Politician (36 page)

“Hope, you know there's been increasing civil unrest recently,” she said. “There is concern that the election itself could be disrupted. So the Navy is on standby alert, ready to keep the planetary peace if that should prove necessary.”

A form answer—with teeth in it. The Navy was under the ultimate command of the civilian president, Tocsin. Was he preparing for a military coup in the event he lost the election? That seemed incredible, but if several civil disturbances were incited, the president could invoke martial law to restore order. How far would such temporary discipline go? Military coups were common in the republics of southern Jupiter but unthinkable in northern Jupiter. So far.

“It is good to have that reassurance,” I said. “We know how important it is to preserve order.” Which was another formal statement. “Give my regards to your husband.” And there was the hidden one: her husband, Admiral Mondy, was the arch-conspirator of our once tightly knit group within the Navy. He prized out all secrets and fathomed all strategies; he liked to know where everybody was hidden. I was telling her that something was up and to alert Mondy if he was not already aware. He might be retired, but I knew he kept his hand in. That sort of thing was in his blood.

“Have no fear, sir,” she responded, and faded out. That concluding “sir” was significant, too; it meant she was thinking of the time when I had been the commander of our Navy task force that cleared up the Belt.

That team still existed in spirit, if not in form; my officers had spread throughout the Navy and now wielded considerable power. I still had friends in the Navy, excellent friends—more so than perhaps Tocsin realized.

After that call I pondered the implications. Was Tocsin merely setting up a threat, as in a chess game, to intimidate those who might vote for me? Or was he really getting ready to preserve his power militarily?

What use would it be to me to win the election, if it was only to be set aside by a military takeover?

My misgivings were enhanced by a second development. I wrapped up a rousing campaign speech in Delphi, Keystone, and retired to my quarters to discover Spirit there with a visitor: Reba of QYV.

“Hubris, this is off the record,” Reba said immediately.

“This car is secure,” I assured her. “But I have a covenant with the media—”

“It could mean my position—and your life,” she said grimly. “The press must not know.”

This put me on the spot. I knew she was serious; only an extraordinary matter would have caused her to risk her career to visit me personally to confide a secret. But I had made a commitment to Thorley.

I risked a compromise. “Let me bring one member of the press here, now, while I hear what you have to say. If he agrees to keep it secret—”

Reba sighed. “Thorley.”

I nodded. “He happens to be aboard now.”

“You always did drive an uncomfortable bargain,” she said.

Spirit left us and we chatted about inconsequentials for a few minutes, until my sister returned with Thorley. Evidently she had explained the situation on the way, for he evinced no confusion. He sat down and waited.

“I am... an anonymous source,” Reba told him.

“Understood.” That was a convention of many centuries' standing. If he published anything he learned from her, it would not be directly attributed.

“I represent an anonymous organization.” Again Thorley agreed; it was obvious that he recognized her, for he had sources of his own, and he knew of my prior association with her.

“This woman knows me as well as any,” I said.

Thorley raised an eyebrow but made no other comment. There had been a chronic run of conjecture in the media about the other women supposedly in my life, but Thorley knew that this was not one of those.

He was surprised that any woman should know me as well as my wife or sister did. He would pay very close attention to what Reba said. I had just given her a potent recommendation.

“I am in a position to know that a plan is afoot to kidnap Hope Hubris,” Reba said carefully. "To mem-wash him and destroy his credibility as a candidate for the presidency.'

News indeed! Trust QYV to be the first to fathom Tocsin's mischief.

“This is not a plot to keep secret,” Thorley remarked. “I differ with Candidate Hubris on numerous and sundry issues, but I do not endorse foul play.”

“Some secrets must be kept until they can be proven,” Reba said. “If this is published now the plot will fold without trace, and an alternate one invoked—one I may not be in a position to fathom in advance.”

“Ah, now I see,” Thorley said. “This fish you have hooked but not necessarily others. From this one the candidate may be protected, if the perpetrator does not realize that the subject knows.”

“Exactly,” she agreed. “The perpetrator is playing for high stakes and will not stop at murder as a last resort.”

“Yet surely the Secret Service protection—”

“Could not stop a city-destroying bolt from space.”

Thorley glanced at her shrewdly. He pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. We all knew that only one person on Jupiter had the authority to order such an action—and the will to do it, if pressed. “Certain mischief has been done, and hidden, the details accessible only to the president. Revelation of that mischief could put a number of rather high officials in prison and utterly destroy certain careers.”

“You seem to grasp the situation,” Reba agreed.

“And it seems that the details of that hidden mischief could no longer be concealed, if a new and opposing person assumed the presidential office at this time.”

Reba nodded. “That office will not be yielded gracefully.”

