Her name was Janet and she worked for the Sidney Mirror: “Is there any truth to the story that funding cuts are responsible for the recent spate of accidents?”
“Janet, a few cases of mechanical malfunction do not constitute a spate of accidents. No, we have everything we need to perform our mission.”
“And how do you perceive your mission, Eric?” This came from Karl Menchik, who represented one of the Russian outlets and who, Hutch suspected, was a plant, accredited to ask softball questions and get Eric off the hook.
“To take the human race to the stars,” he said. “To set out across the infinite sea, to land on distant shores, and to report what’s out there.”
It could have come right off one of the monuments.
Interstellar flight has run its course. It has been a harmless diversion for the better part of a century, but it is time to move on. Sea levels are rising, famine is common in many parts of the globe, thousands of people die every day from a range of diseases for which cures exist but for various reasons are not available, and population continues to outrun resources. A quarter of the global population is illiterate.
It is time to rearrange priorities. We should begin by recalling the superluminals, which contribute nothing toward creating a better life for the planet’s inhabitants. Let’s put the exploration effort aside for the present. Let’s concentrate on solving our problems at home before we go wandering off to other worlds whose existence have no impact on anyone other than a few academics.
— Venice Times, lead editorial, Monday, February 16
chapter 4
We’re a population of dunces. Consider the level of entertainment available to the home. The single most valuable skill in showbiz seems to be the ability to fall, with panache, on one’s face.
— Gregory MacAllister, Life and Times
“I believe him.”
MacAllister stared down out of the taxi at the network of bridges and islands that was modern Tampa. “No question in your mind, Wolfie?”
“Well, you know how it is, Mac. I wouldn’t bet the house, but yeah, I’d have a hard time believing it didn’t happen exactly the way he said it did.”
Below him, the city was a complex network of canals. Beautiful from the air. A prime example of the human capability to make art out of bad news. But the oceans were still rising, and they’d have to redesign the place yet again when the ice cap went into the water or the next big hurricane came along.
Homo imbecilus.
“So are we going to do the story?”
“Hell, Wolfie, what’s the story? What do we have to say? That somebody’s out there riding around in black ships?”
“That’s what it’s beginning to look like.”
“Wolfie, you have any idea how that sounds?”
“Yeah, I do. Doesn’t mean there isn’t something to it.”
“It’s bogus. You have a combination of slick corporate types who want the government to put more money into space, and a general population that will believe anything. But go ahead. Run with it. See what you can come up with.”
IT FIT WITH an idea for a new book, a history of human gullibility. In eighty-six volumes. How people make things up, and other people buy in. Organized religions. Notions of national or racial superiority. Political parties. Economic boobery. Whole armies, for example, who thought they could earn indulgences by killing Arabs. Or the seventeenth-century Brits who concluded they were intended by God to carry His truth to the benighted. Or the lunatic Jihadists of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. People still believed in astrology. And in cures that medical science didn’t want you to know about.
He was on a book tour, promoting Guts, Glory, and Chicken Soup, a collection of his essays. It had been a profitable trip so far. Readers had lined up in fourteen cities across the North American Union to buy his book and tell him they shared his views on politicians, college professors, bishops, the media, school boards, corporate service centers, professional athletes, and the voters. Well, some of them did. Others came to yell at him, to call him a rabble-rouser and an atheist and a threat to the welfare of the nation. In Orlando the previous evening he’d been told his mother must be ashamed (which, curiously enough, was true), and that no decent person would read his books. One woman offered to pray for him.
But they were buying Guts and Glory. It was jumping off the shelves. I wouldn’t read it myself, but I have a deranged brother. Sometimes they brought pies or whipped cream, hoping to get a clear shot at him, but the dealers knew feelings ran high when he was in town, so they disarmed everyone coming in the door.
In Houston, the mayor, anticipating his arrival, had given an interview saying no person was so disreputable that he wasn’t welcome in that fine city. The Boston Herald advised readers planning to attend the signing at Pergamo’s to keep their children home. In Toronto, a church group paraded outside the bookstore with signs telling him he was welcome at service if he wanted to save his soul.
He was used to it. Enjoyed it, in fact.
The taxi started down. MacAllister realized he was hungry. It was getting on to midmorning, and he hadn’t had anything other than toast and orange juice. He was scheduled to appear as a guest on Marge Dowling’s Up Front before going over to Arrowsmith’s later that afternoon for the signing. The show was at ten.
