Power Play (15 page)

“I’m not an expert on MHD.”

“You know more about it than I do,” Tomlinson countered. With a grin, he added, “That makes you our expert.”

“But I don’t have Sinclair’s stature. He’s—”

Amy interrupted, “This isn’t academia, Jake. Nobody’s going to compare your curriculum vitae against Sinclair’s.”

Tomlinson agreed. “He’s got a Ph.D., you’ve got a Ph.D. As far as the news media is concerned, you’re both scientists and that’s that.”

“I don’t know…”

“You can do it, Jake,” Amy said, fixing him with her hazel eyes. “I know you can.”

He nodded reluctantly. This is just what I need, shooting my mouth off to the news media. Great way to get a visit from Monster or some of his pals.

ANNOUNCEMENT

Jake fretted and fidgeted all the next day, worrying about what he was going to tell Leeds and what the senator’s reaction would be. Finally, after his afternoon class, he hurried across the chilly campus to his office and looked up Senator Leeds’s phone number.

Leeds’s voice came up immediately, strong and measured: “This is Senator Christopher Leeds. I’m sorry that I can’t take your call at the moment, but if you’ll leave your name and number—”

Jake hung up. He’ll know what my answer is when he doesn’t hear from me, he told himself. Then he remembered an old aphorism: Not to decide is to decide.

*   *   *

The deadline for filing for the Senate race was the last day of the year, so on the Monday after Christmas B. Franklin Tomlinson scheduled a news conference in the main ballroom of the Sheridan Hotel.

“The week between Christmas and New Year’s is a slow news period,” Amy explained to Jake. “Franklin will get plenty of coverage: local, state, even national.”

The two of them were in bed in Amy’s condo, celebrating Christmas together. Jake had bought her a pendant of Russian amber set in silver: he thought it complemented her dark blond hair. She cooed over it and wore it in bed. She had given him a set of solid gold cuff links and shirt studs. “For the tuxedo you’re going to wear at Franklin’s victory party,” she said.

They had both been at Tomlinson’s house for his family’s Christmas Eve party. It was a huge bash, centered around a Christmas tree that scraped the lofty ceiling of the mansion’s living room. It was dripping with ornaments and lights; Jake had never seen such an opulent tree, except in old movies.

Tomlinson introduced Jake to his father, Alexander. The man must have been at least eighty, but he was erect and slim as a cavalry saber. His hair was iron gray, cropped in a flat military buzz cut. His skin looked almost waxy, like old parchment. But his handshake was firm as he greeted Jake in front of the tree.

“You’re my son’s science advisor, are you?” His voice was surprisingly deep and strong.

“Yessir,” Jake managed to reply.

“Stay away from nuclear energy,” Alexander Tomlinson said sternly. “It’s a lousy issue; nothing but trouble.”

Jake nodded dutifully. “I will, Mr. Tomlinson.”

“Good. Make sure that you do.”

And Jake began to realize what was driving B. Franklin Tomlinson into politics. This old man had all the single-minded determination of a charging bull—and about the same amount of finesse.

Amy was at Tomlinson’s side through much of the evening, dressed in a low-cut gown of white and gold that dripped with sequins. At precisely eleven thirty, Tomlinson asked everyone to be quiet.

“I’m going to be making a public announcement in a couple of days,” he said as the crowd gathered around him. “But I wanted you—you who’ve been friends to my family and me for so many years—to hear it first.”

He paused dramatically. Everyone stood in their tuxedos and fine gowns and jewels, silent, expectant. Amy was standing next to Tomlinson, looking glitteringly beautiful; the elder Tomlinson stood at his son’s other side.

Tomlinson crooked a finger in Jake’s direction. “Jake, you come up here, too. You’re a major part of my team.”

Feeling shabby in his old blue suit, Jake came up and took his place beside Tomlinson’s father.

“I want you all to know,” Tomlinson said, his eyes sparkling as if he were handing out Christmas presents, “that I will be a candidate for the United States Senate in next November’s election.”

It came as no surprise, but everyone gasped and then cheered and applauded. Jake saw that Amy was clutching Tomlinson’s arm with both her hands, gazing up at him adoringly.

