The vice president looked up from her knitting. “Jimbo, honey, why do you fuss yourself like that? Why don’t we just move and get it over with?”
“Well, it looks so lousy.” He threw himself into a chair despondently. “I was really looking forward to the Tenth Anniversary parade,” he complained. “Ten years, that’s really worth bragging about! I don’t want to hold it the hell out in the sticks, I want it right down Constitution Avenue, just like the old days, with the people cheering and the reporters and the cameras all over and everything. Then let that son of a bitch in Omaha say I’m not the real president.”
His wife said placidly, “Don’t fuss yourself about him, honey. You know what I’ve been thinking, though? The parade might look a little skimpy on Constitution Avenue anyway. It would be real nice on a kind of littler street.”
“Oh, what do you know? Anyway, where would we go? If Washington’s under water, what makes you think Bethesda would be any better?”
His secretary of state put down his solitaire cards and looked interested. “Doesn’t have to be Bethesda,” he said. “I got some real nice land up near Dulles we could use. It’s high there.”
“Why, sure. Lots of nice land over to Virginia,” the vice president confirmed. “Remember when we went out on that picnic after your second inaugural? That was at Fairfax Station. There was hills there all around. Just beautiful.”
The president slammed his fist on the coffee table and yelled, “I’m not the president of Fairfax Station, I’m the president of the U. S. of A.! What’s the capital of the U. S. of A.? Washington! My God, don’t you see how those jokers in Houston and Omaha and Salt Lake and all would laugh if they heard I had to move out of my own capital?”
He broke off, because his chief science adviser was coming in the door, shaking himself, dripping mud as he got out of his oilskin slicker. “Well?” demanded the president. “What did they say?”
Harry sat down. “It’s terrible out there. Anybody got a dry cigarette?”
The president threw him a pack. Harry dried his fingers on his shirt front before he drew one out. “Well,” he said, “I went to every boat captain I could find. They all said the same. Ships they talked to, places they’d been. All the same. Tides rising all up and down the coast.”
He looked around for a match. The president’s wife handed him a gold cigarette lighter with the Great Seal of the United States on it, which, after some effort, he managed to ignite. “It don’t look good, Jimmy. Right now it’s low tide and that’s all right, but it’s coming in. And tomorrow it’ll come in a little higher. And there’s going to be storms, not just rain like this, I mean, but you got to figure on a tropical depression coming up from the Bahamas now and then.”
“We’re not in the tropics,” said the secretary of state suspiciously.
“It doesn’t mean that,” said the science adviser, who had once given the weather reports over the local ABC television station, when there was such a thing as a television network. “It means storms. Hurricanes. But they’re not the worst things; it’s the tides. If the ice is melting then they’re going to keep getting higher regardless.”
The president drummed his fingers on the coffee table. Suddenly he shouted, “I don’t want to move my capital!”
No one answered. His temper outbursts were famous. The vice president became absorbed in her knitting, the secretary of state picked up his cards and began to shuffle, the science adviser picked up his slicker and carefully hung it on the back of a door.
The president said, “You got to figure it this way. If we move out, then all those local yokels that claim to be the president of the United States are going to be just that much better off, and the eventual reunification of our country is going to be just that much more delayed.” He moved his lips for a moment, then burst out, “I don’t ask nothing for myself! I never have. I only want to play the part I have to play in what’s good for all of us, and that means keeping up my position as the real president, according to the U. S. of A. Constitution as amended. And that means I got to stay right here in the real White House, no matter what.”
His wife said hesitantly, “Honey, how about this? The other presidents had like a Summer White House, and Camp David and like that. Nobody fussed about it. Why couldn’t you do the same as they did? There’s the nicest old farm house out near Fairfax Station that we could fix up to be real pretty.”
The president looked at her with surprise. “Now, that’s good thinking,” he declared. “Only we can’t move permanently, and we have to keep this place garrisoned so nobody else will take it away from us, and we have to come back here once in a while. How about that, Harry?”
His science adviser said thoughtfully, “We could rent some boats, I guess. Depends. I don’t know how high the water might get.”
“No ‘guess’! No ‘depends’! That’s a national priority. We have to do it that way to keep that bastard in Omaha paying attention to the real president.”
“Well, Jimbo, honey,” said the vice president after a moment, emboldened by his recent praise. “You have to admit they don’t pay a lot of attention to us right now. When was the last time they paid their taxes?”
The president looked at her foxily over his glasses. “Talking about that,” he said, “I might have a little surprise for them anyway. What you might call a secret weapon.”
“I hope it does better than we did in the last war,” said his wife, “because if you remember, when we started to put down the uprising in Frederick, Maryland, we got the pee kicked out of us.”
The president stood up, indicating the Cabinet meeting was over.
“Never mind,” he said sunnily. “You go on out again, Harry, and see if you can find any good maps in the Library of Congress where they got the fires put out. Find us a nice high place within, um, twenty miles if you can. Then we’ll get the Army to condemn us a Summer White House like Mae says, and maybe I can sleep in a bed that isn’t moldy for a change.”
His wife looked worried, alerted by his tone. “What are you going to do, Jim?”
