The National’s causes were all over the place. It favored a health-care system for everybody on the planet. It championed efforts to strengthen the World Council. It wanted programs to see that nobody went hungry and everybody had a place to sleep. It also favored balanced budgets, reduction in the size of government, and the return of the death penalty. People across the political landscape insisted that there was no way to do all those things. MacAllister proudly responded that, once you make that decision, you’re necessarily right.
They did not come close to having the widest circulation in the field, but they liked to feel — and loudly proclaimed — that the people who made things happen, or those who might have but stalled around until the dam broke, all read The National. By and large they found a lot in it not to like. MacAllister and his legion routinely called into question the integrity of politicians, the good sense of academics, the single-mindedness of the religious establishment, and the taste of the general public.
Because The National limited itself to commentary, it wasn’t concerned with day-to-day topicality. Wolfie Esterhaus got the news about the moonriders at Ophiuchi from Mac bare minutes before it broke for the rest of the world. But he had an eyewitness account that had arrived just in time to plug into the upcoming issue. He’d want more than what the boss could give him. The real issue, aside from the nature of the moonriders themselves, was the reaction at high levels.
The question surfaced at several press conferences in the Americas and around the world. But everybody was brushing the story off. It sounded too much like previous sensationalist reports. Moonriders kidnap two people on remote Manitoba highway. Moonriders buzz private aircraft. Moonrider crashes into ocean.
Wolfie had a source at the White House. Roger Schubert was deputy assistant to the nation’s security advisor. It took two hours to get through.
“Wolfie, I was wondering when I’d hear from you.” Followed by a hearty laugh. Schubert was a little guy, with narrow shoulders and a pinched, nervous expression. But he sounded big. He had the voice of a professional wrestler. “You want to know about the moonriders?”
“Please. Do you guys have anything that hasn’t been made public?”
“Not a thing.”
“How is the president reacting?”
“The same way the rest of us are, Wolfie. He’s waiting for details. Right now it doesn’t sound like much.”
“You don’t think the asteroid thing sounds crazy?”
“That’s the whole point: It’s too crazy to believe. Let’s wait and see what the facts are. I’ll tell you this much: If there really are aliens out there, and if they’ve decided to drop a rock on a bunch of whales, or whatever they’ve got on Terranova, they’re going to have to deal with the Humane Society. And no, of course the president won’t like it. He’d probably condemn it. But that sort of thing is a long way from constituting a threat.”
Schubert was sitting on his desk, arms folded. “Look, Wolfie, I know it sounds spooky. But we don’t even know yet how accurate the projection is. Seventeen years is a long time. Maybe the numbers are wrong. Maybe it’s a coincidence. Maybe they were just practicing landing procedures. But I can tell you this: If moonriders land on the White House lawn, the president will be ready to welcome them.”
WOLFIE WAS AN ideal number two for MacAllister. He bought into his boss’s philosophy, but was diplomatic and soft-spoken. Everybody liked him, and they saw him as a mollifying influence at The National, a voice of reason and restraint. Many questioned his motives in working for MacAllister, but they were glad for his presence on the editorial page. God knew what the magazine would have been like if it weren’t for him.
In fact Wolfie admired his editor. MacAllister wasn’t always right, but he was smart enough to know that. He was willing to change his mind when the evidence pointed in a different direction. That fact alone put MacAllister very nearly in a class by himself.
Wolfie had started life as a Coast Guard officer. He’d served eight years, had participated in any number of rescues of people not smart enough to stay out of the way of storms. A reporter from The Baltimore Sun had done a feature story on him. The story had been expanded into a book, on which Wolfie assisted. He discovered a talent for writing, did a series of stories on Coast Guard operations, and finally moved full-time into journalism, first with the Sun, and later with The Washington Post and DC After Dark, for which he still did occasional assignments.
But his heart and soul lay with The National. It was the publication the decision-makers read, and feared. You didn’t want to get caught in MacAllister’s sights.
Wolfie had just started blocking out the next issue when another transmission from the Salvator came in. The boss was in short sleeves, and he looked irritated. He had a few more details about the Ophiuchi sighting. A monitor had shut down at one point and had to be repaired. The Salvator had been ordered away from Ophiuchi. The original briefing provided by the Academy had left the impression the Salvator had simply moved on after inspecting the asteroid. But obviously the high-level folks at the Academy were taking things seriously.
He added something else: “Wolfie, we landed on the asteroid. It’s a mountain. I can’t imagine how anything as small as that moonrider looked could have moved that thing. If it did, their technology is way ahead of ours. Think about that, then consider the fact that they behave like kids who want to pull legs off grasshoppers. I don’t want to start a panic, so don’t quote me, but I’m not comfortable.”
Later that afternoon, the World Society for the Protection of Animals issued a statement, condemning the diversion of the asteroid by “whoever is responsible,” and demanding that the Academy be directed to intervene.
Wolfie called the Academy, identified himself, and asked to speak to Priscilla Hutchins. An AI told him, “Sorry, she’s not available.”
“I’m a friend of Gregory MacAllister,” he said. “I think she’d consent to talk to me.”
He was directed to wait. Seven or eight minutes later her voice came over the circuit. No picture. “What can I do for you, Mr. Esterhaus?” She sounded detached. Almost annoyed. Better things to do than talk to journalists.
“Ms. Hutchins, I’m sorry to bother you. I’m sure you’re busy at the moment.”
“Pretty much. What’s your question?”
Did he only get one? “How confident are you about the information that came out of Ophiuchi today?”
“How do you mean?”
“Are there aliens?”
“Mr. Esterhaus, Wolfgang, your guess is as good as mine. I’m sure the data passed to us by the Salvator is accurate. We haven’t drawn conclusions yet.”
“Ms. Hutchins, if the data are accurate, it seems clear that the aliens are deranged. Psychopathic. Is any other conclusion even possible?”
She thought about it. “I think we need to wait a bit before we’ll have a good read on what’s happening.”
“So the Academy thinks — ”
“Let’s give it a little time, Wolfgang.”
“All right, may I ask another question?”
“Sure.”
“What are you going to do about Terranova?”
“You mean are we going to divert the asteroid? Turn it off course?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“That’s not my call, Wolfgang. I don’t know what’s been decided.”
“You’re saying there’s a possibility we might just stand aside and let the thing go down?”
“I’m saying I haven’t received my instructions yet. You want to know more, you’ll have to go higher in the organization.”