The sun was touching the horizon, a fat ball of molten red. The sky was glowing copper, with a few long streamers of gold and purple clouds hanging in the west.
Cavendish felt bone-tired. His whole body ached. His eyes burned from lack of sleep. Yet something made him walk along the beach that circled the island. He walked slowly, like a man searching for a specific spot even though he doesn’t know where that spot might be. The sun sank out of sight and the shadows of evening covered the world.
All the way past the docks he walked, like a sentry, like an automaton, and down around the ocean side of the island, where the reef came close and the surf boomed out of the twilight.
Someone was sitting under the trees that fringed the beach. Waiting for him.
“Good evening,” said Maria Markova.
“Yes,” Cavendish answered.
Maria’s suitcase of electronic gear was at her feet, opened, its tiny light gleaming red in the shadows.
“Report.”
Without hesitation, Cavendish began, “The meeting was attended by Professor McDermott, Academician Zworkin, Dr. Thompson…”
Nearly an hour later, they were both sitting on the sand. Maria rested her back against a tree; Cavendish sat cross-legged, straight-backed. It was too dark to see the pain in his eyes.
“…and he suggested that I see a psychologist,” the Englishman finished.
Maria sat in silence for a while, thinking. “Anything else?” she asked.
“No…except for Schmidt.”
“Schmidt? The Dutchman?”
“Yes. There are rumors circulating around the island that he is becoming a drug addict. Certainly he has been useless as far as real work is concerned.”
“Tell me about Schmidt; everything you know about him.”
Cavendish did.
“This young man could be useful,” Maria said when he had finished. “Befriend him. Play on his animosity toward the Americans. Be certain to make him believe that it is Stoner who is stealing the glory from him.”
“Stoner?”
Nodding in the darkness, Maria said, “Stoner. He is the one who must be stopped. And Schmidt may be the way to stop him.”
“I…don’t understand,” Cavendish said.
“It is not necessary for you to understand. Only to obey.”
“Yes.”
“Very well,” Maria said. “You have done well. You may go now.”
“Yes,” Cavendish dutifully answered. He got slowly to his feet, and as he stepped out from under the shadows of the trees, into the pale moonlight, Maria could see for the first time the anguish that twisted the old man’s face into a hideous death’s mask.
Her breath caught. Cursing herself for a weakling, she dismissed Cavendish almost angrily. Painfully, stiffly, he walked away without another word.
Maria’s hands were shaking as she turned off her machine and snapped shut the lid of its suitcase. It felt heavier than ever as she carried it back to her bungalow.
Camp David
The rustic little briefing room was jammed with newsmen. Even though no TV cameras were allowed, photographers clicked and whirred away as the press secretary strode up to the podium.
“Okay,” he said, adjusting the microphone with one hand. “Here’s today’s statement:
“The President had breakfast with the Reverend Willie Wilson, the Urban Evangelist, this morning. Reverend Wilson’s evangelical mission is sponsoring an outdoor rally at RFK Stadium next Tuesday evening, and Reverend Wilson invited the President to attend. The President reluctantly declined, due to the press of other business….”
“Like the way the primaries are going,” a reporter sotto voce’d loudly enough for the whole room to titter.
The press secretary frowned, then returned to his statement: “The President congratulated Reverend Wilson on his fine work for inner city people. Reverend Wilson’s now famous ‘Watch the Skies’ message was not—repeat, not—discussed.”
The press secretary looked up at the reporters and photographers.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. This isn’t a press conference; I’m not going to answer any questions. Copies of the statement will be available in about ten minutes.”
Chapter 27
Stoner and Markov were eating together in the mess hall when Schmidt sauntered in.
“A sad case,” Markov muttered, spooning soup past his beard.
“What do you mean?” Stoner asked.
“Haven’t you heard? Schmidt spends his days puffing on narcotics instead of working.”
Stoner stared at the young astronomer, who was getting into line in front of the steam counter.
“Narcotics? You mean pot?”
“Marijuana, other things. I understand there is quite a market here for tranquilizers, amphetamines.” Markov shook his head in stern disapproval.
“So that’s why he’s been no damned use to anybody since he got here,” Stoner said, his mouth tightening. “Maybe we should have him busted.”
“Busted?”
“Thrown in jail. What he’s doing is illegal.”
“It is?” Markov looked surprised. “I thought the drug culture was an integral part of the decadent capitalist society.”
“It may be,” Stoner replied, his eyes still on Schmidt, “but that doesn’t mean it’s legal.”
“The hypocrisies of capitalism.”
Stoner looked at the Russian. He was grinning.
Turning back to Schmidt, he saw that the young astronomer had filled his tray, walked as far as the cash register, spoke a few flustered words to the native Marshallese woman working as cashier, then—red-faced—left the tray where it was and walked quickly out of the mess hall.
“What’s he doing?” Stoner wondered.
Markov shrugged. “He’s probably spent all his money on drugs and forgot that he didn’t have anything in his pockets to pay for his dinner.”
Edouard Reynaud was sitting at the writing desk in his trailer, trying to compose a dignified letter to Cardinal Benedetto on the latest progress of Project JOVE.
He let the pen drop from his fingers, then rubbed his eyes. The words kept blurring. His head still buzzed from whatever he had taken that afternoon with Schmidt. Besides, he hated writing. Equations are so elegant and direct, he thought. Words are slippery and full of pitfalls.
Looking up, he saw that it was fully night outside. The little desk lamp was the only illumination in his trailer.
“I’ll miss dinner,” he mumbled to himself. The food on this miserable island made it easier to avoid the sin of gluttony.
A knocking rattled the trailer. Reynaud got up and went to the flimsy metal door. Opening it, he saw Hans Schmidt standing on the step, droopy-eyed, worried.
“I don’t have any more money,” Schmidt said.
Reynaud blinked with surprise. “What?”
Schmidt seemed to be weaving slightly, even though his feet didn’t move. “Money. They took all my money. I can’t buy a meal.”
Remembering the mosquitoes that could keep a man awake all night, Reynaud stepped outside and shut the trailer door firmly. “You mean you’ve spent all your money, and now you have nothing left for food?”
Schmidt insisted stubbornly, “They took it all. They didn’t leave me any for myself.”
“Come and have dinner with me,” Reynaud said, reaching for the young man’s arm. “You’ve had enough of a high for one day. You must sober up before you hurt yourself.”
Schmidt laughed. “Come over to my place. I have some good grass.”
“No, no.” Reynaud tugged at his arm. “Come and get some food into you.”