Thorley smiled. “Perhaps you assume that one conservative must necessarily support another. This is not the case. Some support issues, not men, and their private feelings may reflect some seeming inversions. I might even venture to imply that there could be some liberals I would prefer on a personal basis to some conservatives. Strictly off the record, of course.” He smiled again, and so did Spirit. Thorley was an honest man, with a sense of humor and a rigorous conscience.

“Then you will withhold your pen?” Reba asked.

“In the interest of fairness—and a better eventual story—I am prepared to do more than that. I prefer to see to the excision of iniquity, branch and root, wherever it occurs.”

“Then perhaps you will be interested in one particular detail of the plot,” she said grimly. "Candidate Hubris is to receive a message, purportedly from you, advising him that you have urgent news that you must impart to him secretly, in person, without the presence of any other party. When he slips his SS

security net and goes to meet you, he will be captured by the agents of the plotters, taken off-planet, mem-washed, addicted to a potent drug, sexually compromised, reeducated, and returned to his campaign on the eve of the election armed with a speech of such nonsense as to discredit him as a potential president. He will be finished politically."

Thorley blew out his cheeks as if airing a mouthful of hot pepper. "This abruptly becomes more personal.

As it happens, I have no need to summon the candidate to any personal encounter; I have another contact."

“So you have said,” Reba agreed, glancing at Spirit, who smiled. “I know that Hope Hubris would not fall for such a scheme, though it seems that the other party neglected to research that far. Some surprisingly elementary errors have been made. But it occurred to me that, considering the alternative—”

Now I caught her drift. “That I might choose to!”

“Choose to!” Thorley exclaimed, horrified.

Reba looked at me. “Tell him,” I said.

She returned to Thorley. “Hope Hubris is immune to drug addiction,” she said. “His system apparently forms antibodies against any mind-affecting agent. This takes time but is effective. We believe that he cannot be permanently affected by the program they propose. His memory will return far more rapidly than is normal, and he soon will throw off the addiction to the drug. Which means—”

“That the attempt is apt to backfire,” Thorley finished.

“Particularly if the candidate is forewarned and properly prepared,” she agreed.

“And we would finally establish our direct link to the guilty party,” I said. “Which would at last put him out of commission. No fifty-fifty gambling on the election; no waiting for a bolt from space. At one stroke, victory!”

I stood at the podium, addressing a small, select group of reporters in this chamber, and the holo-cameras for a vastly greater audience. It was time for me to give my prepared speech.

I had been so absorbed in my final flashback revelation that I really couldn't remember how I had gotten here. It hardly mattered; I knew that I was back on Jupiter, in a major city—probably New Wash—and that I had a meticulously crafted script to deliver. I also knew, now, that it represented disaster to my campaign, for it promised so much that no one would believe it. I was no minor party candidate; I was the leading challenger, with an even chance of winning the election—if I did not throw it away here. But if I repudiated the script, Dorian Gray would suffer, and, of course, I myself would be summarily whisked away and doomed, for I remained in the power of the enemy. They did not realize that my system had fought off the addiction, the mem-wash, and the reeducation program. I was no robot to do their bidding, but they still had some power over me. Not the city-blasting threat—not here!—but still the power of individual murder.

A man stood at my elbow, theoretically to assist me, but as I hesitated, he touched something in a pocket, and I felt a dread twinge of discomfort in my gut. He had a pain-box there—tuned to me! They had buttressed their program in the professional manner, giving me positive and negative incentives to perform. Tocsin really wanted me out of the race! How could I get out of this?

Then I spied a familiar face in the group before me: Thorley. Suddenly I knew it was all right. If he was here, then QYV knew my location; indeed, QYV would have tracked me all along. Spirit would have the situation in hand.

Except for that pain-box. I literally could not act independently, as long as that was tuned to me.

I had no time to ponder. The broadcast signal came on, and I started my prepared speech. I had no other, and I could not risk what would happen if the enemy caught on to my awareness before we gained control of that sub and nullified the pain-box.

Actually the text began moderately enough; it was the cumulative effect of it that would be devastating.

While I spoke, I watched my audience—especially Thorley. He knew that I had been abducted; I was sure that fact had been concealed from the public, but Thorley had been, as it were, in on the conspiracy.

He would let me know when it was safe for me to break free. But did he know about the pain-box, which would cripple me the moment I tried?

Then the signal came: Thorley's thumbs-up. That meant that our people had completed the nullification of my captors, working quietly behind the scenes. The enemy administrators, elsewhere in the city, would not know. Tocsin would not know. I was free to pursue my own course.

Except for that man beside me with the pain-box. They couldn't approach him without alerting him, and that would be bad for me. He could screw the agony up to the fatal point, if he saw I would otherwise escape. I would have to take him out myself.