*   *   *

Just as Amy had predicted, the ballroom of the Sheridan Hotel was jammed with news reporters and photographers the next Monday morning. Jake saw that all the local TV stations were there, together with the major cable networks. Most of the camera crews and photographers were male, although there was a healthy number of women among the reporters.

Jake was standing off to one side of the stage, beside Tomlinson’s public relations aide, a bespectacled, crew-cut young man dressed in a tweed jacket. He looked young enough to be a freshman. According to Amy, though, he was a top man in the biggest PR firm in the state.

Amy was nowhere in sight as a technician from the hotel fiddled with the microphones up on the lectern. The camera crews were setting up their equipment, kidding around and jostling each other for the best positions up in front of the assembly. She’s with Frank, Jake knew. They’re going over the last-minute details.

The big ballroom was buzzing with dozens of conversations. Somebody cracked a joke and a burst of laughter erupted from the back of the room. Jake felt jittery, his hands sweaty. The room felt hot to him, stuffy. Too many people too close together, he thought.

Alexander Tomlinson was over in the far corner of the room, surrounded by men his own age: his cronies, all smiles and expectations. The elder Tomlinson looked stern and uncompromising, however. I wonder if he ever smiles, Jake asked himself.

“Testing, one, two, three…” The technician’s voice boomed across the room. Looking startled, he ducked down to adjust the audio equipment hidden inside the lectern.

The technician hurried off the stage and the room suddenly fell silent, expectant. After a few moments, the door at Jake’s side of the stage opened and B. Franklin Tomlinson came striding into the room. He bounded up onto the stage, beaming his megawatt smile, looking dashing and youthful even in his conservatively dark blue three-piece suit.

“Good morning,” he said into the microphones. His voice sounded strong, self-assured. “I hope Santa Claus was good to all of you.”

A scattering of chuckles. Jake looked around for Amy. She slipped quietly through the doorway and came to Jake’s side, beaming up at Tomlinson.

“I think you already know why I’ve asked you here this morning,” Tomlinson went on. “I have decided to be a candidate for the United States Senate in November’s election.”

A sort of sigh gusted through the room. The announcement was expected, of course, but now it had actually become a reality. Cameras clicked and whirred, and Jake saw that while most of the reporters were holding up digital recorders to take down Tomlinson’s announcement, a few were actually scribbling on notepads.

“I’ll be running on the Republican Party’s slate, and look forward to engaging the Democrats’ candidate in a meaningful discussion of the issues.”

“What about the primary?” someone asked.

Tomlinson shrugged good-naturedly. “I don’t expect to have any serious opposition within the party.” With a grin, he added, “At least, that’s what the state’s party chairman told me.”

Jake noticed the elder Tomlinson scowling darkly.

The newspeople waited for more.

Tomlinson didn’t disappoint them. “One of the issues that I intend to pursue deals with energy. There’s lots of new technology that we can use to end our dependence on the oil that we import from overseas. One of those technologies is being explored right here at our state university. It’s called”—he grinned—“don’t let the name scare you: it’s called magnetohydrodynamics.”

Before anyone could complain, Tomlinson said, “That’s MHD, for short.”

He took a breath, then continued, “MHD is a very efficient way of generating electricity—cleanly, without polluting the atmosphere. It could ultimately cut a household’s electric bills in half.”

That seemed to make an impression, Jake thought.

“What’s more, MHD can use this state’s abundant supplies of coal and revitalize our coal industry. It could mean thousands of new jobs across our state.”

A voice from the mass of reporters called out, “But our coal has too much sulfur in it to be usable, doesn’t it? It would cause acid rain, wouldn’t it?”

Smiling broadly, Tomlinson nodded as he replied, “Our state’s high-sulfur coal can’t be used for ordinary power generators, that’s true. But MHD power generators could burn our coal cleanly, without releasing those sulfur compounds into the atmosphere.”

That opened a barrage of questions. Tomlinson dealt with them smoothly, like a big-league shortstop handling ground balls.

Suddenly, though, Tomlinson said, “I want you to meet my science advisor, the man who’s educated me about this MHD process.” Jabbing a finger in Jake’s direction, Tomlinson called, “Dr. Ross, come on up here.”

Stunned with surprise, Jake stood rooted to the spot until Amy nudged him gently. “Go on up,” she urged.

