John Cramer - Einstein's Bridge

“Bullshit!” said Matthews. “Nobody in Oregon gives a good goddamn about the SSC. My advisors made sure of that before we mounted our opposition to it.”

“Perhaps,” said George, “but my organization’s polling data shows that intrinsic public support of science runs much deeper in Oregon than you imagine. Congressman, I’m really distressed that my government is run by people like you. I want you thrown out of office, as an example to your peers that worthy but poorly defended scientific projects should not be exploited as targets of political opportunity. And I will see that all of your celebrating colleagues outside receive the same treatment as you do.”

Matthews glared at George. “You’re a crazy man. And you’re through in this town, Preston. I know what you’ve been up to. I know all about your little scheme in Alabama, and it’s fucking dead. All you’ve accomplished by your little speech is to make yourself a political pariah.”

“You mean I’ll never do lunch in this town again?” asked George, smiling. “I devoutly hope that you’re correct. Aside from making sure that as many as possible of you are defeated for reelection next year, I no longer have a political agenda to promote. Thank you for listening to me, Congressman. I hope you’ll tell the rest of your group about this conversation. And I want you to think of this conversation in November of next year as you watch the election results come in and wonder what hit you.”

George held up his cognac glass, as if making a toast. “When you’re defeated for reelection in 1994, Congressman, remember the ‘Curse of the SSC.’”

George and Alice left quickly after that. Matthews cursed them from the doorway as they threaded their way through the revelry in the outer office and out into the hallway.

“I hadn’t expected that,” said Alice, looking at him. “You just dynamited our carefully constructed bridges.”

George smiled. “The person you’re looking at is not going to be around much longer, in any case. I’ve been uncomfortably visible of late, and at least two reporters, guys with the Houston Chronicle and The Washington Post, are poking into my background in far too much detail. This George Preston is going into early retirement, and a new persona with a different face and background is going replace him. Those burned bridges of yours have served their purpose and were about to collapse under their own weight.” He paused and smiled. “And, by God, Alice, that little speech has made me feel amazingly good.”

She smiled at him and squeezed his hand.

As they reached the outer building lobby, a figure in a dark coat stepped out from the wall to block their path.

“Steve!” said Alice. “What are you doing here?”

“Why, I’ve been waiting for you, Alice,” Steve said. “I wanted to share in the fun.”

“Fun?” said Alice. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the sleazy shenanigans of you and your sugar daddy here. The business of sneaking around, manipulating Congress, killing big projects, and making loads of money in the process.” He turned and shook his finger in George’s face. “I want you to know that I’m on to you, you bastard! I know why you’ve been trying to kill the SSC project. I know all about your fake identity and your get-rich-quick schemes. You’re a fucking con artist.”

George smiled. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” he said. “I presume that you’re Alice’s friend Steve Brown. I thought that you were supposed to be at Florida State working on a law degree. Why aren’t you in Tallahassee attending classes and studying for exams?”

“Because I’m learning more here, checking up on sleazeballs like you,” Steve said. “I’ve put off my studies for a year, because I have things to do here that are more important.”

“And those are…?” said George.

“Exposing your cynical manipulations of our political system for your own purposes and profits,” said Steve. “You see, I’ve found out about your land deals in Alabama. I know about the Tombigbee caper, and I know what you’re up to. And I’m going to expose you, Preston. I’ll make sure you don’t get a damned cent of profit from all your wheelings and dealings.”

“Tombigbee? Profits?” said George, frowning. Then his face brightened. “Ah, I see. Of course!” He began to laugh. “You must think…” He shook his head as he chuckled.

“What is it, George?” Alice asked. “What’s so funny?” “Well,” said George finally, “it seems that Steve here has managed to discover Roger’s wacko cover scheme. Roger thought that we would do better in our political opposition to the SSC if we had something obvious to gain from its cancellation. His theory is that politicians don’t feel comfortable with you unless they can see that your motives are just as greedy as theirs. So Roger cooked up this goofy scheme. We bought some land on a river in Alabama, and then we planted stories that PetroGen wanted to kill the SSC so that money could be moved over to a water project on that river to increase the land values.” Steve took a step back, as if he had been struck. “I never believed it would work,” George continued, looking closely at Steve, “but apparently it did. Matthews just referred to it a minute ago, and Steve here seems to have bought the story, lock, stock, and barrel. I must apologize to Roger, next time I see him.”

George and Alice were still laughing as they descended the broad staircase and caught a cab at the curb. Inside, he glanced back at Steve, who still stood at the entrance of the Rayburn House Office Building, a look of profound puzzlement on his face.

“Steve confirms the wisdom of my decision,” George said. “The distinguished George Preston, founder and President of PetroGen, will soon announce that, having made his killing in the new biopetroleum industry and having been the trusted advisor to presidents, he plans to donate much of his wealth to the Iris Foundation and retire to an island in the Caribbean to live out his twilight years in the tranquil seclusion of the formerly rich and famous. The George Preston identity was my first attempt at constructing a new persona, and 1 made a few mistakes. For example, I stupidly used my own birthdate as his, which under the wrong circumstances could be a dead giveaway. Roger and I have become much more skillful at the construction of identities. Those reporters and your friend Steve have been getting uncomfortably close to this one.”

Alice looked out the rear window as their taxi pulled away from the curb. “I don’t know what I ever saw in that jerk,” she said. “In your universe, I actually married him?”

“And you put him through law school,” said George. “That’s crazy,” said Alice. “The world has too many lawyers as it is. I much prefer physicists.” She turned to George and kissed him soundly.

ROGER TURNED UP THE WIPER SPEED TO HIGH AND INCREASED the window defroster’s heat setting a notch. He had flown from Frankfurt to Detroit and rented a car, expecting a pleasant drive west on Interstate 69 to East Lansing across the meadows, forests, and farmland of Michigan. Instead, he had headed into the teeth of a blizzard that seemed to grow in intensity as he approached his destination. He almost missed the East Lansing exit from the interstate and managed to slither into the exit lane at the last possible instant.

The Michigan State University campus was even larger than that of Stony Brook, and much of it seemed to be devoted to agricultural activities. He passed an impressive building with a large MSU — SWINE HUSBANDRY sign near the front entrance. He smiled, recalling that his mother had accused his father of that, once or twice. Consulting his map, he saw that the physics building must be off to the left, near the massive football stadium that loomed on the horizon. He turned the car in that direction.