Easier decided than accomplished. A pain-box could not simply be grabbed or smashed; the victim could be holding it, and still be helpless. The thing had to be detuned or retuned; only then would I be truly free.

I paused, looking about. Part of the takeover had to be of the broadcast facilities, so that I could not be abruptly cut off. This was, after all, a campaign speech, after a long hiatus; my silence would be almost as damaging as my wrong-headed speech. Now I could speak plainly, and to good effect, assuming that the man beside me was a hireling who did not know my specific script. But what should I say? What could I afford to reveal that would not alert him or alert someone in touch with him and bring immediate cutoff by pain?

Then I got a notion. Thorley's thumbs-up meant more than success elsewhere; it meant he had the solution to my immediate problem. Pain-boxes are easy enough to defeat, because of the particular impulses they generate; my people had to know my predicament. They would have a damper or detuner, if it could be brought within range. I had to get it here.

“Now, I have been making promises,” I said. “I realize that some of you are doubtful. You don't believe I can or will fulfill these promises as president. I would like to reassure you specifically.” I glanced about again. “I see that some of my most effective critics are in attendance. You, sir...” I pointed at Thorley.

“Do you doubt?”

Thorley smiled with that relaxed-tiger way he had. “I confess I do, Candidate.”

“Well, I shall refute your doubt!” I declaimed. “Come up here if you have the nerve! Debate me face-to-face, and I shall destroy your silly points!”

The others in the small audience smiled now; this was more like my old form. “You are a glutton for punishment, my liberal Candidate,” Thorley responded, rising huffily. “I came here ostensibly to report the event; however—”

“Report the event!” I exclaimed indignantly. “When did you ever do that, you sly provocateur? You have been sniping at me from the safety of your wretched column for years.”

Thorley puffed visibly with indignity and marched up to the podium, carrying his briefcase. “Since you have seen fit to fling the gauntlet at my veracity, sir, I must advise you that in this valise I carry complete refutation to all your foolishly liberal postures.”

And more than that, I thought. “Well, Sir Conservative, let's see you refute this: my position on tax reform. Do you oppose elimination of the nefarious loopholes that favor the rich?”

“Allow me to bring forth my armament,” Thorley said, lifting his briefcase and twiddling with the latch.

My guard, now right next to him, seemed amused by this development; obviously this display of pique would not establish me as a presidential candidate. “A moment, if you please; it seems to have jammed.”

“The way all your positions jam when challenged!” I retorted, and a ripple of mirth traveled through the audience. It was not that they were taking sides; they were merely enjoying the repartee, as they might the sight of two pugilists scoring on each other.

Thorley grimaced. “If you believe yourself to be so clever, perhaps you can operate the latch more effectively than I can,” he muttered.

“Certainly I can, you conservative incompetent,” I agreed, taking the briefcase from him. I put my fingers to the fastening—and felt a jolt of pain.

But the guard had not done it. His hands were out of his pockets as he followed the mock quarrel. The latch had done it.

It was the control to the pain-box tuner inside the briefcase. I adjusted it the other way, and the pain abated. Now it was damping out the pain-box.

I damped it down to zero. Then I reached across, casually, and placed my hand on the back of the guard's neck. Suddenly my fingers dug into a nerve. I gave him a moment to operate the pain-box in his pocket and realize that it was no longer operative; then I increased my pressure while still arguing with Thorley, letting the guard know that the control had changed over. When I was sure he understood, I released my grip. He stood unmoving; he knew it was the price of his health.

I handed the briefcase back to Thorley. “It will open now, Journalist,” I said. Of course, the case was not intended for opening; it contained no papers, merely the damper.

“Upon reconsideration, I believe I can do this barehanded,” Thorley said, setting down the briefcase.

The audience was not aware of the true nature of our interaction. “As I understand your position on taxes, it is to play Robin Hood to our society, taking from the affluent and redistributing the wealth among the poor. Now the fallacy of penalizing our most productive element while rewarding indolence is—”

“On the contrary,” I broke in, “I subscribe to the so-called flat tax.”

Thorley paused, genuinely surprised. “You do?”

“Actually, I suspect that taxation itself may be a form of theft from the population,” I said. “I would like to find some other way to raise money for government operations. One of my first acts as president will be to seek some feasible way to reduce or abolish taxation entirely.”

There was a kind of collective gasp from the audience. These were seasoned journalists, seldom surprised, but I had just lobbed a bombshell. No candidate spoke like that!

“If you can do that,” Thorley said slowly, “you will prove yourself to be a magician.” He shook his head and laid a small sheet of paper on my podium. “I have changed my mind, Candidate. I don't believe I am ready to debate you at this juncture. I prefer to hear first what other changes your position may have undergone.” He returned slowly to his place.

