Starfire (2 page)

The supercooled central brain of Sniffer-A had no circuits that might be described as worriers, but it was built to register, record, and transmit anomalies. The great bow wave of charged particles generated by the Alpha Centauri supernova had been reached ahead of time. Also, the particle mixture was grossly different from that in the mission profile.

The Sniffer began its comparisons. The particle flux was more energetic than anticipated, but that was consistent with a greater overall velocity and early arrival. A more significant oddity lay in the unexpected abundance of nuclei heavier than the protons of bare hydrogen. Everything was too plentiful, from deuterium—too weakly bound to have survived the fires of the supernova—to uranium. Odder yet, the data suggested patterns within the particles, as though the ions were somehow maintaining their exact relative separations over large distances.

Sniffer-A's analytical powers were confined to a comparison between the observations and the predictions loaded into it before launch. It contained no physical models or programs to perform correlations, and it lacked the concept of a
structure
that ions or other units might follow as they moved through space.

The data went to the communications channels, for return to Earth and to entities with the power to speculate. The Sniffer flew on. In another year, thirty million seconds on the steady internal clock, the main wave had passed. The flux of particles steadily became less.

The reduction was consistent with the onboard math models. Sniffer-A's closest equivalent to human contentment came when observations matched a preloaded profile. The Sniffer's activity level gradually decreased.

One more year, and the power levels were down to preencounter values. Sniffer-A cruised quietly on.

It would coast for another half a century. Then it would rouse itself for one final frantic spell of recording and transmission before plunging to its immolation in the turbulent supernova remnant of Alpha Centauri.

2

If you average seven meetings a day and there is a fifty-fifty chance that any given meeting will be a stinker, then about one day in every four months
all
your meetings will be stinkers.

President Celine Tanaka reviewed her list of appointments and decided that today was the day. In five meetings through mid-afternoon, all held outside the White House, she had heard nothing but bad news, complaints, attempted money grabs, and self-serving excuses.

In space, the mirror-matter thrustors on one whole segment of the shield were below par. But instead of correcting the problem, the manufacturer's and integrator's representatives were busy pointing fingers at each other. In other space activities, half a dozen congressional groups were pushing to have another Sniffer built and launched. Celine detected a distinct whiff of pork barrel. She made a note:
Check position and status of Sniffers.
A dozen of the high-acceleration probes were already racing to sample the particle wave front on its way from Alpha Centauri. How would another one help?

More likely, lobbyists for the Sniffers' manufacturer were behind the political moves. The game never ended. If Sol were guaranteed to go nova tomorrow, today she would hear from lobbyists for sunscreen.

Meanwhile, closer to home, the Cabinet officer in charge of energy allocation did not seem to know the differences between fossil fuel, nuclear, and solar power plants, or be able to estimate the country's base load capacity of each. The head of the United States census had just informed Celine that "sampling errors" were responsible for the obvious and grotesque inaccuracies in the population count of the West Coast states. The chief of health services offered no explanation for the rise in the infant mortality rate in the rural South, except to suggest "unusual weather." They didn't know it yet, but all three men were out of a job. Incompetence was something you might be able to tolerate in easy times. These were not easy times. There had been no easy times in the twenty-seven years since Alpha Centauri improbably went supernova.

The good news was that Celine had only two more meetings on her schedule. Returning to the White House through the overcast heat of a July afternoon, she reflected on the bad news: that her two final encounters were likely to be the worst of all. She went straight to the Oval Office, sat down in her specially designed orthopedic chair, and told the autocom: "All right, send Mr. Glover in."

The armored door slid silently open and Milton Glover marched into the office. He stood before her and inclined his head. "Ma'am."

He was a great one for offering every respect due to the presidency. His inner feelings were another matter. "Sit down, Milton. It's good to see you."

The smile he gave her was that of a man without a care in the world. He remained standing and took a long look around the sparsely decorated office. His eyes lingered on the side table with its vase of Oceanus roses. He nodded appreciatively and sat down. "I've been here many times over many years, Madam President. And I must say, I've never known this place to look so good."