It was a bright, pleasant day. In February, Florida was always bright and pleasant. He hated pleasant weather. A little of it was all right, but he liked storms and snow, heavy winds, downpours. He didn’t understand why its residents didn’t move north.
The taxi settled onto the roof of Cee Square Broadcasting. MacAllister paid up and climbed out. One of the staff appeared in a doorway and hurried over to greet him. Good to see you, Mr. MacAllister. How was your flight from Orlando? We’ve been looking forward to having you on the show.
The guy couldn’t even pretend to be sincere. He was scared of MacAllister, and his voice was squeaking. MacAllister could have put him at ease, but he resisted the temptation.
Marge waited downstairs. She delivered the standard embrace that was not quite an embrace. Nothing touched him but fingertips and one cheek. She was tall, with dark hair and dark eyes, carried away by her self-importance. The sort of woman who’d have been okay had she stayed home and baked cookies. Everything with her was an act. Her enthusiasm at seeing him, her pretenses at modesty (“So good of you to spend some time with us, Mac”), even her accent. She’d been born and reared in Minnesota, but she sounded like someone who’d be going home after work to the plantation. “Mac,” she said, “it’s been a long time.”
Not long enough. But her show provided a perfect format for him. There’d be a second guest, someone who would be expected to provide contrasting views to his own. In past years, the guests had been local champions of social uplift, whom he’d dismembered at leisure. The primary topic for that day’s show was to be interstellar expansion, and his opponent would be an Academy pilot. A woman, no less. When he’d first heard, he’d thought it might be Hutch, but it wasn’t. And he was relieved. He wouldn’t feel right sticking barbs into an old friend in front of a large audience.
She got him fresh coffee and turned him over to the makeup people. “See you in a few minutes, Mac.” In his case, makeup was a joke. He had a commanding presence, always looked good, and had no need of cosmetics. But the producers insisted.
Right. MacAllister sat down, and a young woman who should have had better things to do with her life tried to take the shine off his nose. When she was done, a guide took him to the green room, where he sat down, exposed to The Morning Show, a network offering with two people going on about a kidnapping in Montana. Then the guide came back for him and led him through a side corridor into a studio. Three leather chairs were placed around a table. The walls were paneled. When the picture was transmitted, they would appear to be filled with leather volumes. One would have a fireplace. If the fireplace didn’t alert the viewer it was all a scam, MacAllister couldn’t imagine what would.
A kid producer sat in one of the chairs, studying a script. He jumped up when he saw MacAllister and shook hands a bit too enthusiastically. “It’s a pleasure to have you back, Mr. MacAllister,” he said.
“Thank you.”
The kid looked at his notes. “You’re going to try to explain why we shouldn’t be spending tax money to support the Academy? Am I right?”
“I can do that,” said MacAllister. He didn’t like to think of it quite that way. And he considered informing the producer there might be a middle ground somewhere. But in the larger scale of things, his opinion didn’t count anyhow. The politicians made the decisions, and the voters paid no attention.
Marge came in, carrying a copy of Guts, Glory, and Chicken Soup. She had changed clothes and was smartly set out in shades of brown and blue, white collar, gold bracelet. “They told you we were going national?” she said.
“No. Why? What happened?”
“The Heffernan. It’s become a big story.”
“And I’ve become an expert?”
“Oh, Mac, it’s not you. Valentina is an Academy pilot.” She glanced at a clock. “Our segment will be twenty-two minutes plus break time.”
“I assume Valentina is the other guest?”
“Yes. It turns out to be nice timing.”
“I assume they haven’t heard anything yet? About the Heffernan?”
“Not a word. Our sources tell us things are a bit rattled at the Academy. This may not have a happy ending.”
MacAllister tried to remember the details. “Five on the ship. Was that what I heard?”
“Yes. It’s one of the research missions.”
“Pity. I’m sorry to hear it.”
She looked down at the book. “My people tell me this is hell on wheels,” she said. She’d probably read it, but she was sending MacAllister a message. You don’t intimidate me, big fella. “How’s the tour been going?”
“Okay.” He pulled out a chair and sat. “How’s life in showbiz?”
“Same as always.” She was all warmth and charm. “I suspect you’ll be glad to get home, Mac. Are you free for lunch today?”