While the cameras followed Thorley, I read the paper. It was another bombshell: “One week past, Tocsin broke relations with Ganymede on suspicious pretext. Candidate cannot afford to ignore issue.”

A virtual election-eve ploy, and I had been told nothing of it! My planned speech did indeed ignore it and left me a patsy for a pointed question. I had to address this issue, for I had been the first ambassador there. Even if I had revised my speech extemporaneously to cause it to make sense, this trap would have caught me. I almost had to admire this aspect of Tocsin's cunning.

I thought fast and decided on an approach. “I know you are waiting for me to address the issue of the hour. As you know, I was at one time Jupiter's ambassador to Ganymede. Naturally I regret what has happened. But before I commit myself, I would like to be sure I have the facts.“ I glanced directly at the camera. ”Please establish a connection directly to Ganymede and ask the premier to do me the kindness of speaking with me now.”

There was another ripple of surprise. This was an extraordinarily risky undertaking for a candidate on the eve of the election. The angry premier could torpedo me.

But few people were aware how close I had been to the premier of Ganymede, despite our differing politics. In our fashion we understood and trusted each other. It was not to his interest to torpedo me; it was Tocsin he would be after. They put through the call, of course. Formal relations might have been severed, but a public call from a candidate for president of Jupiter was too dramatic a move to deny. In a moment the premier responded. His familiar face came on our monitor screen. “Where have you been, Ambassador?” he asked.

“That is a special story, Premier,” I said. “As you may have heard, there is a local election tomorrow, and I am to participate. If I win, I would like to act on the basis of full information. I would appreciate it if you would tell me—and our Jupiter audience—as concisely as you can what happened to alienate our two planets.”

There was a delay of about seven seconds' travel time for the signals, for Ganymede is three and a half light-seconds out from Jupiter. Complications of our rotation and the Gany orbit make for variations, and, of course, the premier needed time to assimilate my words and formulate his response. But the public understands about this sort of thing. We waited patiently for his response.

The premier was amazed. “This is being broadcast? Alive?”

“Yes. You can verify it on your monitors.” We waited another seven-plus seconds.

He had evidently done so. “ Señor, all we know is that our ship left our port carrying a cargo of sugar bound for south Jupiter. Then these pirates board it and claim it carried Saturnine arms, and diplomatic relations are broken.”

“ Did it carry Saturnine arms?” I asked, nailing this down.

“Not when it left Ganymede, señor .”

“But then how did the arms get aboard?”

“They were put there.”

“By whom?” This might have been tedious, with the delay between each response, but my audience was rapt.

“By your Navy, señor ! Who else had access to our ship?”

“But why should the Jupiter Navy do that?”

“That I would like to know, señor ! We have been selling sugar to your ships, and we have gotten along until this.”

I could think of a reason: to make big headlines the week before the election, arousing popular indignation against an external government, and showing how tough the incumbent president could be against the dread Communist menace. A pure grandstand play, an ancient formula. Such activity always rallies the electorate around the existing leader. Vintage Tocsin. The nice touch was that it implicated me; as Jupiter's first ambassador to the revolutionary regime of Ganymede, I was tainted by that association. I had been there, I had hobnobbed with the premier who had now seemingly reneged on the covenant he had made with Jupiter. By implication it was my fault. Tocsin was very good at implication.

I could see that the premier, canny political in-fighter that he was, had come to a similar conclusion. His protestation of ignorance was merely for show. I decided to play the game out; it seemed promising. “So you say that Ganymede did not break the agreement; it was framed?”

The premier shrugged. “Now, why would anyone want to do that?” He had reversed my question. I saw some of the journalists nodding; they understood political maneuvers as well as anyone.

“You say those weapons were planted on your ship,” I said. “Do you expect us to believe that? How can we know you aren't violating the covenant?”

The premier smiled, knowing the opening I had given him. “ Señor, we made that covenant in 2643, six years ago. Ganymede has shipped no Saturnine arms since then, and there is no other route from Saturn to Jupiter for this sort of merchandise. If the arms aboard that ship have dates of manufacture after that, then we must be guilty. But if they do not—”

“But couldn't you have shipped old weapons?” I asked.

“Why should we? We have access to new ones.” He paused, considering. "But I see your point, señor .

We cannot prove we did not , but you can prove we did —if you find recent weapons there. It is like a paternity test, is it not?"

I smiled. “Not quite, Premier. That test shows only who could not be the parent but cannot say who was.”

“A half-proof may be better than none. Let an independent agency of the United Planets inspect those weapons.”

“You recommend this, Premier, though this could only prove you guilty, not innocent?”