Beneath the compliment lay the second message:
Presidents come and Presidents go. I was here long before your time, ma'am, and I'll be here long after you leave.

Milton Glover was of medium height and build, with blond hair, a fair moustache, and innocent eyes of pale blue. He was in his late seventies, but the telomod treatment gave him the appearance and bearing of a man in his forties. He laughed loudly, frequently, and in Celine's opinion wholly insincerely. He was also not nearly so smart as he thought he was.

"Thank you, Milton."
Take all compliments at face value.
"How can I help you?"

She had learned the quickest way to bring a meeting to the point. Nothing could be more polite than the simple question "How can I help you?" but it cut through all flowery courtesies. Of course, it was based on a cynical assumption: No one requested a meeting with the President who
didn't
want something. So far that premise had seldom been wrong.

"I won't take much of your time, Madam President." Glover spread his hands wide. "For myself, I want absolutely nothing. I am here on behalf of a group of concerned citizens."

"How can I help
them
?"

"The Trust In Government coalition is unhappy with this nation's most recent policy statements and budget proposals. It is not too strong to say that many of them—of us—feel betrayed."

"How so?" Advice from her political mentor:
Let the visitor do the talking.

Glover pulled an envelope from an inside pocket. "Last year, an unprecedented thirty percent of our national resources went to the global protection project. That was already far more than can be justified. Now we see from this—your budget, signed with your own hand—that you propose to increase our contribution to the World Protection Federation to almost thirty-four percent. More than a third of the country's expenditures will vanish into space."

"Where it will be used to protect our citizens.
All
our citizens—including the members of the Trust In Government coalition."

Celine could see nothing remotely humorous in her statement, but Glover laughed heartily. "Madam President, you know as well as I do that there are less expensive ways of protecting our people. Particularly when you recognize that the bulk of the funds you are proposing to give away is drawn from the members of the TIG coalition. And our members will not be the primary beneficiaries of such gross expenditures."

Their meeting was being recorded. Milton Glover knew it. His statement was as close as he would come to what he really meant:
Lots of foreigners don't contribute a dime, so screw 'em. Why should my friends and I build a space shield to protect a bunch of gooks? And why pay here at home, either, to save no-hope welfare trash and idlers who don't pull their weight?

TIG. Trust In Government. An old political principle, to give your organization a name that's the opposite of what you mean. As Vice President Auden Travis had said to Celine, "TIG doesn't really stand for Trust In Government. It stands for Troglodytes In the Ground. They want to dig holes to hide away from the particle storm, and to hell with everybody who has to stay outside."

Celine agreed with Travis, but Milton Glover and his friends controlled too much wealth and had too much influence to be ignored. They insisted that the mockery of language was with the World Protection Federation. WPF, their literature said, stood for Wasters, Paupers, and Foreigners.

"Milton, you give me credit for power I don't have. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't pull us out of the WPF. Remember, this country
started
the organization."

"Yes. Twenty-seven years ago, when you were still an astronaut. I know it was nothing to do with you. I don't even blame President Steinmetz." He saw her expression. Saul Steinmetz had brought her into politics, and he was her idol. Hale and hearty, though long retired, he was rich and powerful enough to be a TIG member. In fact, he was the one who had first warned Celine that the TIG consisted of a bunch of self-serving hogs.

Glover knew that Celine and Steinmetz were friends. He hurried on. "Old Saul did what seemed right at the time, starting a global effort to make the space shield. But now it looks dumber and dumber. The project is way behind schedule." (How did he know that? It was supposed to be secret information.) "A shield that's only half built when the particle storm hits is like a paper umbrella in a thunderstorm. Worse than nothing, because you don't know you have to run for cover."

"Milton, this year's budget is signed and sealed. I ask again, how can I help you?"

"I'll tell you, Madam President. It's something simple, and something you have the authority to do. The Nevada federal properties have been deserted and ignored for more than a quarter of a century. You could make them available for leasing by private interests."