He chuckled. “I’m going to check out my secret weapon.”
He shooed them out of his study and, when they were gone, went to the kitchen and got himself a bottle of Fresca from the six-pack in the open refrigerator. It was warm, of course. The Marine guard company was still trying to get the gas generator back in operation, but they were having little success. The president didn’t mind. They were his personal Praetorians and, if they lacked a little as appliance repairmen, they had proved their worth when the chips were down. The president was always aware that during the Troubles he had been no more than any other congressman—appointed to fill a vacancy, at that—and his rapid rise to Speaker of the House and Heir Apparent, finally to the presidency itself, was due not only to his political skills and knowhow, but also to the fact that he was the only remotely legitimate heir to the presidency who also happened to have a brother-in-law commanding the Marine garrison in Washington.
The president was, in fact, quite satisfied with the way the world was going. If he envied presidents of the past (missiles, fleets of nuclear bombers, billions of dollars to play with), he certainly saw nothing, when he looked at the world around him, to compare with his own stature in the real world he lived in.
He finished the soda, opened his study door a crack and peered out. No one was nearby. He slipped out and down the back stairs. In what had once been the public parts of the White House you could see the extent of the damage more clearly. After the riots and the trashings and the burnings and coups, the will to repair and fix up had gradually dwindled away. The president didn’t mind. He didn’t even notice the charred walls and the fallen plaster. He was listening to the sound of a distant gasoline pump chugging away, and smiling to himself as he approached the underground level where his secret weapon was locked up.
The secret weapon, whose name was Dieter von Knefhausen, was trying to complete the total defense of every act of his lif
e that he called his memoirs.
He was less satisfied with the world than the president. He could have wished for many changes. Better health, for one thing; he was well aware that his essential hypertension, his bronchitis, and his gout were fighting the last stages of a total war to see which would have the honor of destroying their mutual battleground, which was himself. He did not much mind his lack of freedom, but he did mind the senseless destruction of so many of his papers.
The original typescript of his autobiography was long lost, but he had wheedled the president—the pretender, that is, who called himself the president—into sending someone to find what could be found of them. A few tattered and incomplete carbon copies had turned up. He had restored some of the gaps as best his memory and available data permitted, telling again the story of how he had planned Project Alpha-Aleph and meticulously itemizing the details of how he had lied, forged and falsified to bring it about.
He was as honest as he could be. He spared himself nothing. He admitted his complicity in the “accidental” death of Ann Barstow’s first husband in a car crash, thus leaving her free to marry the man he had chosen to go with the crew to Alpha Centauri. He had confessed he had known that the secret would not last out the duration of the trip, thus betraying the trust of the president who made it possible. He put it all in, all he could remember, and boasted of his success.
For it was clear to him that his success was already proved. What could be surer evidence of it than what had happened ten years ago? The “incident of next week” was as dramatic and complete as anyone could wish. If its details were still indecipherable, largely because of the demolition of the existing technology structure it had brought about, its main features were obvious. The shower of heavy particles—baryon? perhaps even quarks?—had drenched the Earth. The source had been traced to a point in the heavens identical with that plotted for the Constitution.
Also there were the messages received, and, take them together, there was no doubt that the astronauts had developed knowledge so far in advance of anything on Earth that, from two light-years out, they could impose their will on the human race. They had done it. In one downpour of particles, the entire military-industrial complex of the planet was put out of action.
How? How? Ah, thought Knefhausen, with envy and pride, that was the question. One could not know. All that was known was that every nuclear device—bomb, powerplant, hospital radiation source or stockpile—had simultaneously soaked up the stream of particles and at that moment ceased to exist as a source of nuclear energy. It was not rapid and catastrophic, like a bomb. It was slow and long-lasting. The uranium and the plutonium simply melted in the long, continuous reaction that was still bubbling away in the seething lava lakes where the silos had stood and the nuclear power plants had generated electricity. Little radiation was released, but a good deal of heat.
Knefhausen had long since stopped regretting what could not be helped, but wistfully he still wished he had the opportunity to measure the total heat flux properly. Not less than 1016 watt-years, he was sure, just to judge by the effects on the Earth’s atmosphere, the storms, the gradual raising of temperature all over, above all by the rumors about the upward trend of sea level that bespoke the melting of the polar ice caps. There was no longer even a good weather net, but the fragmentary information he was able to piece together suggested a world increase of four, maybe as many as six or seven degrees Celsian already, and the reactions still seething away in Czechoslovakia, the Congo, Colorado, and a hundred lesser infernos.
Rumors about the sea level?
Not rumors, no, he corrected himself, lifting his head and staring at the snake of hard rubber hose that began under the duckboards at the far end of the room and ended outside the barred window, where the gasoline pump outside did its best to keep the water level inside his cell low enough to keep the water below the boards. Judging by the inflow, the grounds of the White House must be nearly awash.
The door opened. The president of the United States (Washington) walked in, patting the shoulder of the thin, scared, hungry-looking kid who was guarding the door.
“How’s it going, Knefhausen?” the president began sunnily. “You ready to listen to a little reason yet?”
