“Great!” Lister said sarcastically. “That means they’ll be coming back through here on the way back to Earth. Why don’t you open up your own Door to Earth, instead of doglegging through us to get to New York?”
Kent took the facetious question seriously. “Two reasons. One, it’s hard enough to keep track of the people coming in the Door we have over to Crisium. Another Door would only make it worse. Two, it wouldn’t produce enough revenue to justify keeping the Door open. If New London and Crisium were to split the existing traffic, both links would end up losing money hand over fist.”
“Well, supposedly we’re a nation now,” Lister said. “We’re going to have to deal with this on our own. It’s not like we can ask Earth to solve it for us. Unfortunately, it seems to me that it’s going to be one of those long running battles that nobody wins.”
“We could deny all non-commercial traffic,” Kent suggested. “Or, as a variation, anybody who comes across to Luna has to be out by the end of the day.”
Lister shook his head. “That’s too much like a police state, Hammond. It would also be a monumental logistical headache.”
“I guess you’re right. If nothing else, we’ll need some immigrants in order to help us grow.”
“The best I’ve been able to come up with is to raise the non-commercial rates to exorbitant levels. Then we could subsidize the ones we want to come up from a fund fueled by the rate increase itself.”
“Call it a surcharge? A tax?”
Lister nodded. “Something like that. I hate it. It’s not a free market pricing system, and as soon as the government gets involved in anything, it goes to hell in a handbasket. We’ll have to have rules and regulations. Then those will breed exemptions and exceptions. In a couple of years, we will have created a whole new class of lawyers who specialize in getting people through the Door.”
“Which will, in turn, make it even more costly to go through the Door,” Kent added, eyes twinkling.
Lister shook his head sadly. “I’ve spent my entire term in office trying to keep the government here in Crisium out of things. Now that I’m near the end of my term, I’d hate to betray people by doing the exact opposite.”
“Get Lunar Magnetics to do it. After all, it’s their Door. Jenny designed it for them, not the city of Crisium.”
“I’d rather do my own dirty work, Hammond.”
“If Lunar Magnetics does it, it’s a rate increase. If you do it, it’s either a tax or a surcharge. Seems to me that it would be more palatable if it comes from them instead of you.”
Grudgingly, Lister agreed.
“Alan, the way I see it, the Holmes Door will either make or break Luna. It’s all going to boil down to the details of how it’s managed.”
Lister mused aloud, “I think I’m beginning to understand how Jenny feels about this Door—so far, it’s created more problems than it’s solved.”
On Earth, acrimonious debates flared as people took sides on what should he done to combat the effects of the global Depression. Government regulation vs. laissez-faire, unemployment checks vs. work programs, deficit spending as economic stimulus vs. deficit reduction. Conclusive decisions were never reached. The net effect was one of paralysis. As time passed, it came more to resemble rigor mortis.
The media were quick to note such sharply divided opinions. Dedicated channels for every conceivable variation of political and social position sprouted overnight. Shows aired which claimed to speak for the public at large, though, in truth, they only represented small, highly vocal segments. Paradoxically, friction, even between diametrically opposed viewpoints, produced few sparks, due to the fact that people were opinionated only in principle, not in deed.
Rare, scattered acts of violence were widely reported as evidence of impending catastrophe. Many of the perpetrators were turned into perverse heros, usually by portraying the criminals as victims striking back. Although, in fact, they represented and affected only an infinitesimal percentage of the public, it seemed that everyone took each and every affront personally, as though they, themselves, had been hurt. Impartial judgment became impossible in an atmosphere seething with media-manufactured tensions.
Not surprisingly, the citizens of North America felt powerless to change the course of events. Resigned to the idea that they were adrift in currents too large for them to affect, or even to understand, they gave up, becoming content to experience their world vicariously, passively.
Some commentators, more jaded than the rest, pointed out that talk was cheap and that those who tuned in were the least likely to bring about change. True, the opinion channel watchers admitted, they weren’t doing much, but they could if they wanted to. They seemed content with power unused. For hours on end, they sat before glowing screens, filled with fantasies of righting grievous wrongs… then went to bed.
This vast, inchoate angst was there to be tapped, a fertile field for those who knew how to reach the emotions of the American public. Trevor York and his ilk had a field day.
Black hair.
The hair color, of course, came from a bottle. There were no highlights; it was flat black, like velvet, and no light reflected whatsoever. It was styled carefully in a wave just short of a pompadour. Only continuous care could maintain such perfection for more than an hour at a time.
It took a full five seconds before Alan Lister could force his eyes down to meet those of Trevor York. Amused with himself, he wondered if that was the reason that York wore his hair in such an unnecessarily dramatic style. If people were staring at the top of his head, they would not notice the predator behind the eyes.
“Good morning, Commissioner Lister,” York said, his hand outstretched.
Lister paused briefly to admire the smoothly modulated voice. He could see why people followed York—he had presence, a sort of oily charisma.
“Good morning, Trevor.” He made no attempt to match the other’s projection of bonhomie.
“I’d like to thank you for taking the time to see me. I realize that you have a busy schedule and that interviews are not productive time for you.”
Lister belatedly realized that there was a cameraman silently sweeping in an arc to the right, his palmcam staying steadily focused on the conversation. An attractive woman was moving with him, staying an arm’s length away so as not to interfere with his field of view. She carried an enormous bag slung over her shoulder.
Tight, polished, professional. Lister made a mental note not to underestimate York. The man certainly had not achieved his current popularity by accident.
York noticed his attention and smiled. “I hope you don’t mind my crew. Naturally, we need to have shots for the show.”
“It’s no problem at all.”
“Do you mind if we begin?”
“Certainly not.”
“Commissioner Lister, as I’m sure you’re aware, there are those on Earth who feel that Luna took unfair advantage of their generosity. They are concerned about the amount of money that was spent, your attitude towards the recent economic problems on Earth, and, in particular, your handling of the Emily Starnes crisis. How would you defend your actions against those accusations?”
Lister gave him a faint smile. “I don’t intend to.”
York blinked in surprise. “You have nothing to say?”
“I have plenty to say. It’s just that I have no intention of defending my actions. That implies that I am on trial for doing something wrong. I have done nothing of the sort.”