Charles Sheffield - Aftermath

And what was it between Saul and Tricia? Why had she called, out of the blue, after a two-year silence?

It was certainly not for lunch and a casual how-are-you. Tricia’s whole history showed that she did nothing casually.

She had been born Patricia Stennis, poor in Toledo. At age eighteen she had gone to work for the country’s biggest software company, where the next year at a Detroit trade show she had caught the eye of the aging majority shareholder. Six months later they married and she moved to California. She became Patricia Stennis Leighton, and soon after that, Patsy Leighton. She had been totally devoted and loyal to her husband for four years — until, suddenly and surprisingly, they had divorced.

One year after that Patsy was in Houston, the wife of an oil baron whose ranch sprawled across three hundred square miles and embodied an excess of all forms of bad taste. Trish Beacon, as she was now, enjoyed — or endured, though she would never admit it — two and a half years of Lone Star lifestyle, until finally she and Bobby Beacon divorced.

The next fall Trish married into some of the oldest money in the country. She moved readily, maybe even eagerly, from west Texas to Delaware. Again, she was unswervingly loyal to and admiring of her husband. Saul first met her at a reception in Wilmington when she was two years into her third marriage. She was now Tricia Chartrain. He found her breathtakingly attractive. She seemed to take little notice of him, then or at other dinners and social functions where their paths crossed. Always, she talked admiringly of her husband, Willis Chartrain.

A year later, she called Saul at his Atlanta office. She and dear Willis had divorced — she would prefer not to talk about it. She was in town for a few days, and without an escort for a dinner party. She remembered that Saul’s headquarters were in Atlanta. Would he, as a great favor, consider being her dinner companion?

Would he? He had ended a long go-nowhere affair two months earlier, soon after the primaries made it clear that he had a good shot at the party nomination. But Saul was Saul. He set the machinery to work, and had a detailed report on Tricia in less than a week. Patricia Stennis/Patsy Leighton/Trish Beacon/Tricia Chartrain had played around some in Toledo and elsewhere when she was very young, but in her marriages she had been either faithful to her husband or infinitely discreet. An association with Tricia was unlikely to ruin Saul on the campaign trail.

In fact, the report came too late. Saul and Tricia had become lovers on the night of the dinner party. They remained that way, passionate and committed and inseparable, for the next six months. She had a way of devoting herself, totally and unreservedly, to Saul and his interests. It was intoxicating, something he had never known before. He knew that he would give her anything, or give up anything for her.

Anything, until the day his political advisers came to meet him on the campaign trail in Oregon. Tricia was away, spending a day or two with old friends from the Patsy Leighton software days in San Francisco. The message delivered to Saul was quite clear. They had the poll results and the analysis. Married to Tricia, Saul would lose his bid to be President.

He refused to believe it. He argued, he pleaded. She’s beautiful, she’s wealthy, she’s kind and generous, she has an unblemished past.

“Yes, yes. We’re not arguing with any of that. She may be a saint for all we know. But it’s not relevant. Gotta be hard-nosed about this, Saul. Look at the data, look at the numbers. You marry her, you’re dead in the water. She’s been around the block too often, that last marriage was one too many.”

Saul looked at the numbers. They were a disaster.

“Has anybody else seen these?”

“Only Crossley and Himmelfarb, the Palo Alto pollsters who did the analysis. They have instructions to keep everything confidential.”

“God, I should hope so. Look, suppose I don’t get married. What are the chances of making it to the White House as a bachelor?”

“We tested that, too.” Out came more charts and displays. “It looks good. Seventy-nine percent, with a standard deviation of less than three points.”

“Did the same people run this poll and analysis?”

“Negative. We used Quip Research out of Denver. We wanted an independent check on what Crossley and Himmelfarb came up with. So no one knows the whole story but us. Their results are consistent, though. Run without her, Saul, and you’ll win.”

“What about reelection, if Tricia and I marry once I’m in office?”

The looks they offered ranged from incredulous to uncomprehending. Reelection? Reelection was something you worried about in another four years. Four years in political forecasting was infinity, far over the horizon. Between now and then, the world could end.

That day, however, Saul faced a simple choice. He could have the White House in November; or he could have Tricia. At a ninety-seven percent confidence level, he could not have both.

“All right. Damnation.” Saul looked at his watch. “I’ll explain things to Tricia. Tonight.”

He had explained. Silver-tongued Saul Steinmetz, who could make any human being understand him and what he was doing, if only he had a chance to sit down and talk to the person one-on-one, had explained.

And Tricia?

Saul stared out across the quiet waters and wished that he had brought a cigar with him. They were on the controlled substance list, as well as on his doctor’s personal list of forbiddens for Saul, but Forrest Singer was not here. Nor, unfortunately, were any cigars.

The frigate had passed Alexandria twenty minutes ago, visible as a scattering of faint lights on the starboard bow. At their modest speed, Indian Head lay some minutes ahead. Maybe more than that. Saul had the feeling that their speed was less. He walked to the rail and peered over. Ripples were spreading in almost a circular pattern. The frigate was barely moving.

“Sir?” The musical voice came as a surprise from behind him. He turned to face a uniformed woman whose features were half-hidden behind goggles and a warm face mask.

“Yes, Lieutenant. What is it? Why are we stopping?”

“We have received a Morse code report of earlier activity downriver, sir. A dozen civilian vessels — fishing boats, we believe — crossed from the eastern to the western bank about two hours ago. The river appears quiet now, but the captain ordered a reduction of speed until we can be sure.”

“Very good.” Saul recognized the implied question. Was the action ahead related to the President’s trip to the Indian Head naval facility? “Tell the captain that I have no idea what is going on downriver. If it involves the federal government in some way, I have not been briefed on the activity.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The captain should use his judgment, and resume speed as soon as he feels comfortable in doing so.”

“Yes, sir.”

The warmly clad figure saluted, turned, and marched away. Half a minute later Saul felt the throb of diesels through the plates of the deck. The pattern of ripples changed at the frigate’s sides.

Morse code. That was the blinking light he had noticed earlier. How long since he had even heard the word? There must have been a frantic study of ancient manuals in the past couple of weeks. In an age of instant electronics, Morse code and semaphore were archaisms.

Were archaisms. Not anymore. Until the chips were back in production, Morse and semaphore were state-of-the-art technology.

Saul, looking higher, saw in the dark sky to the south another point of light. This one was of a fixed intensity, but moving steadily in the sky. It was a spacecraft, high enough to catch a sun that the ground had lost half an hour since. From the size and direction of movement, he was witnessing a transit of one of the two international space stations, once the home of hundreds of crew and scientists; now, a great floating sarcophagus.