL FOR NOW.

ROGER, the reply came: OVER AND OUT.

"Incurious bunch," Stew said. "Don't they have any questions?"

"I guess they prefer not to be confused by our meager facts. Makes it easier for them to interview each other and bat out learned think-pieces."

* * * * *

The Western Big Four ended their conference, or whatever it was, and Gov called me to say I could release the communiqué. I tried to get him to elaborate on it, or at least tell me off the record what they'd really discussed, but he refused. Gov sounded tired and irritable.

I put the communiqué on the teletype to the other ship and told them there was nothing else at the moment. Again there was a surprising lack of curiosity from the free press. They asked a couple of routine questions and I answered them and shut down the machine. I was beginning to feel rebuked and useless.

"Do they have a bar on this boat?" I asked Joy, who was filing away a copy of the uninformative communiqué in an impressive leather-bound folder labeled in gold: MONOLITHIA-ULTRA.

"Well now," she said, "I'm glad you asked me that question. Yes, as a matter of fact. And would you be after offering to buy me a drink?"

"I most delightedly would," I said. "Or two or three."

Relaxed now at the bar, with Joy on the stool beside me and a tall drink on the mahogany, I had time to think.

Joy said, "A penny for your thoughts."

I roused myself from my reverie and said, "I was just wondering what's going to be the outcome of all this."

"A good wonder," she said. "I guess it's worth a penny. Frankly, I don't worry much about it. Assuming, of course, that we all come through it with our health, happiness and honor intact."

The Monolithian bartender was in front of us suddenly. He smiled.

There was a snort from our right. It was a man of about sixty who was drinking a Pernod.

"Ah, a philosopher," Joy said.

The man picked up his drink, admired its cloudy color and took a sip before replying. "I am indeed," he said. "My eyes are wide open and unfilmed."

"_Whose_ eyes?" I said.

"Mine--the eyes of Clyde B. Fitchburn, student of men."

"Fitchburn!" I said. "The renowned crier of doom?"

"The _former_ crier of doom," he said placidly. "Student of men and current employee of Monolithia. My cries are stilled while I remain on the payroll. What's your excuse, Mr. Kent? And yours, Miss Linx?"

I didn't like his tone. "Now look--" I started to say, but Joy put her hand on my arm.

"He's got a point," she said. "Aren't we all on the payroll?"

I had to admit in my secret mind that this was a valid point. But I said, "Let's leave us out of it. We don't matter, except to ourselves----"

"Oh, but we do," Fitchburn said. "We matter in direct ratio to the millions, or thousands, or even one that we influence. But go on, Kent."

He was an irritating man because he was speaking the truth--perhaps for the first time in his life.

"All right," I said angrily. "We matter to some extent. I grant you that--and that influence on one person, rightly exerted, can change the course of empire. But our influence is insignificant compared with that of the big boys. And we've got the biggest boys in the world aboard. What's _their_ excuse?"

Clyde B. Fitchburn took out a crushable pack and lit a thinking-man's cigarette. The bartender rushed over to light it for him.

"Thank you," Fitchburn said to the Monolithian. "Listen if you like. I know you will anyway."

The bartender smiled and deliberately went to the other end of the bar. I was sure he could hear just as well from there.