As she was dialing Adrian Lenz’s private number she looked at herself in the mirror, frowned, and switched to voice only. “Hello, honey,” she said as soon as he was on the line. “I’m sorry there’s no picture, but this place doesn’t have all mod. cons., and anyway” — she giggled — “I don’t have any clothes on.”
“Hello, Margie.” Senator Lenz’s voice was neutral. It was the sort of tone one uses to a brother-in-law or an airport security guard; it said, I acknowledge there is a relationship between us, but don’t push it. “I assume you’re calling me about your proposed new launch.”
“Just ‘proposed,’ Adrian? You voted for it three weeks ago.”
“I know my own voting record, Margie.”
“Of course you do, Adrian. Listen, I didn’t call you up to quarrel with you.”
“No, you didn’t,” said the senator. “You called me up to try to keep me in line. I was pretty sure you’d call. I’m even pretty sure of what you’re going to say. You’re going to tell me that we’ve got a hell of a big investment in Klong now and if we don’t nourish it the whole thing might go down the tube.”
“Something like that, senator,” Marge Menninger said reluctantly.
“I was sure of it. You know, we’ve heard those arguments before. Every time the DoD wants something outrageous they start by asking some piss-ant amount as a ‘study grant.’ Then a little more because the study showed some really promising idea. Then some more because, gosh, senator, we’ve gone this far, let’s not waste it. And then, the next thing you know, we’ve got some stupid new missile or antiballistic defense system or nuclear bomber. Not because any sensible person wants it, but because there was no place to stop. Well, Margie, maybe this is the place to stop Klong. Three days from now there’s a committee meeting. I don’t know which way I’m going to vote, because I don’t have all the information yet. But I’m not making any promises.”
Margie kept the disappointment out of her voice, but she was less successful with the anger. “This project means a hell of a lot to me, Adrian.”
“Don’t you think I know it? Listen, Margie, this is an open line, but I thought you might be interested in something. I’ve got tomorrow’s early edition of the Herald here, and there’s a story from Peiping.
’Authoritative sources’ say that repair crews at their tactran satellite have definite evidence that the explosion which destroyed the satellite and two transport ships was of suspicious origin.”
“I watch the news, Adrian. I saw that. And there was another story, too, that said that dissident elements within the People’s Republics were thought to be responsible.”
The senator was silent. Margie would have given a lot to have seen the expression on his face just then, even at the cost of revealing the sorry condition of her own, and her hand reached out to restore the vision circuit to the call. But then the senator said, “I guess that’s all we should say under the circumstances, Margie. I agree with you about one thing. You’ve gotten us into this pretty deep.” And he broke the connection.
Margie sat thoughtfully blow-drying her hair for the next ten minutes, while her mind raced. Then she picked up the phone and dialed the orderly room. “Colonel Menninger here,” she said. “Notify the training officer that I will not be present for tomorrow’s formations, and have transportation ready for me at oh eight hundred. I need to go to New York.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the OD. He was not surprised. All members of the project were restricted to the base, and the orders said there were no exceptions. But he knew who had written the orders.
Margie sat impatiently in the audience section of the Security Council chamber, waiting to be called. The delegation from Peru was explaining its recent vote at considerable length while the other nine members of the council waited in varying degrees of fury to explain each other’s. The question seemed to have something to do with the territorial limits for fishing fleets. Normally Margie would have paid close attention, but her mind was a good many light-years away, on Klong. When the young black woman came to fetch her for her appointment she forgot about Peru before she had left the auditorium.
The woman conducted her to an inconspicuous room marked Authorized Personnel Only and held the door open for her without going, or looking, inside.
“Hello, poppa,” said Margie as soon as the door was closed, turning her cheek to be kissed.
Her father did not kiss her. “You look like hell,” he said, his voice flat and without affection. “What the fuck have you been teaching these ‘colonists’ of yours?”
Margie was caught off guard; it was not any of the questions she had expected from him, and certainly not what she had come to discuss. But she responded at once. “I’ve been teaching them survival tactics. Exactly what I said I was going to teach them.”
“Take a look at these,” he said, spreading a sheaf of holoflat pictures before her. “Art exhibits from Heir-of-Mao’s private collection. Cost me quite a lot to get them.”
Margie held one up, wiggling it slightly to get the effect of three-dimensional motion. “Makes me look fat,” she said critically.
“These came out of the pouch of a courier in Ottawa. You recognize them, I guess. There’s one of your boys throwing a grenade. And a nice shot of a flamethrower drill. And another one of a girl, I won’t say who, stabbing what looks a hell of a lot like a Krinpit with what looks a hell of a lot like a sword.”
“Oh, hell, poppa, that’s no sword. It’s just a flat, sharp knife. I got the idea from watching the stew chef opening up oysters at the Grand Central Clam Bar. And that Krinpit’s only a dummy.”
“Hell’s shitfire, Margie! That’s combat technique!”
“It’s survival, dear,” she corrected. “What do you think? The biggest and ugliest dangers our boys and girls are going to face are the Krinpit and the burrowers and the balloonists and, oh, yes, not to forget the Greasies and the Peeps. I’m not advocating killing, poppa, I’m just teaching them how to handle themselves if killing is going on.” Her face clouded. “All the same, I wish I knew who took those pictures.”
“You will,” he said grimly. “But it doesn’t matter; those are just copies. The Peeps have the originals, and Tam Gulsmit’s probably got a set of his own by now, and the Peeps and the Greasies on Klong are going to hear about it by next week at the latest, and interexpedition friendship is over. Did you listen to the debate in the council?”
“What? Oh, sure — a little.”
“You should have listened a lot. Peru has just extended its ocean borders to a thousand kilometers.”
Margie squinted, perplexed. “What does that have to do with maybe some fighting on Klong?”
“Peru wouldn’t do that without a lot of backing from somebody. They’re nominally Food, sure, because of the anchovy catch. But they don’t have a pot to piss in when the fish go deep, so they try to keep friendly with the other blocs.”
“Which one?”
Her father pushed the corners of his eyes up. He did not do it because there was any risk of this supersensitive room being bugged; it was only a reflex not to speak the name of Heir-of-Mao unnecessarily.
Margie was silent for a moment while the card sorter in her brain ordered her hierarchy of priorities. She came back to Number One. “Poppa,” she said, “Peru can stick their anchovies in their ear, and I’m not going to lose sleep about which one of my people is a spy, and if we get a little scandal about combat training we’ll survive it. None of it’s going to matter in two or three weeks, because we’ll be there, and that’s what I came to see you about. Adrian Lenz is crawfishing. I need help, poppa. Don’t let him cancel us out.”