Reluctantly, Jake climbed the three steps and walked across the stage to stand beside the brightly smiling Tomlinson, who wrapped an arm around Jake’s shoulders as cameras clicked and whirred.

“This is Dr. Jacob Ross,” said Tomlinson. “Jake’s a professor at the university. He can fill you in on all the details of the MHD process.”

Great, Jake thought. I’ll be on all the news broadcasts tonight and in the papers tomorrow. Leeds and Nacho Perez will see me. So will Monster.

FEBRUARY

ROGERS’S RANGERS

Jake woke up to the sound of snowplows chugging along the street. Pulling his terry-cloth bathrobe around his naked body, he went to the window and saw that more than a foot of snow had fallen overnight. Great, he thought. I’ll spend the morning digging out my car.

By the time he drove through the campus’s only cleared entrance Jake felt sweaty beneath his heavy sweater and coat, his back ached, and he was certain his palms were going to blister from the shoveling he’d done, despite his leather gloves. But the clouds had blown away and the sun was shining brightly out of a crystalline blue sky. The campus was eerily quiet and empty, covered in white. Only half of the parking lot nearest Jake’s building had been plowed out; the rest was covered with mountainous piles of snow that were hardening into rock-solid ice. With his wool cap pulled over his ears and his lined car coat zipped to his throat, Jake mushed his way across the nearly empty lot toward the astronomy building. Nobody else was in sight.

Jake was scheduled to meet with the three graduate students who were assisting him on his proposal for the next Mars lander; then he had his regular lecture class in the afternoon.

Inside, the building seemed deserted, and somebody had posted a garish
ALL CLASSES CANCELED
notice on the bulletin board. Big black stenciled letters on sunshine yellow paper. An anonymous graffitist had drawn a smiley face in the lower right corner of the sheet and scrawled
Hooray!
along its edge.

I should have checked my e-mail before I left the apartment, Jake berated himself. The university must have sent out a notice.

All classes canceled, Jake said to himself. Great. But my meeting with the Mars probe grad students is still on. At least, as far as I’m concerned.

Jake’s office felt chilly once he’d hung his coat on the back of the door. They’re saving on fuel, he thought. They don’t expect anybody to come in on a day like this so they’re keeping the thermostat dialed down.

No classes. Wondering if his grad students would show up anyway, Jake sat carefully in his desk chair, planting his booted feet firmly so it only rolled a foot or so. He checked his phone: no messages. Then he powered up his desktop computer. Just the usual spam, some university announcements. And a message from his grad students: Snowed in. See you first thing next week. Okay?

Jake knew he didn’t have any recourse. They weren’t coming in. Probably having a snowball fight on the dorm’s parking lot. I got here through the snow but they’re not coming in. Dedicated seekers of knowledge, the three of them.

So now what? he asked himself. You’ve got the whole day to yourself. Tomlinson’s campaign is running smoothly enough, Jake thought. Some right-wing group had put up a candidate to challenge him in April’s primary, but Amy didn’t think that was going to be a problem. Tomlinson had both the coal industry people and the state’s environmental movement in his camp. Leeds was ten points ahead in the opinion polls, although the professionals predicted that the gap would close significantly once the campaign heated up, after the primaries.

Jake realized he hadn’t done a damned thing about his proposal for the sensor on the next Mars lander for the past several weeks. This meeting today was supposed to get the proposal back on track. But the kids weren’t going to show. Leaning back in his spindly little chair, he told himself that there was still plenty of time for the proposal. After all this political stuff is finished, he thought. Once I get Tomlinson out of my hair I’ll dive into the proposal full time.

Sinclair. Jake steepled his fingers and sunk his chin to his chest. Sinclair hasn’t uttered a peep all this time. According to Glynis, the newspeople have been after him for a statement about the MHD work, but Sinclair’s avoided them all. Younger and Rogers have kept quiet, too. As far as the news media is concerned, Jake told himself, I’m the expert on MHD.

Some expert. All I know is what Bob and Tim have told me.

On an impulse, he picked up his desk phone and called Rogers. The physicist answered before the phone could ring three times.

“Don’t tell me you want to go down to the gym,” Rogers said, chuckling. Caller ID, Jake realized.

“Hi, Bob. I thought I was the only one crazy enough to come in on a day like this.”