MacAllister roundly disliked people who couldn’t flatter and sound as if they meant it. “Thank you for the compliment.”
“We’d like to make your publication one of the core engines of the campaign.”
He wasn’t certain what a core engine was, but he wasn’t going to quibble. “Excellent, Mr. Dryden,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll find The National a profitable investment.”
“Yes, indeed. I have no doubt it would be advantageous to both our organizations. By the way, please call me Charlie.”
“Okay, Charlie. It’s a pleasure to meet you. How about if I transfer you to our marketing director and you can let him know precisely what you want.” The marketing director, of course, was Tilly.
“Before you do, Gregory, there is one thing we’d need to clarify. You, personally, are on record as being opposed to the effort to promote starflight.”
“Well, that’s not quite accurate. I think interstellar exploration is fine. I’m just not sure it should be a high priority for taxpayer funds at the moment.”
“Yes.” He glanced at something far away. The smile looked a bit pained. “I understand the distinction, of course. Unfortunately, we have some people on our board who perceive you, you, not the magazine, as an active opponent to the effort to take humanity to the stars.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Charlie.”
“What we’d like you to do is soften your stand somewhat.”
“What would you suggest?”
“Oh. Nothing major. Just maybe an editorial pointing out that you do favor the expansion of the human spirit into deep space. Something to that effect.”
“You know, Charlie, you’re right. That’s exactly how I feel. I’m not entirely sure what it means, but I’m for it.”
There was a moment of confusion while Dryden considered what MacAllister was saying. Then the smile came back. “Excellent. Then there’s no problem.”
“ — But I won’t write the editorial.”
“Well, a simple statement on one of the interview shows would probably be sufficient.”
“I’m sorry, Charlie. It’s not on my list of priorities at the moment. Orion is welcome to take advertising space with The National, or not, as it pleases. But you don’t get to dictate editorial policy. I enjoyed talking with you.”
HE SPENT THE evening reading a new novel by Judah Winslow, a young man who had a magnificent career in front of him. He’d just finished the book and was about to call it a night when Tilly let another caller through. “Anthony DiLorenzo,” the caller said. “I’m a physicist. University of Cairo.”
“What can I do for you, Dr. DiLorenzo?”
He looked like the Ancient of Days. Lined face, white whiskers, full jowls, watery eyes. “I saw the show you did last week. Up Front.”
“Okay.”
“I’m in full agreement. But you’ve missed the real boondoggle.”
“Which is what?”
“The Origins Project. It costs tens of billions.”
“I’m aware of what it costs, Doctor. At the moment we’re fighting one battle at a time. Anyhow, the bulk of the funding for it comes from the Europeans.”
“It doesn’t matter. I suggest you fight this one and forget the Academy.”
“Why?”
“How much do you know about Origins?”
“Just that it’s expensive.”
“Did you know there’s a chance it could blow up?”
“Sure. That’s why they moved it out to 36 Ophiuchi.”
“Mr. MacAllister, actually it’s located several light-years the other side of 36 Ophiuchi.”
“What are you trying to tell me, Doctor?”
“It might not be far enough.”
That got his attention. “What do you mean? What kind of explosion are they expecting?”
“They aren’t expecting one, but they are concerned about the possibility.”
“Could you explain, please?”
“Several kinds of miscarriages are possible. But, since they are where they are, we need only concern ourselves with one.”
“Okay.”
“Worst-case scenario: It’s possible an event at Origins could destroy the Earth.”
“Doctor, they are light-years away.”
“The Origins Project is a hypercollider, Mr. MacAllister. Nothing remotely like it has ever been built before. And it’s probably perfectly safe.”
“Probably.”
“There’s an outside chance that the thing could tear a hole in the fabric of space.”
“A hole in space? What does that mean, exactly?”
“If it happens, the end of everything.” He began trying to explain, citing equations and theorems that meant nothing to MacAllister.
“Wait a minute,” MacAllister said, finally. “What’s everything? You mean the entire project might blow up?”
“The entire universe, sir. Everything.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“The chance that it would happen is remote. But there is a chance.”
“Give me a number.”
“Maybe one in a million. It’s hard to say.”
“One in a million they could blow up the universe.”
“That’s not precisely what would happen. But the effect would be the same.”
“Do the people in charge agree with your assessment?”
“Some think the odds are longer. Some that there is no chance at all. It’s possible the odds are very low. We simply do not know.”
“What’s the point of the research?”
“To learn how the Big Bang was generated.” His eyes bored into MacAllister. “You have influence in high places. Get it stopped.”
“Give me the children until they are seven and anyone may have them afterward.” Francis Xavier’s comment. A child’s mind is open to learn, and it is a cruel and heartless thing to fill it with myth disguised as history, to impose upon it a bogus lifelong perspective, and close it up again, leaving it proof against common sense and all argument. Surely, if there is a hell, people who do this are the ones who will get their tickets punched.
A judgment by the God who devised the quantum system should be considerably different from the one the Reverend Koestler envisions. I gave you a sky full of stars, and you never raised your eyes. I gave you a brain, and you never used it.
— Monday, February 23
MOTHER APOLOGIZES FOR SON’S ATTACK ON PREACHER
“Always a Difficult Child”
chapter 13
An optimist is somebody who thinks our various political and social systems, schools and churches, support groups and Boy Scout troops, jury trials and congressional committees, are on the up-and-up. That they are intended for the benefit of the members. The reality is that they are designed to keep everyone in line.
— Gregory MacAllister, “Red Flags”
When Asquith arrived at his office in the morning, several of his staff surrounded him, telling him how good he’d been, how he’d struck exactly the right note, how he couldn’t have done more for the Academy. Hutch was in the lobby a half hour later when he came out of one of the conference rooms. She saw that the happy talk had had no effect. The commissioner knew. He flicked a pained smile at her and shook his head. Then he was gone, down the corridor that led to his office.
She felt sorry for him. He wasn’t really a bad guy. Had he not gotten into politics, he would probably have been okay.
She returned to her own suite and went back to work on the rescheduling. She was bringing the Colbys back to Union, one by one, and arranging to have them removed from service. That meant telling people who thought they’d arranged transportation a year or so ago that their projects were delayed or canceled.