The reference was to the statement issued by the T'ing Wei, the Superintendent of Trials, immediately after the speech. Stung by Kennedy's accusations—or "caught out" as some commentators had put it—the T'ing Wei had backpedaled furiously, at first denying that there was any such document, and then, when it became clear that no one was going to accept that, putting out a revised statement, admitting the document's existence, but denying that it was anything more than a study.
As for the speech itself, that had been a sensation. A revelation. Not in living memory had an audience responded so enthusiastically, so passionately, to anyone. Kennedy had had them eating out of his hand. Throughout the ninety minutes of the speech there had been a kind of buzz in the great hall, a sense of something new happening right there before their eyes. Kennedy had stood there at the front of the stage, handsome, charismatic, like a king in exile. Scorning notes, he had addressed the great crowd from memory, his deep, resonant voice washing like a tide over their heads. And his words, simple yet powerful, had touched a raw nerve. You could see that. See it on the faces in the crowd; faces that filled the screens throughout the great City of North America. This was his moment. The moment when he came of age.
And afterward, the crowd had stood there, cheering wildly, applauding Kennedy for more than twenty minutes, bringing him back time and again to the stage, a great roar going up each time he reappeared, followed moments later by the chant:
"Ke-ne-dy! Ke-ne-dy! Ke-ne-dy! Ke-ne-dy!"
And all the while he had stood there, smiling and looking about him, applauding his audience just as they applauded him, his boyish modesty there for all to see.
"Shih Kennedy! Shih Kennedy!"
Kennedy leaned forward on the rostrum and pointed down into the crush of media men, singling out one of the many who were calling him. "Yes, Peter. What is it?"
"Are you aware that a number of surveys done over the last six months have revealed that quite a large percentage of people are actually in favor of limited euthanasia proposals?"
Kennedy nodded somberly. "I think limited is the word, Peter. I've seen those surveys—you're talking about the Howett Report and the Chang Institute paper, I assume . . . Yes? Well, all I can say is that one should look very carefully at the questions that were asked in those surveys and see how they actually relate to these new proposals. I think you'll find that there's very little correlation between them. What the new 'Study1 reveals is that the actual proposals are far more radical, far more deep-reaching. Besides, there's a hell of a difference between thinking that something might just possibly be a good idea and actually going out and doing it. A hell of a difference. I mean, what we're talking about here is killing people. And not just one or two, but millions. Tens of millions."
Kennedy put his hand up to his brow, combing back a lock of his dark hair, an expression of deep concern in his steel-gray eyes.
"No, Peter, what I think those surveys show is that most people recognize that there's a problem. But this isn't the solution. At least, not one that any decent person should be contemplating."
There was a buzz of sympathy from the floor. But at once the clamor began again.
"Shih Kennedy! Shih Kennedy!"
"Yes, Ho Yang . . ."
The young Han, a reporter for the all-Han station, Wen Ming, glanced at his hand-held comset, then looked up, addressing Kennedy, an immediate translation going out across the airwaves.
"In your speech you seemed to imply that, as far-reaching as the Study document was in terms of the upper age group, this was merely the thin end of the wedge, and that we might expect such preliminary measures to be followed by a whole package of population controls. Could you amplify on that?"
Kennedy smiled. "Certainly. And, once again, this is not a matter of mere speculation. These discussions are going on right now, in secret rooms throughout the seven Cities. Deals are being made, proposals drawn up. Proposals that, if we're not careful, will be presented to the House and voted on by men whose interests are not necessarily ours."
"And what exactly do you mean by that, Shih Kennedy?"
Kennedy leaned forward slightly. "I mean that there are men— rich, powerful men, if you like—who put profit before family, individual gain before the common good. And it's these men—these hsiao jen, these 'little men'—who are at present dictating things. I don't know about you, Ho Yang, but I think that's wrong. I think that a matter of this importance should be debated publicly and decided publicly. Something must be done, yes. We all recognize that now. But it must be done openly, in the light, where all can see."
And so it went on, for almost two hours, until, with a smile and a wave, Kennedy stood down. But even then—even after the lights had gone down and the remotes had been packed away—Kennedy wasn't finished. After speaking with his advisors, catching up on the latest news, he went out among the media men, shaking hands and stopping to say a word or two here and there, suddenly informal, a friend, not just a "face."
"How's Jean?" one of them asked.
Kennedy turned. "She's fine, Jack. Fine. In fact, she's going off with the boys for a week or so, to escape all of this politicking. She's always complaining that I work her too hard, so I thought I'd give her and the boys a break, before things get really hectic."
There was laughter at that. All there knew just how hard Kennedy worked. Phenomenally hard. In that he was like his father.
"Okay, boys, so if you'll excuse me now . . ."
Kennedy went through, into the anteroom. There, in a great cushioned chair on the far side of the room, sat Jean, his wife, her arms aboufctheir two young sons. They were looking away from him,
unaware that he had come into the room, staring up at the big screen in the corner of the room.
He stood there a moment, looking across at them, torn by the sight. There was such pride in young Robert's face as he stared at his father's image. Such undemanding love. And Jean... He could barely look at her without thinking of the deal he had made with Wu Shih.
For a time out there he had almost forgotten. The deal had seemed as nothing. But now, facing his family once again, he felt the hollow-ness flood back into him, leaving him weightless, like a leaf in the wind.
He shuddered. What was it they said? When the east wind blows, the wise man bows before it. Well, he had bowed, sure enough. But not like a reed. More like a great tree, its trunk snapped and fallen in the face of the storm.
"Joe!" Jean saw him and came across, embracing him. Moments later he felt his two sons holding tight to him, one on either side. "Dad!" they were saying. "Dad, it was wonderful! You were brilliant!"
He steeled himself. "I'm sorry, Jean. If there was any choice . . ."
She drew her head back, looking at him, then reached out to wipe the tears that had come, unbidden, to his eyes. "It's all right. I understand. You know I understand. And I'll stand by you, Joseph Kennedy. Whatever you do."
"I know," he said. "Maybe that's what worries me most. That you're so understanding. If I could only . . ."
She put a finger to his lips. "There's no alternative. We both know that. Remember what you said, all those years ago, that night in your father's house, that year we first met? You said . . . that it didn't matter how it got done, only that it got done." She smiled. "That's still true, isn't it, Joe? And what you did tonight . . . that's a big step toward it."
"Maybe ..."
"No. No maybes about it. Tonight you started something. Something that even Wu Shih can't stop."
He looked down. To either side of him his sons were looking up at him, trying to understand what was going on.