Charles Sheffield - Starfire

“Well, I still think—”

“I have one question for you, just out of curiosity. What led you to choose the Nevada site? Did you have private information available to you?”

Glover grabbed the pen out of her hand and pulled the first copy of the document toward him. “No, no, not at all. No special information. Just good, competent, old-fashioned analysis.”

Who was it said that a man would die rather than appear to be a fool? Will Rogers, over a century ago. But Celine couldn’t ask Milton Glover for assistance on that quotation; he was too busy signing.

She added her signature below his on each of the seven copies, and passed them on to the witnesses.

“I’m sure the members of the Trust In Government coalition will be as pleased as I am when they examine the Nevada lands and see the results of all your work.” Celine signed the last copy and handed it to Claudette. “I’m afraid I can’t stay for any kind of celebration. I have to head for southwest Virginia just as soon as I can.”

Celine was out of the room before he could ask a question — or she could burst. There were moments, few and far between, when slimy bastards like Milton Glover got their comeuppance. Old Miltie was in for an exciting few hours when he and the other Trust In Government bigots took a close look at Nevada and learned what they had actually leased. Someone had sold them bad data concerning the Nevada mines.

It would be nice to meet with and personally shake the hand of the person who had sold the data to old Miltie, but that was too much to hope for. One treat a day was all that a President could reasonably expect.

Pleasure at the prospect of Milton Glover’s impending shock stayed with Celine for a long time. Even the weather report did not lower her spirits. A line of afternoon thunderstorms with violent wind shears was running across Virginia, and the White House transportation team was recommending ground travel. It would be a little slower, but acceptable for a short trip and less likely to have problems with the weather.

Celine did not argue. She viewed the upcoming meeting with Gordy Rolfe with mixed feelings. The whole Mars expedition and the twenty-seven years of life after it had taught her that she could handle just about anything. It had not taught her, however, to like many of the things that were thrown at her. And it could not stop her worrying.

Accompanied by her usual four security staff, she climbed into the car.

“Take it slow.” She needed time to prepare herself for the meeting with Gordy Rolfe.

The driver nodded. His presence was hardly necessary, except to set the Automatic Vehicle Control. The armored vehicle went from the underground parking lot, across the new Tidal Crossing Bridge, and on into Virginia. The heavy, brooding weather put Celine in a strange mood. Returning to a place that had so affected her in the past, she felt that she was also moving back through time. Heading south and west toward Richmond, she recognized the rolling sweep of the land. She had traveled this same path, in darkness, in another armored vehicle. She had encountered there a person who, like Gordy Rolfe, was arguably mad: Pearl Lazenby, the Eye of God. Pearl’s ideas had undoubtedly influenced Gordy Rolfe, the head of the Argos Group.

The beginning of the trip seemed long; but then, before she expected it, she saw ahead a gentle slope leading down toward a children’s playground and a small schoolhouse. She would have sworn that she did not remember the setting, but on first sight it became immediately familiar. The car rolled down to the foot of the hill, halted beside the schoolhouse, and switched itself off. The AVC screen went blank.

“We’re arrived,” Celine said. “Tell Mr. Rolfe we’re here. No, better than that.” She reached out for the headset clipped to the partition in front of her. “I’ll do it myself. Hello, Gordy Rolfe. Are you there?”

“Of course I’m here.” The gruff reply came at once. He must have been waiting for her call — probably monitoring her progress. The Argos Group possessed the world’s most advanced surveillance systems. “Do you know where the elevators are?”

“I know where they used to be. In the back of the schoolhouse.”

“They haven’t moved. Come on down. No, I don’t want the Secret Service meatheads. Just you.”

He was observing them. The first of the security staff had climbed out of the vehicle ahead of Celine.

“They’re supposed to accompany me wherever I go.” Celine saw Chesley Reiter, her security chief, nodding vigorously.

“ Supposed to.” Rolfe produced a harsh sound that could be interpreted as a laugh. “That’s a load of bull, and you know it. Who was with you when you went down to New Rio to see Nick Lopez? We do it my way or not at all. You want to see me? Then you come down by yourself.”

Celine glanced at Chesley Reiter, shrugged, and climbed out of the car. The sky was black, even though it was only midafternoon. To the west she saw forked lightning. “Ches, take your staff and find somewhere comfortable. I’ll call when I need to be picked up.”

“With respect, Madam President, we’ll wait for you here.”

Chesley Reiter did not add, just in case. Nor did Celine argue. It was his job, his decision. Celine went inside the schoolhouse without another word. One thing about being President, no one’s time was as important as yours. If necessary, Ches and the security detail would wait all night.

The inside of the schoolhouse had changed little in the twenty-seven years since Celine had last seen it. There had never been toys — the Legion of Argos did not permit such distractions — but the old wooden desks still sat in neat lines, and the turn-of-the-century teaching aids sat by the wall. Celine picked up an orange folder from one of the diminutive desks, blew away the dust, and opened it. The lined sheets inside, covered with a child’s careful lettering, were yellowed and brittle.

She looked around. Not everything was unchanged. Gordy Rolfe’s personal interests showed in the tiny red eyes set at each corner of the room. Celine had never seen anything so compact. The new surveillance system must be at the limit of today’s technology. Gordy’s inventions in fact defined those limits.

As she hesitated, his voice came from nowhere.

“Go to the elevators and take the left-hand one all the way down. I’ll be waiting.”

And watching.

Celine wondered. The Argos Group was famous for its up-to-date and detailed knowledge of what went on all around the world. Did Gordy Rolfe’s remote observation systems extend to the White House — even, perhaps, into the Oval Office itself? After all, there were maintenance rolfes there, even though you rarely saw one. Could they be the source of Nick Lopez’s information about the meeting with Maddy Wheatstone?

Old advice, but still good: Assume nothing is off the record, nothing that you ever say, do, or write.

The bottom button of the elevator panel bore an icon like a flaming torch. Celine pressed it and began a slow, uneasy descent.

He was waiting when the door finally opened. He was even smaller than she remembered, unshaven, and dressed in a black jumpsuit with a leather belt and its array of clip-on instruments. He was scruffier than usual — his hair was greasy, and his hands were smudged with oil or graphite.

“Esteemed Madam President.” Gray eyes glittered behind the outsized and antiquated frames. His mirthless smile suggested that the honorific was no more than a form of sarcasm.

Celine remembered that he tolerated no form of physical contact. Just as well, since she had no desire to touch those blackened, clawlike fingers. Instead of holding out her hand she nodded and said, “Gordy Rolfe. I’m glad you were able to meet with me.”