“I’ll do whatever you say, Mr. President, but as I have told you there are certain limits. Also I am not a young man, and my health—”
“Screw your health and your limits,” shouted the president. “Don’t start up with me, Knefhausen!”
“I am sorry, Mr. President,” whispered Knefhausen.
“Don’t be sorry! What I got to judge by is results. You know what it takes to keep that pump going just so you won’t drown? Gas is rationed, Knefhausen! Takes a high national priority to get it! I don’t know how long I’m gonna be able to justify this continuous drain on our resources if you don’t cooperate.”
Sadly, but stubbornly, Knefhausen said: “As far as I am able, Mr. President, I cooperate.”
“Yeah. Sure.” But the president was in an unusually good mood today, Knefhausen observed with the prisoner’s paranoid attention to detail, and in a moment he said: “Listen, let’s not get uptight about this. I’m making you an offer. Say the word and I’ll fire that dumb son-of-a-bitch Harry Stokes and make you my Chief Science Adviser. How would that be? Right up at the top again. An apartment of your own. Electric lights! Servants—you can pick ’em out yourself, and there’s some nice-looking little girls in the pool. The best food you ever dreamed of. A chance to perform a real service for the U. S. of A., helping to reunify this great country to become once again the great power it should and must be!”
“Mr. President,” Knefhausen said, “naturally, I wish to help in any way I can. But we have been all over this before. I’ll do anything you like, but I don’t know how to make the bombs work again. You saw what happened Mr. President. They’re gone.”
“I didn’t say bombs, did I? Look, Kneffie, I’m a reasonable man. How about this. You promise to use your best scientific efforts in any way you can. You say you can’t make bombs; all right. But there will be other things.”
“What other things, Mr. President?”
“Don’t push me, Knefhausen. Anything at all. Anything where you can perform a service for your country. You give me that promise and you’re out of here today. Or would you rather I just turned off the pump?”
Knefhausen shook his head, not in negation but in despair. “You do not know what you are asking. What can a scientist do for you today? Ten years ago, yes. Even five years ago. We could have worked something out maybe; I could have done something. But now the preconditions do not exist. When all the nuclear plants went out—When the factories that depended on them ran out of power—When the fertilizer plants couldn’t fix nitrogen and the insecticide plants couldn’t deliver—When the people began to die of hunger and the pestilences started—”
“I know all that, Knefhausen. Yes or not?”
The scientist hesitated, looking thoughtfully at his adversary. A gleam of the old shrewdness appeared in his eyes.
“Mr. President,” he said slowly. “You know something. Something has happened.”
“Right,” crowed the president. “You’re smart. Now tell me, what is it I know?”
Knefhausen shook his head. After seven decades of vigorous life, and another decade of slowly dying, it was hard to hope again. This terrible little man, this upstart, this lump—he was not without a certain animal cunning, and he seemed very sure. “Please, Mr. President. Tell me.”
The president put a finger to his lips, and then an ear to the door. When he was convinced no one could be listening, he came closer to Knefhausen and said softly:
“You know that I have trade representatives all over, Knefhausen. Some in Houston, some in Salt Lake, some even in Montreal. They are not always there just for trade. Sometimes they find things out, and tell me. Would you like to know what my man in Anaheim has just told me?”
Knefhausen did not answer, but hi
s watery old eyes were imploring.
“A message,” whispered the president.
“From the Constitution?” cried Knefhausen. “But, no, it is not possible! Farside is gone, Goldstone is destroyed, the orbiting satellites are running down—”
“It wasn’t a radio message,” said the president. “It came from Mount Palomar. Not the big telescope, because that got ripped off too, but what they call a Schmidt. Whatever that is. It still works. And they still have some old fogies who look through it now and then, for old times’ sake. And they got a message, in laser light. Plain Morse code. From what they said was Alpha Centauri. From your little friends, Knefhausen.”
He took a sheaf of paper from his pocket and held it up.
Knefhausen was racked by a fit of coughing, but he managed to croak: “Give it to me!”
The president held it away. “A deal, Knefhausen?”
“Yes, yes! Anything you say, but give me the message!”
“Why, certainly,” smiled the president and passed over the much-creased sheet of paper. It said:
PLEASE BE ADVISED. WE HAVE CREATED THE PLANET ALPHA-ALEPH, IT IS BEAUTIFUL AND GRAND. WE WILL SEND OUR FERRIES TO BRING SUITABLE PERSONS AND OTHERS TO STOCK IT AND TO COMPLETE CERTAIN OTHER BUSINESS. OUR SPECIAL REGARDS TO DR. DIETER VON KNEFHAUSEN, WHOM WE WANT TO TALK TO VERY MUCH. EXPECT US WITHIN THREE WEEKS OF THIS MESSAGE.
Knefhausen read it over twice, stared at the president and read it again. “I—I am very glad,” he said inadequately.
The president snatched it back, folded it and put it in his pocket, as though the message itself was the key to power. “So you see,” he said, “it’s simple. You help me, I help you.”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” said Knefhausen, staring past him.
“They’re your friends. They’ll do what you say. All those things you told me that they can do—”