Leo Frankowski - Copernick's Rebellion

As to the long-term problems with rejuvenation, well, I’ll have a lot of time to work on them.

General Hastings walked unannounced into the office of the NBC news chief. “Well, Norm. You’ve come a long way from being a combat reporter.”

Norman Boswell looked up from the papers on his cluttered desk. “Major George Hastings. No. Major General George Hastings. You’ve come a ways, too, but you’re still a brash son-of-a-bitch. How the hell did you get past my secretary?”

“It’s the uniform, Norm. It gets them every time. She practically saluted.”

“She practically saluted herself out of a job! Now, before your unfortunately hasty departure, what the hell do you want?”

Hastings moved a cigar box, sat on the papers on Boswell’s desk, and said, “A little information, Norm, and a little help. I want to know more about Dr. Martin Guibedo. What can you show me?”

“The door. It’s over there. Get off my goddamn desk and use it.”

“Shortly, shortly. Now, one of your employees, a Miss Patricia Cambridge, knows a lot about Guibedo. She has interviewed him, had dinner with him, and done a documentary on him. I think she either knows where he is, or knows how to find him.”

“I should send a sweet kid like Patty out on a manhunt? Bullshit! You want Guibedo? Send out your own damn goons!”

“My son, I’ll tell you a secret. They’ve tried. Many times, they’ve tried.”

“That’s a secret? Next tell me about the secret Statue of Liberty hiding in New York Harbor. Every goddamn cop in the country carries a photo of Guibedo in his wallet! Why should your spooks be any different? The answer is no. I won’t do it or get Cambridge involved. Now get out of my office!”

Hastings leaned toward Boswell, crumpling an eight—by-ten glossy photo in the process. “I think you should reconsider that, Norm.”

“I don’t owe you a goddamn thing. Out!”

“No, but you have an obligation to our favorite uncle. You’re a sergeant in the reserves, Norm. He might need to call you up.”

“So it’s threats now, is it? Well, have you ever thought about what a news chief can do to a public servant?”

“Feel free. I’m clean. Have you ever thought about what a general officer can do to a sergeant?”

Hastings left the office whistling the tune to “Call Up the God Damn Reserves!”

“No! Uncle Martin, I won’t do it!”

“What! This I hear from the little kid I carried through the snow on my back in Germany? Heiny, I tell you my left kidney has failed and the other one is weak! If you do not help me, I will die!”

“Yeah, yeah. Two months ago it was your right lung, and before that it was your prostrate gland, and before that it was your thyroid. Every time you insisted that I do a hack-and-patch job on you, and every time I’ve wasted two weeks doing the special programming. Well, no more!”

“But Heiny, my kidneys—”

“I know. I also know that your left lung is weak and your pituitary is below par. Look. We have a standard program for replacing your entire glandular system. It’s a proven program that we’ve used successfully on hundreds of people. What’s more, I can start you on it in ten minutes, not two weeks. In fifteen days you’ll be a new man. That I’ll do for you, but no more hack and patch!”

“There’s still some life in this old heart, Heiny.”

“Less than you think, and if your heart goes, I won’t have two weeks for programming the standard program. Take it or leave it.”

“Heiny, you make me ashamed, but I guess I gotta take it.”

When Norman Boswell got to his office, his IN basket contained a telegram that began “Greetings…” It informed him that he was to report in uniform to the base commander, Lackland AFB, Texas, no later than noon, March 19, 2003.

He swore at the wall for a full hour, chewed out the girl who brought him his coffee, and called Patricia Cambridge into his office.

Boswell stretched and rolled his neck, relaxing himself. “Ah. Patricia, come in, come in. Have a seat.”

“Thanks, boss. What can I do for you?”

“For me? I think it’s what I can do for you. First, I want to say how pleased I am with your work. In just eight years with NBC, your accomplishments have been remarkable!”

“Thank you. And it’s nine.”

“Nine?”

“I’ve been with NBC for nine years.”

“Oh. Right, foolish of me. As I was saying, I’m proud of you, and I’m putting you in for a substantial raise.”

“Ooh! Thank you!”

“It should come through in a few weeks. Furthermore, I think you’re ready for bigger things.”

“Bigger than a popular show?”

“Bigger. Real news reporting in the grand old style! The kind of thing that sent Stanley across Africa in search of Dr. Livingstone. The kind of thing that exposed Nixon at Watergate or Blackstone’s deeds in Geneva. Big!”

“Field reporting? What about my show?”

“Oh, Mary can fill in while you’re gone. But for you —the Quest for Dr. Martin Guibedo!”

“But that’s a dead end! It’s been years! Nobody has seen Guibedo since he broke jail.”

“Wrong, Patty. Somebody’s seen him because somebody broke him out. Look. A lot of stuff passes over this desk. Most of it’s solid news, but a lot of it is hints, suggestions, possibilities. When it conies to Guibedo, those hints all point in one direction—Death Valley.”

“I know, boss. His nephew owns it. But look, Jim Jennings did a show on Death Valley last fall, and his ratings were lousy.”

“Yes, but Jennings only spent a day there. You’ll have weeks. Jennings doesn’t know Guibedo, but you do. And Jennings had a full camera crew.”

“I don’t even get a camera crew?”

“When you’re ready for it, we can have the L.A. crew there in two hours flat. But at first you’re better off without it.”

“At first? Just how long do you expect me to spend in the boonies?”

“Whatever it takes, Patty. You’ll have an open expense account and all the time you’ll need.”

“And come back to what? With Mary running it, my ratings will be a shambles! I might not even have a show.”

“Mary can handle it, and it will still be your show. Officially, you’ll just be on vacation.”

“What happens if Guibedo’s not in Death Valley?”

“Then go where he is. Open expense account, remember? Patty, I want you to do this. Enough said?”

Patty took a deep breath. “Okay. But don’t be surprised if I go looking for him in London, Paris, and the Riviera.”

“Whatever you feel is best.”

“You really mean that?”

“I trust you, Patty. Just be on a plane this afternoon.”

“This afternoon! But my show—”

“Mary can handle it. Now get moving. I have work to do.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Patty, keep in touch!”

When Cambridge had left his office, Boswell unlocked his lower desk drawer, removed a dusty bottle of Glen Livet, and poured himself a very stiff drink.

The next morning, he received a telegram canceling his call-up orders.

Patricia drove her rented Lincoln along I-15, heading northeast across the Mohave Desert. Going full blast, the air conditioner was barely able to cope with the desert heat. She took the cutoff north toward Death Valley and within an hour was driving past sand dunes and baked desert flats.

Topping a rise, she found herself driving through an immense parking lot. There were cars, trucks, and vans of every description scattered over the plain. There were thousands of them, maybe hundreds of thousands. Some were covered with canvas tarps, others with tailored dust jackets, but most were just sitting there with the wind and sand scouring paint and glass. There were no traffic lanes or painted lines. Each vehicle was simply left in some random spot that its owner thought was good enough. Many were obviously abandoned, with tires missing and doors ajar.