He started leafing through the report from the marketing division, looking first at the bottom line, which was okay. MacAllister always started with the bottom line. In all things. Had anyone asked, he would have said it was the secret of success. He was still analyzing numbers and projections when Tilly told him the connection had been made, and the woman herself materialized in front of him.
“Hutch.” He put down the papers. “Good to see you.”
“And you, Mac. It’s been a while.” Despite the leisurely tone, she seemed cool. “What can I do for you?” She always looked good. Dark hair, penetrating eyes, an elfin quality that never quite went away.
He wondered whether she’d seen, or heard about, the Tampa broadcast. “How’ve you been?”
“We’re good. You?”
“On the run.” He wanted to lighten things a bit, but wasn’t sure how. He asked about Tor and Maureen, and whether there was any news yet on the Heffernan.
“Nothing yet,” she said. “We have two ships in the search area. It may take a while.”
“What are their prospects?” The Academy spokesman had said only that they were “hopeful.”
Her demeanor darkened. “Not for release.”
“Of course not.”
“Chances are slim. They probably didn’t make it out of hyper.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I hope you’re wrong.”
“So do I.”
“There’s something else I’d like to ask about.”
“Go ahead.”
“What do we know about the moonriders?”
She grinned. “You’re talking about the Ranger story.”
“I’m talking in general. Is there anything to it? Do we have visitors?”
“There’s something going on, Mac. But we don’t have a clue what it is.”
“Are they artificial? The objects people keep seeing?”
“Don’t know.”
“Is there any alternative explanation that makes sense to you?”
“We have some speculations that might cover some of the sightings. A lot of them, in fact. But there are a few that are difficult to explain away.”
“Did the Lassiter find anything?” The Lassiter had gone out a year ago looking for them, had toured a half dozen or so systems where the objects had been seen.
“You’ve seen the report.” There it was again. She was annoyed with him.
“Hutch,” he said, “I’m sorry if the broadcast shook things up. I didn’t mean to create a problem.”
“What broadcast?” The temperature dropped another five degrees.
“What do you expect me to do? I’m a journalist. They ask me questions, I tell them what I think.”
“I wish you weren’t so good at it.”
Hutch was a relatively diminutive woman, but she had a lot of presence. He wished she could loosen up a bit, though. “There’s been speculation that the Lassiter might have found something but that the Academy is keeping it quiet.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve become a conspiracy wacko, Mac.”
“If they had found something, would you have made it public?”
“Yes. Look, Mac, it would have been in our interest if they’d found something.”
“Something unearthly.”
“I guess you could put it that way. Sure. The public is bored with interstellar exploration. So we’ve become a target for politicians. And opportunistic media types.”
He let it pass. “Okay. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She was about to disconnect.
“May I ask one more question?”
“Ask away.”
“What’s your opinion? What do you think the moonriders are?”
“Mac,” she said, “I don’t do opinions. When we have some conclusions, I’ll let you know.”
Sometimes the cost of integrity is the loss of a friend.
— Tuesday, February 17
chapter 8
The secret to a successful career in virtually any field is good public relations. Forget results. Forget the facts. Perception is all that matters.
— Gregory MacAllister, “Downhill All the Way”
Wednesday, February 18.
Michael Asquith had not been a child of privilege. He’d grown up on a North Dakota farm. His father had belatedly discovered a talent for oratory and for telling people what they wanted to hear, and had gone all the way from raising corn and tomatoes — the crops had been moving north — to the Senate. He’d made a lot of money along the way. By the time full-blown success had arrived, Michael, the youngest of three sons, was flunking out of medical school at the University of Minnesota. Later he flunked out of business school. He ascribed these early misadventures to his being a restless, independent spirit. No respecter of authority, he was fond of saying. But it didn’t matter. Eventually he collected a doctorate in political science. Meanwhile Dad had gotten him a post with the North Dakota elections commission, and later he connected with a rising young politician from Fargo. Asquith discovered a talent for directing campaigns, and he and the young politician had gone together to Bismarck, and eventually to Washington.
In time he’d made friends, gained influence, and when the top job at the Academy came open, Asquith had walked into it. His major goal was eventually to run a presidential campaign. Hutch hoped it wouldn’t happen. The prospect of his being close to the seat of power was unsettling. It wasn’t that he was irresponsible. Or ruthless. It was that he was essentially hollow. Believed in nothing save his own advancement. (Although he didn’t realize that. Asquith thought of himself as a shrewd, progressive leader. The nation would be better off were he at the levers of power.) He lived strictly on the surface. Liked symbols. Mistook metaphors for reality. Enjoyed being photographed outside churches, but had no clue what the New Testament was really about. Even now, after several years at the Academy, he could not get excited about a new discovery, whatever it might be. His first thought was inevitably how the discovery might affect the Academy’s political standing, or its funding. To be honest, though, that was his job.
Wednesday morning, while Hutch continued to wait anxiously for word of the Heffernan, he called her up to his office. She expected questions on the status of the search. He surprised her. “You see this thing MacAllister did the other day?”
“The show?” she said.
“Yes. I thought he was supposed to be a friend of yours.”
“He is.”
“We don’t need any more friends like him.” She could see a vein pulsing in his forehead. “Did you know ahead of time he was going to do this?”
“No. I had no idea.”
“Stop me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you save his sorry ass a few years back?”
“Pretty much,” she said.
“It’s not the first time he’s done this to us.”
“No.”
“When you get a chance, would you talk to him? Explain that he owes us something. At least if he can’t help, he should shut up.”
“I don’t think he’d be receptive.”
“Wonderful. No good deed goes unpunished. He doesn’t give a goddam what happens to us, does he?”
“It’s not that,” she said. “He tends to say what he thinks.”
“Well,” Asquith said, “one of these days I’m going to find a way to take him down.”
“He is a little cranky,” she admitted. “But if I got into trouble, he’d be the first guy I’d want at my side.”
“Yeah. Sure.” If he got the point, he didn’t react. “I’m getting too old for this, Priscilla.”