Celine had been expecting another plea for reduced international support by the United States. Glover's request threw her completely. He was right; the Alpha Centauri supernova and the resulting population dip had emptied the Nevada federal lands. She had seen no mention of those lands in official reports during her five years in office. A proposal to open them to private leases would surely sail through without opposition.

But why was the TIG coalition—or anyone else—interested in Nevada? The whole state was barren desert.

Glover was not about to tell her. He was smiling smugly, waiting.

"I'll see what I can do, Milton. On the face of it, I see no reason why a request like that couldn't be granted."

"Quickly? If it would help, TIG can offer technical assistance in drafting an agreement."

"I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you, ma'am. And let me mention one other thing. If the federal lands in Nevada do get opened up for leasing, I guarantee there will be no further TIG opposition to this year's budget. In fact, we will support it." He was on his feet. "Madam President." He inclined his head politely, then turned and walked out.

Celine glanced at the clock. Four thirty-eight. Eight minutes since he walked through the door. Glover had certainly come through on his promise not to take much time. All she needed now were his motives. What did he know that she didn't?

She jotted another note to herself,
Nevada?,
and braced herself for the final appointment. She had never emerged from a meeting with her next visitor without feeling that she had been bested or manipulated—even in cases, like this one, where the meeting was held at her request. "Is Ms. Wheatstone here?"

"Not yet," the autocom said. "Her appointment is scheduled for five o'clock, nineteen minutes from now."

"Ask her to come in as soon as she arrives."

She and Maddy Wheatstone had much in common. They were bright, ambitious, overachieving women, successful in what were still largely male pursuits. Celine was farther up the ladder, but she was quite a bit older. Maddy Wheatstone had plenty of time to go anywhere she chose, and she seemed to know exactly where she wanted to go.

Celine checked the crib sheets prepared by her staff for each meeting. Maddy had just celebrated her thirty-first birthday. At that age Celine had been a member of the first Mars expedition, with never a thought of politics. Space had filled her whole life. When she first heard of the space shield it had seemed like the project of her dreams.

Celine tilted back her padded chair and stared up at the ceiling. Far above her head, Sky City moved in its high-inclination synchronous orbit. She could visualize the looping figure-eight pattern that it followed relative to the surface of the Earth, and she knew exactly where to look in the sky to find it. Twenty years ago, when Sky City was no more than a skeleton frame and a set of ambitious plans, her own role had seemed clear. She would work on completing Sky City, then construct the space shield that would save the Earth.

The yearning was still there. So why was she down here on Earth? Even when you were President, it was no more than a desk job. She could offer only one answer: People change. What Celine needed and wanted at thirty and at sixty were not the same.

Would Maddy Wheatstone change, as Celine had? Was she, too, plagued by worries and self-doubts?

If so, she disguised it well. The Argos Group had a reputation. It took the brightest young people in the world and rewarded them generously, but it worked them so hard that they burned out fast. After an average of two years, the new recruits had taken all they could stand. They left the organization and took their pick of jobs elsewhere—often with Argos clients.

Maddy Wheatstone had worked inside that crucible for nine years. Celine had observed her through five of them. In Maddy's case, heat and pressure had not destroyed. They seemed only to strengthen and harden.

Celine heard the sound of the door sliding open and tilted her chair back to its upright position. Maddy Wheatstone stood on the threshold.

Argos representatives all had certain things in common. Politeness was observed, even in such small matters as waiting to be invited into a room. Manners were deferential, even in cases where the Argos representative was offered rudeness in return. Dress was formal, stylish, and restrained. This afternoon Maddy wore a business suit of dark green and a white blouse, secured at the neck with a single cameo brooch. The design on the brooch was the Argos Group emblem, a blue-green globe gripped by a scarlet talon. Maddy's hair was piled high on her head, with not a strand out of place. Its shining blackness contrasted with the pale and flawless complexion.