Back | Next
Contents

7: Great Expectations

'Tis expectation makes a blessing dear,
Heaven were not heaven if we knew what it were.

—SIR JOHN SUCKLING, "Against Fruition"

COUNTDOWN: H MINUS TWO WEEKS

The bedroom was more than neat; it was spotless. Jack Clybourne's entire apartment was that way—except for the second bedroom, which he used as a den. That one wasn't precisely messy, but he did permit books to remain unshelved for days at a time.

The first time Jenny had visited Jack in his apartment, she'd remarked on its neatness.

He'd laughed. "Yeah, we get that way in the Service. We have to travel a lot, and stay in hotels, and we never know when the President's schedule will change, so we stay packed. I remember once the maid saw all my stuff packed and the suitcases in the middle of the room, and the manager checked us out and rented the room to someone else."

Despite the neatness, his bedroom wasn't sterile. There were photographs, of his mother and sister, and of the President. Pictures of the Kremlin, and The Great Wall of China, and other places he'd been. Book club selections filled a tidy shelf along one wall. The shelves were full now, so when new selections came in, old ones went to the used book stores. The residue gave some clues to Clybourne's reading habits: voracious, partial to history, but interested in spy thrillers.

Jenny got up carefully. She didn't think she'd awakened Jack, although it was hard to tell. He slept lightly, and when he woke, he didn't even open his eyes. She teased him about it once, and he laughed, and it wasn't until later that she realized that kind of sleeping habit might be an advantage in his job. The Secret Service did other things besides protect the President.

She retrieved her uniform from the closet. The first time she'd come there, her clothes ended on the floor, but Jack's apartment invited neatness . . . She took her Class A's into the bathroom.

The bed was empty when she came out. She could hear the shower in the other bathroom. He's certainly the most considerate lover I've ever had . . .

She didn't much care for the word "lover," but nothing else fit. He wasn't a fiancé; there'd been no talk at all about marriage. No lieutenants should marry, but male captains could, and by the time they became majors most male officers were married; but marriage would be the end to a woman officer's career.

He was certainly something more than a boyfriend. They didn't live together, partly because both the Army and the Secret Service tended to be a little prudish even if they pretended not to be, and even more because Jenny wasn't ready for all the explanations Aunt Rhonda would demand if she moved out of Flintridge. Even so, she spent a lot of time at Jack's apartment. They both traveled a lot and worked odd hours, but it was definitely understood that when they were both in Washington and had free time, they'd spend it together.

While on trips she'd twice dated other men, but it wasn't the same. Something was missing. Magic, she thought, and didn't care to put another name to it. That it existed was enough, and it was wonderful.

"Ready for dinner?" His tie was perfectly knotted, but he'd left his jacket off.

"Sure. Want me to cook?"

"You don't have to—"

"Jack, I like to cook. I don't get a chance very often."

"All right. We'll have to shop, though. There's nothing here."

"Sure. I'll get started, and you can go get—"

She stopped because he was shaking his head. "Let's go together. We can figure out what we want on the way."

"Sure." She waited while he put on his jacket. As he always did before going out, he took his revolver out of the holster concealed inside his trousers and looked into the barrel, then checked the loads.

She'd never seen Jack angry, or threaten anyone, but Jenny never worried when she went out with him. The Post might be full of stories about Washington street crime, but no one ever bothered Jack Clybourne. Jenny wondered if it could be telepathy.

He lived in the newly rebuilt area off New Jersey Avenue, where there were lots of apartments. It was on the other side of the White House from Flintridge.

She giggled. "Drive me home, he said. It's on my way, he said."

"It worked, didn't it?"

She took his hand. "Yes, and I'm glad."

"Me, too."

They went toward Constitution Avenue and the Federal Triangle until they reached the wide parklike Mall between Independence and Constitution Avenues. When they were in the middle of the Mall, he stopped. "Jenny, what in hell is going on?"

"With what?"

