Spin (35 page)

“You have?”

“For three years,” he said with detectable pride, “I was Agricultural Administrator for Ice Winds Canton.”

“Ah.”

“The governing body for most of the Kirioloj Delta. It wasn’t the Presidency of the United States of America. There are no nuclear weapons at the disposal of the Agricultural Administration. But I did expose a corrupt local official who was falsifying crop reports by weight and selling his margin into the surplus market.”

“A rake-off scheme?”

“If that’s the term for it.”

“So the Five Republics aren’t free of corruption?”

Wun blinked, an event that rippled out along the convolute geography of his face. “No, how could they be? And why do so many terrestrials make that assumption? Had I come here from some other Earthly country—France, China, Texas—no one would be startled to hear about bribery or duplicity or theft.”

“I guess not. But it’s not the same.”

“Isn’t it? But you work here at Perihelion. You must have met some of the founding generation, as strange as that idea still seems to me—the men and women whose remote descendants we Martians are. Were they such ideal persons that you expect their progeny to be free of sin?”

“No, but—”

“And yet the misconception is almost universal. Even those books you gave me, written before the Spin—”

“You read them?”

“Yes, eagerly. I enjoyed them. Thank you. But even in those novels, the Martians…” He struggled after a thought.

“I guess some of them are a little saintly…”

“Remote,” he said. “Wise. Seemingly frail. Actually very powerful. The Old Ones. But to us, Tyler,
you’re
the Old Ones. The elder species, the ancient planet. I would have thought the irony was inescapable.”

I pondered that. “Even the H. G. Wells novel—”

“His Martians are barely seen. They’re abstractly, indifferently evil. Not wise but clever. But devils and angels are brother and sister, if I understand the folklore correctly.”

“But the more contemporary stories—”

“Those were deeply interesting, and the protagonists were at least human. But the truest pleasure of those stories is in the landscapes, don’t you agree? And even so, they’re
transformative
landscapes. A destiny behind every dune.”

“And of course the Bradbury—”

“His Mars isn’t Mars. But his Ohio makes me think of it.”

“I understand what you’re saying. You’re just people. Mars isn’t heaven. Agreed, but that doesn’t mean Lomax won’t try to use you for his own political purposes.”

“And I mean to tell you that I’m fully aware of the possibility. The
certainty
would be more correct. Obviously I’ll be used for political advantage, but that’s the power I have: to bestow or withhold my approval. To cooperate or to be stubborn. The power to say the right word.” He smiled again. His teeth were uniformly perfect, radiantly white. “Or not.”

“So what
do
you want out of all this?”

He showed me his palms, a gesture both Martian and terrestrial. “Nothing. I’m a Martian saint. But it would be gratifying to see the replicators launched.”

“Purely in the pursuit of knowledge?”

“That I
will
confess to, even if it is a saintly motive. To learn at least something about the Spin—”

“And challenge the Hypotheticals?”

He blinked again. “I very much hope the Hypotheticals, whoever or whatever they are, won’t perceive what we’re doing as a
challenge
.”

“But if they do—”

“Why would they?”

“But if they do, they’ll believe the challenge came from Earth, not Mars.”

Wun Ngo Wen blinked several more times. Then the smile crept back: indulgent, approving. “You’re surprisingly cynical yourself, Dr. Dupree.”

“How un-Martian of me.”

“Quite.”

“And does Preston Lomax believe you’re an angel?”

“Only he can answer that question. The last thing he said to me—” Here Wun dropped his Oxford diction for a note-perfect Preston Lomax impression, brusque and chilly as a winter seashore: “
It’s a privilege to talk to you, Ambassador Wen. You speak your mind directly. Very refreshing for an old DC. hand like myself
.”

The impression was startling, coming from someone who had been speaking English for only a little over a year. I told him so.

“I’m a scholar,” he said. “I’ve been reading English since I was a child. Speaking it is another matter. But I do have a talent for languages. It’s one of the reasons I’m here. Tyler, may I ask another favor of you? Would you be willing to bring me more novels?”

“I’m all out of Martian stories, I’m afraid.”

“Not Mars. Any sort of novel. Anything, anything you consider important, anything that matters to you or gave you a little pleasure.”

