Stamford takes a slow sip of his drink as the buzz in the room intensifies, signifying Nixon’s arrival. The president waves to several people, offers a confident smile that somehow says ‘good to see you’ and ‘leave me alone now’ all at the same time.
Stamford says, “Perfect timing, Mr President.” He turns back around to find Borman hiding his face behind the menu. “Don’t worry — old Dick is in his element over there. He can’t see past the end of his secretary.”
Borman keeps his eyes on the prize. “You were saying?”
“Menzel was confounded by what he had. Didn’t know what to make of it. Which is why he brought it to us, I suppose.”
“Yeah. I really wish he hadn’t done that,” says Borman.
Stamford smiles, realizing now Borman knows a lot more than he’s letting on. “He needed us to help decode what he found. He knew it was something big, too big to do all that work on his own. It was the right call. All of our collective efforts will take months to get to the bottom of it all, maybe years. But I guess you know that already.”
“It’s a computer memory module,” Borman replies. “Same design as the ones Raytheon is making to run the Apollo guidance computer. Which is why it had us stumped.”
“You mean to say the Martians didn’t tell you they were gonna do that?”
Borman shrugs. “I had no idea. It was Menzel who found it sewn into a pocket on the side of my life support unit, where I couldn’t see it. We didn’t notice it until a day later, when I was working up my mission report — a pocket that didn’t belong there.”
“Holding a component that looks like a piece of NASA technology, but is nothing of the sort.”
Borman nods. “Which is smart, because only somebody incredibly familiar with the functionality of that spacesuit would notice it. Even if the wrong person somehow did find it by accident, there’s no particular reason to think it’s anything other than NASA technology. Except, of course, when you take a look at what it contains.”
“Which you did, right?”
“It’s exactly what it looks like, except it’s a thousand times more powerful than even the most advanced prototype in the Raytheon labs. I could see that just by the different wiring configuration.”
“And that’s just the tip of the iceberg,” says Stamford. “It contains data. Lots of it.”
“Martian data,” says Borman.
“Buddy, this information is mind-blowing.”
It galls him to hear Stamford talk like they’re friends, but Borman lets it slide to keep the man talking. “How so?”
“We think they might have given us the means to create a world like theirs. Maybe even one in which humans and Martians could co-exist.”
Somebody nearby laughs. Apparently, the president said something funny. Borman isn’t smiling. “Listen Trick, if the Martians have done that, it’s precisely because they don’t want us paying them any more visits. This is their way of saying, ‘leave us alone.’”
“You can’t know that for sure,” says Stamford.
Borman’s eyes narrow. He places his hands on the table to help rein in the anger building up in his chest. “I’d bet my life on it,” he says. “And by God, you damn well better pass that on to your daddy. We are not going back to Mars. We’re not welcome.” Stamford looks suitably chastened. He smiles weakly, suddenly at a loss for words. Borman lifts a finger in Nixon’s direction. “He know about any of this?”
Stamford slowly shakes his head. “No. No way.” He leans forward. “Listen, I hear what you’re saying. But you have accomplished something incredible here, Frank. You and I are going to be seeing a lot more of one another.”
“No thanks. I’m not interested.”
“Course you are. We’re going to make you rich. Besides, old buddy, I’m afraid that’s not a request. It’s part of the deal. You’re one of us now. No retreat.”
“Said like a man who’s never seen the front line.”
Stamford drains the last of his Martini. He says, “I wanted to fight. Back in ’65 I was all gung ho, ready to volunteer. Dad wouldn’t hear of it. Said the war was a mistake. And how right he was. Still… it’s made us more money than I could have imagined.”
Borman frowns in disgust. “Yes, I’ve learned a thing or two about your side businesses,” courtesy of Roscoe Hillenkoetter’s intelligence sources (it was Susan’s idea to call him). He leans forward, rubbing his chin. “The contraband you’re flying into Saigon.” Meaning heroin. The smile vanishes from Stamford’s face. Borman continues, “You launder your money with the help of your business partner, an Italian mobster by the name of Michele Sindona.”
“Is that right?” Stamford tries to sound dismissive, but doesn’t quite pull it off.
“Your man in Milan funnels your dirty money through his accounts in the Vatican Bank, and it comes out all nice and clean. I even have the account numbers.”
“What do you want, Frank?”
“To be left alone. You touch me or my family, that information goes public. Hear me?”
“You sure you know what you’re doing?”
Another world. It’s a grand idea, but if it’s to be built by men of this caliber, Borman wonders what would become of it. Surely nothing of any benefit to the vast majority of Earth’s population, who’ll most likely never even be told about it. Men like the Stamfords will use the Martian knowledge to build a new world for themselves. Their own private retreat for when their dark souls no longer find solace in the luxuries of the old world, as it moves closer to the brink of self-destruction.
Surely the Martians themselves know that. In offering their gift, they also offer a choice: a map leading the way to a different future. But there is so much more pain to come before humanity even sees there is a choice. A single choice. The only choice. He wonders if it can ever come to be, whether there’ll be enough good people to make that call when the time comes. Whichever way it goes, it won’t be in his lifetime.
Borman sees the mortal terror in Stamford’s eyes, and knows the man is worried about being the bearer of bad news. “Look,” Borman tells him, “you want me to cooperate? Find a way to end this damn war.”
Stamford’s eyes widen. “Only man who can do that is the one sitting behind me. He’s trying to do what Johnson couldn’t — find a way for America to pull out with honor.”
“They won’t find honor where it never existed.”
“That’s a bit harsh. I thought you hated the commies?”
Borman gazes at the floor. It’s true. For years, he’s regarded communism as the great scourge of the 20th century. But he’s learnt there are worse things. “When all’s said and done,” he says, “we’re talking about a tiny rural third world country on the other side of the planet. What does it really matter if communists are in charge? I don’t think anybody has dared ask that question in years.”
“It’s called the Domino Theory, Frank. Look it up.”
“Yes, and more than forty thousand American boys have been slaughtered — ten times that number on the Vietnamese side — because of our blind allegiance to that theory. But it was a war we could never win. The French couldn’t, and neither can we. What’s worse, we’ve known it from the get-go. Because they’re not fighting for communism, they’re fighting for independence, and they’ll never give up.”
“That may be true,” says Stamford. “But try going on TV and telling that to the American people. Any president saying those words, he won’t be in the job for long.”
“Nixon should do it anyway,” says Borman. “More people are ready to hear it than he could possibly imagine.”