Eileen Gunn - Stable Strategies and Others

In the evening, after dinner, the TV celebrity and former vice-president wandered out onto his magnificent deck, and admired his spectacular view of the Pacific Ocean. The sun had set some time ago, and the sky, red at the horizon, shaded upward through a few dark wisps of cloud to clear yellow-green, to pale blue, and then to purple. Rather like the lie detector readout, he thought. The first stars were beginning to appear, and Jupiter was bright in the West.

Pat, martini glass in hand, came out from the living room and took his arm. “Dan and Marilyn must be wondering what’s happening, Dick,” she said. “You just up and walked out.”

“I was just thinking,” her husband replied, “what a great night it would be to just sit out here in the hot tub, under the stars. Tell them to get their drinks and come on out.”

“Dick, are you out of your mind? We barely know them. Besides, they’re from the Midwest.”

“Aw, let’s get them out here. Let’s give them a taste of the real California.” He crossed the deck to the living room door. “You folks grab your drinks and come on out here,” he called. “Don’t you worry,” he said to his wife in a low voice, “this’ll be fun.”

Dan and Marilyn came out onto the deck, smiling and politely curious.

“Beautiful night,” said Dan. “What a view.”

“Those flowers smell wonderful,” said Marilyn.

“That’s nicotiana, tobacco plant,” said Pat. “It blooms at night, and it does have a heavenly scent.”

“Have we shown you round the deck?” Dick asked, moving toward the steps that led down to the hot tub.

He remembered the first time he’d sat naked in a hot tub with other people, back in the Sixties. He’d felt very vulnerable, very awkward. Even now, he had to admit, it didn’t feel completely natural. But there was something exhilarating in overcoming those feelings and, he had to be honest with himself, it was sort of fun to get new people to take off their clothes.

“On nights like this,” he said, “we generally bring our drinks down here to the hot tub, just sit out here, smell the flowers, and get in touch with our feelings.”

“Not so different from DC,” murmured Marilyn. “Except we usually just fax any messages for our feelings.”

Dick’s twitchy smile flashed for just a second.

Of the four people in the hot tub, Dick thought, I’m the only one who’s truly at ease. The thought didn’t bother him.

The other man looked around nervously — not quite sure what to do with his eyes. His wife was cooler, a tough cookie with brains and backbone, but even she was holding herself a bit lower in the water than strictly necessary. And Pat, as usual, was embarrassed — more with his blatant powerplay than with casual nudity. She’s come a long way from the prim housewife of the Fifties, he thought.

“So tell me about the Mars mission, Dan,” he said. “That’s your pet project, isn’t it?”

Dan had the look of a golden retriever, and now Dick had tossed him a bone. He splashed a little and gave a self-assured smile.

“That’s right, sir — uh, Dick. Fascinating planet, Mars.” He searched for something to say.

Dick waited. He’d learned to let the other guy flail about in the game of conversational tennis.

“Could be a very important mission,” Dan added helplessly. “We have seen pictures where there are canals, we believe, and water. If there is water, there is oxygen. If oxygen, that means we can breathe.”

“Really, Dan?” said Pat, astonished.

Marilyn laughed gaily and winked at Pat. “Don’t let him pull your leg,” she said. There was a movement in the water, and Dick realized that it was Marilyn putting her foot on top of her husband’s. Dan responded with a shake of the head and a big golden-retriever grin.

“Sorry, ma— uh, Pat. Most of this stuff’s classified.”

Marilyn laughed again. “Danny likes to have his fun with the Mars stuff,” she said. “Most of it’s just a lot of technical jargon at this point — the usual logistical discussions — really pretty boring.”

Dan nodded obediently.

“But you know, Dick,” she said, “one of the things you might find interesting is this — they’re implementing a biofeedback training program for the mission, to help the participants control their breathing rates and body functions in an emergency.”

Dick looked at her. The archness in her voice — she was driving at something.

She continued. “I’ve heard you’ve had some training in this?”

He leaned back against the edge of the tub. “Well, way back in the Sixties, of course,” he said. “Just about everybody I know did.”

“So what’s the story,” she asked coolly. “Does it help you fool the lie detector?”

“Lie detector?” He was amused. “ Lie detector?” he repeated. These political people. He was so glad he was out of Washington. “Marilyn,” he said, “this is television . We don’t need lie detectors.” And again he flashed his famous crooked grin.

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

I read some thirty-five books to write this story, including Richard Nixon’s memoirs, several bios of Pat Nixon, and three autobiographies of Barry Goldwater. (He published one every decade or so. The final one, in which, elderly and depressed, he shoved the ghostwriters aside and said what he thought, is the best, and the saddest.)

I once asked my father, inexplicably a Republican in a nest of familial Democrats, whether he thought the story was unfair to Richard Nixon.

“I think you were equally unfair to everybody,” he replied.

Holding her dad’s hand, Elizabeth went up the limestone steps to the testing center. As she climbed, she craned her neck to read the words carved in pink granite over the top of the door: FRANCIS W. PARKER SCHOOL. Above them was a banner made of grey cement that read, “Health, Happiness, Success.”

“This building is old,” said Elizabeth. “It was built before the war.”

“Pay attention to where you’re going, punkin,” said her dad. “You almost ran into that lady there.”

Inside, the entrance hall was dark and cool. A dim yellow glow came through the shades on the tall windows.

As Elizabeth walked across the polished floor, her footsteps echoed lightly down the corridors that led off to either side. She and her father went down the hallway to the testing room. An old, beat-up, army-green query box sat on a table outside the door.

“Ratherford, Elizabeth Ratherford,” said her father to the box. “Age seven, computer-friendly, smart as a whip.”

“We’ll see,” said the box with a chuckle. It had a gruff, teasing, grandfatherly voice. “We’ll just see about that , young lady.” What a jolly interface, thought Elizabeth. She watched as the classroom door swung open. “You go right along in there, and we’ll see just how smart you are.” It chuckled again, then it spoke to Elizabeth’s dad. “You come back for her at three, sir. She’ll be all ready and waiting for you, bright as a little watermelon.”

This was going to be fun, thought Elizabeth. Nothing to do all day except show how smart she was.

Her father knelt in front of her and smoothed her hair back from her face. “You try real hard on these tests, punkin. You show them just how talented and clever you really are, OK?” Elizabeth nodded. “And you be on your best behavior.” He gave her a hug and a pat on the rear.

Inside the testing room were dozens of other seven-year-olds, sitting in rows of tiny chairs with access boxes in front of them. Glancing around the room, Elizabeth realized that she had never seen so many children together all at once. There were only ten in her weekly socialization class. It was sort of overwhelming.