“There must be plenty of English professors who’d be happy to work up a reading list.”

“I’m sure there are. But I’m asking
you
.”

“I’m not a scholar. I like to read, but it’s pretty random and mostly contemporary.”

“All the better. I’m alone more often than you might think. My quarters are comfortable but I can’t leave them without elaborate planning. I can’t go out for a meal, I can’t see a motion picture or join a social club. I could ask my minders for books, but the last thing I want is a work of fiction that’s been approved by a committee. But an honest book is almost as good as a friend.”

This was as close as Wun had come to complaining about his position at Perihelion, his position on Earth. He was happy enough during his waking hours, he said, too busy for nostalgia and still excited by the strangeness of what for him would always be an alien world. But at night, on the verge of sleep, he sometimes imagined he was walking the shore of a Martian lake, watching shore birds flock and wheel over the waves, and in his mind it was always a hazy afternoon, the light tinted by streamers of the ancient dust that still rose from the deserts of Noachis to color the sky. In this dream or vision he was alone, he said, but he knew there were others waiting for him around the next curve of the rocky shore. They might be friends or strangers, they might even be his lost family; he knew only that he would be welcomed by them, touched, drawn close, embraced. But it was only a dream.

“When I read,” he said to me, “I hear the echo of those voices.”

I promised to bring him books. But now we had business. There was a flurry of activity in the security cordon by the door of the cafeteria. One of the suits came across the floor and said, “They’re asking for you upstairs.”

Wun abandoned his meal and began clambering out of his chair. I told him I’d see him later.

The suit turned to me. “You too,” he said. “They’re asking for both of you.”

Security hustled us to a boardroom adjoining Jason’s office, where Jase and a handful of Perihelion division heads were facing a delegation that included E. D. Lawton and the likely next president, Preston Lomax. No one looked happy.

I faced E. D. Lawton, whom I hadn’t seen since my mother’s funeral. His gauntness had begun to look almost pathological, as if something vital had leaked out of him. Starched white cuffs, bony brown wrists. His hair was sparse, limp, and randomly combed. But his eyes were still quick. E.D.‘s eyes were always lively when he was angry.

Preston Lomax, on the other hand, just looked impatient. Lomax had come to Perihelion to be photographed with Wun (photos for release after the official White House announcement) and to confer about the replicator strategy, which he was planning to endorse. E.D. was here on the weight of his reputation. He had talked himself into the vice president’s pre-election tour and apparently hadn’t stopped talking since.

During the hour-long Perihelion tour E.D. had questioned, doubted, derided, or viewed with alarm virtually every statement Jason’s division heads made, especially when the junket wound past the new incubator labs. But (according to Jenna Wylie, the cryonics team leader, who explained this to me later) Jason had answered each of his father’s outbursts with a patient and probably well-rehearsed rebuttal of his own. Which had driven E.D. to fresh heights of indignation, which in turn made him sound, according to Jenna, “like some crazed Lear raving about perfidious Martians.”

The battle was still under way when Wun and I entered. E.D. leaned into the conference table, saying, “Bottom line, it’s unprecedented, it’s untested, and it embraces a technology we don’t understand or control.”

And Jason smiled in the manner of a man far too polite to embarrass a respected but cranky elder. “Obviously, nothing we do is risk-free. But—”

But here we were. A few of those present hadn’t seen Wun before, and they self-identified, staring like startled sheep when they noticed him. Lomax cleared his throat. “Excuse me, but what I need right now is a word with Jason and our new arrivals—privately, if possible? Just a moment or two.”

So the crowd dutifully filed out, including E.D., who looked, however, not dismissed but triumphant.

Doors closed. The upholstered silence of the boardroom settled around us like fresh snow. Lomax, who still hadn’t acknowledged us, addressed Jason. “I know you told me we’d take some flak. Still—”

“It’s a lot to deal with. I understand.”

“I don’t like having E.D. outside the tent pissing in. It’s unseemly. But he can’t do us any real harm, assuming…”

“Assuming there’s no substance to what he says. I assure you, there’s not.”

“You think he’s senile.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. Do I think his judgment has become questionable? Yes, I do.”

“You know those accusations are flying both ways.”

