Charles Sheffield - Aftermath

“He didn’t seem to mind.”

“It’s his job to be diplomatic. Do you know what upset me most when I learned that I had cancer? I’ll give you a hint, it wasn’t the prospect of dying.”

“If you’re anything like me, I bet it was this.” Art held up his fork. “See, I do this without thinking about it. My body is completely under my control. Talk, sing, dance. I could catch a ball or button a shirt. Then one day those things became irrelevant. I learned there was a whole lower level of activity going on inside me. Not only couldn’t I control it, I didn’t even know about it. I only found out what it was doing when it started to hurt.”

“Exactly.” Dana was staring at the fork, still upheld between Art’s thumb and forefinger. “Until I got cancer I hardly knew that I had individual cells. Cells were weird little crawly things I’d studied in school, amoebas and junk like that. And chromosomes, I never gave them a thought. But all of a sudden, a test showed that there were these bits of me, and they copied themselves. My own cells were out of control, they were going to keep making copies until they killed me. The first time I saw a blowup picture of one of my own cancer cells, I wanted to scream, ’What are you doing, you stupid bastard? You’re me, don’t you know that? You’re the same as I am, my own flesh. You shouldn’t be trying to kill me.’ “

Dana paused and looked around to see if anyone else was listening. They were. Three people at a nearby table got up and left. She took a deep breath. “Sorry. Do I sound crazy?”

“Not to me you don’t.” Art put down the fork. “I didn’t have a big reaction when I received my diagnosis of cancer. My moment came later, when I was accepted into the telomod therapy program and told how it was supposed to work. I was pretty far gone, down to eighty-five pounds and in a whole lot of pain. So I didn’t understand most of the details. But when they dripped the telomerase inhibitor into me through an IV, I knew the idea was to stop the cancer cells rebuilding the bits at the end of their chromosomes. I knew it was going to be hard on me, too. My own fast-dividing cells would be hit, and I was going to be red-raw ulcers all the way from my mouth to my ass. I didn’t care. I lay on the Institute cot, and I watched that drip go in, and I said, ’Suck on that, you fuckers. You’re not me anymore, you’re traitors. Either you win, or I do; but it won’t be both.’ “

It was his turn to look around. The cafeteria was still fairly full, but nearby tables were conspicuously empty.

Dana picked up her tray. “Come on. I find this fascinating, and so do you. But Lazarus Club members are in the minority here. We should go.”

“In a minute. Take my tray, would you.” Art hurried back toward the cafeteria entrance. When he returned a couple of minutes later he was holding half a dozen wrapped packets. “Just sandwiches. But I thought if the weather gets too bad to go out, and this place closes . . .”

“Smart thinking.” Dana stared at the packages. “You know what would go really well with them? Beer. I’m dying for a beer. You don’t suppose—”

“Not a chance. You’re in a government building.”

“I know. But I’ll bet the White House—”

“That might be different. You heard Saul Steinmetz. Rank has its privileges.”

“Why don’t we go back, find out from Auden Travis where we’ll be sleeping—”

“And see what else we can get out of him? Great idea. You want to go right now?”

“If you’re done interrupting my sentences.” Dana helped herself to a big handful of napkins and handed them to Art to take along with the sandwiches. “On the way, let’s see if we can reach the outside and get back in without going through a guard post. I’d like to take a firsthand look at the weather. People are saying that we’re at the tail end of Supernova Alpha, that the worst is over. I’m not sure I believe it. Even if we are, a scorpion has its sting in its tail.”

It was hardly necessary to go outside. Art and Dana stood under the shelter of an arched doorway on the west end of the White House. Even with partial shelter, the wind ripped at their clothes.

Two men in Air Force uniforms came out and stood next to them. Dana asked, “Do you know what time it is?”

The shorter officer turned to her. “Sixteen hundred hours, going on midnight. Four o’clock. Did you ever see it so dark so early?”

“I bet we’ll get to Andrews just in time to be told all flights are grounded,” the other man said.

“Better that than fly in this.” The short officer turned up his collar. “Well, as my grandmother always said, worse things happen at sea. Come on, the longer we wait the wetter we’ll get.” He ducked his head and moved out to receive the full force of the wind. His companion gave a theatrical groan and followed.

Art grabbed Dana’s arm as a stronger buffet threatened to knock her over. “It’s ridiculous to think of going outside when the weather’s like this. Let’s find Auden Travis and see where we’ll be sleeping.”

“All right.” Dana allowed herself to be steered back inside. “But don’t forget beer. Unless he comes through with that, I’m ready to brave the storm.”

Auden Travis did not lead them to beer or anything else. He could not, since he was not in his office. When they got there a note was pinned on the locked door: back at seven-thirty, berlitz/ferrand: second floor, rooms 225-226.

“Which settles that,” Dana said. “It’s going to be a dry evening.”

While they were on the way upstairs, thunder and lightning had started outside. The building had switched to an emergency lighting system, steady but dim.

“I suppose they have other things on their mind,” she went on. “All right, let’s see where they’ve put us. I’ve always wanted to sleep in the Lincoln Bedroom.”

Room 225 turned out to be nondescript but adequate, with an adjoining door leading through to Room 226. It faced north across the city, currently the scene of a staggering lightning display. Art left Dana testing the springs of the double bed and went on through to the other room.

The difference was striking. Room 226 was four times the size, with ample room for its king-sized bed, sofa, end tables, armchairs, desk, and standing wardrobes. A kitchenette led off it, with refrigerator, oven, and breakfast table. On the table Art saw a basket, with a note from Yasmin Silvers: He said the sight of your bare belly made his day. It made him think of the old pictures of Lyndon Johnson showing off the scar of his gallbladder operation. Inside were crackers, bread, cheeses, an iron-hard salami, and butter. Some of them had come from an old government stockpile — the date on the cheese was 2020. But the bread was fresh, and next to it stood the main prize: two bottles of wine and a box of assorted fizzes. Yasmin had even included a corkscrew and glasses that looked like antique crystal.

Art wandered back to the other room, where Dana was emerging from the bathroom. “Loads of hot water,” she said. “I’m going to shower forever. I was too tired last night and I didn’t have time this morning. What’s the other place like?”

“I suppose it will have to do. I’ve only got one complaint.”

“What?”

“The red wine is all right, but the white wine is at room temperature. It ought to be chilled.”

She was heading through the connecting door before he finished speaking. When he came to her she was cuddling the bottle of red wine to her chest.

“Next time I see President Steinmetz, I’m going to kiss him. How do you work this crazy corkscrew?”

“Pressure. The needle on the end is hollow. Stick it through the cork and pump. No, not like that. Let me.”