This was as close as I had been or would ever be to a sitting president. Lomax hadn’t been elected yet, but only the formalities stood between him and the office. As V.P. Lomax had always seemed a little dour, a little brooding, rocky Maine to Garland’s ebullient Texas, the ideal presence at a state funeral. During the campaign he had learned to smile more often but the effort was never quite convincing; political cartoonists inevitably accentuated the frown, the lower lip tucked in as if he were biting back a malediction, eyes as chilly as a Cape Cod winter.

“Both ways. You’re talking about E.D.‘s insinuations about my health.”

Lomax sighed. “Frankly, your father’s opinion on the practicality of the replicator project doesn’t carry much weight. It’s a minority point of view and likely to remain that way. But yes, I have to admit, the charges he made today are a little troubling.” He turned to face me. “That’s why you’re here, Dr. Dupree.”

Now Jason aimed his attention at me, and his voice was cautious, carefully neutral. “It seems E.D.‘s been making some fairly wild claims. He says I’m suffering from, what was it, an aggressive brain disease—?”

“An unbeatable neurological deterioration,” Lomax said, “which is interfering with Jason’s ability to oversee operations here at Perihelion. What do you say to that, Dr. Dupree?”

“I guess I would say Jason can speak for himself.”

“I already have,” Jase said. “I told Vice President Lomax all about my MS.”

From which he did not actually suffer. It was a cue. I cleared my throat. “Multiple sclerosis isn’t entirely curable, but it’s more than just controllable. An MS patient today can expect a life span as long and productive as anyone else’s. Maybe Jase has been reluctant to talk about it, and that’s his privilege, but MS is nothing to be embarrassed about.”

Jase gave me a hard look I couldn’t interpret.

Lomax said, “Thank you,” a little dryly. “I appreciate the information. By the way, do you happen to know a Dr. Malmstein? David Malmstein?” Followed by a silence that gaped like the jaws of a steel trap.

“Yes,” I said, maybe a tick too late.

“This Dr. Malmstein is a neurologist, is he not?”

“Yes, he is.”

“Have you consulted him in the past?”

“I consult with lots of specialists. It’s part of what I do as a physician.”

“Because, according to E.D., you called in this Malmstein regarding Jason’s, uh, grave neurological disorder.”

Which explained the frigid look Jase was shooting me. Someone had talked to E.D. about this. Someone close. But it hadn’t been me.

I tried not to think about who it might have been. “I’d do the same for any patient with a possible MS diagnosis. I run a good clinic here at Perihelion, but we don’t have the kind of diagnostic equipment Malmstein can access at a working hospital.”

Lomax, I think, recognized this as a nonanswer, but he tossed the ball back to Jase: “Is Dr. Dupree telling the truth?”

“Of course he is.”

“You trust him?”

“He’s my personal physician. Of course I trust him.”

“Because, no offense, I wish you well but I don’t really give a shit about your medical problems. What concerns me is whether you can give us the support we need and see this project through to the end. Can you do that?”

“As long as we’re funded, yes sir, I’ll be here.”

“And how about you, Ambassador Wen? Does this raise any alarms with you? Any concerns or questions about the future of Perihelion?”

Wun pursed his lips, three quarters of a Martian smile. “No concerns whatsoever. I trust Jason Lawton implicitly. I also trust Dr. Dupree. He’s my personal physician as well.”

Which caused both Jason and me to stifle our astonishment, but it closed the deal with Lomax. He shrugged. “All right. I apologize for bringing it up. Jason, I hope your health remains good and I hope you weren’t offended by the tone of the questions, but given E.D.‘s status I felt I had to ask.”

“I understand,” Jase said. “As for E.D.—”

“Don’t worry about your father.”

“I’d hate to see him humiliated.”

“He’ll be quietly sidelined. I think that’s a given. If he insists on going public—” Lomax shrugged. “In that case I’m afraid it’s his own mental capacity people will challenge.”

“Of course,” Jason said, “we all hope that’s not necessary.”

I spent the next hour in the clinic. Molly hadn’t shown up this morning and Lucinda had been doing all the bookings. I thanked her and told her to take the rest of the day off I thought about making a couple of phone calls, but I didn’t want them routed through the Perihelion system.