"This alien ship—look, being around the President, I hear a lot of things. I never talk about them. Not even with you, except it's your job too—the President's scared, Jenny. If you don't know that, you'd better."

"Scared? Jack—Oh, hell, darling. Let's walk." She led him along the path toward the great granite shape of the National Museum.

He wouldn't talk about this in his apartment. Out here we ought to be safe if we keep our voices down and talk directly to each other. That's silly. No one's listening to us. Still, I shouldn't talk to him about this, but he knows already—"Jack, what do you mean, scared? I've briefed him a dozen times, and he doesn't act scared with me."

"Not with you, not with the Admiral," Jack said. "But with Mrs. Coffey. He's worried because they don't answer."

"Well, we all wonder—"

"It's no wonder; he's scared! And I think he thinks the Russians are too."

"Yeah," Jenny said. "Of course we can only guess what they really think."

"It's true, though, isn't it? Every nut with a transmitter has tried to send them messages, and they don't answer . . ."

"Not just every nut," Jenny said. "The National Security Agency, with our biggest transmitters. The Jet Propulsion Laboratory's Deep Space Net, with the big Goldstone antenna. The Russians are doing the same thing."

"And nothing." Jack shivered slightly, despite the warm June night. "Heck, maybe I'm scared too!"

She hesitated, then laughed.

"What?"

"Just thinking. If there's anybody with a higher clearance than a man who'll put his butt between the President and a bullet, I don't know what it is." There was no one around, but she lowered her voice anyway. "The Admiral's getting worried too."

"I guess the Soviets decided to mobilize."

Jenny chuckled. "No. That's like an Australian's first reaction to anything is to go on strike."

"Wha-at?"

"Or like the Watergate trials. The lawyers asked one of them, 'Who ordered the cover up?' And he said, 'Actually, nobody ever suggested there would not be a cover-up.' Unless somebody actually says stop, the Soviets will mobilize."

"Get enough of those weapons, and somebody's likely to use them—"

"Yes. But things look reasonably stable over there. Their theoreticians are saying that any race advanced enough to have star travel would have to be economically evolved, meaning the aliens will all be good communists."

"I wouldn't think that follows."

"Neither do I. We know for a fact it hasn't helped the Russians communicate with the aliens. That ship isn't talking to anyone."

"Maybe it's a robot ship."

She shrugged. "We don't even have any good theories, and the Admiral wants some."

"Who has he asked?"

"Who haven't we asked?" Jenny laughed again. "Anybody we didn't ask has tried to tell us anyway. Out at the Air Force Academy we've got the damnedest collection of anthropologists, historians, political scientists, and other denizens of academia you ever saw. There's even a psychic. But next week we go even further. The Admiral's rounded up a collection of science-fiction writers."

Jack didn't laugh. "Actually that might not be such a bad idea."

"That's what I thought. Anyway, he's done it. Most of them are at the Air Academy, but he's taking a smaller group into Cheyenne Mountain. Guess what? I'm supposed to go out next week and help get them settled in. I don't know how long I'll be."

"Oh. Okay. But I'll miss you."

She squeezed his hand, then glanced around. It was dark, and nobody was going to see her behaving in an undignified manner while in uniform, and if they did, the hell with them. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. He was startled at first; then he held her close and they kissed again.

"We still haven't got dinner," she said finally.

"No, What do you want?"

"Something we can cook fast."

He laughed, "Yeah. There are better things to do than eat."

* * *

"The Church has always considered the possibility of intelligence other than human," Cardinal Manelli said. "Angels are one obvious example."

"Ah. And of course C. S. Lewis played with aliens," the Episcopalian bishop added. "Certainly the Christian churches are interested in this alien ship, but I can't agree that the existence of the aliens refutes Christian revelation."

Jeri Wilson looked thoughtful. She'd turned on the TV, something she almost never did on Sunday afternoons, and this program had been on. The Roman Catholic cardinal, the Episcopal bishop of California, two Protestant ministers whose faces she recognized, and a history professor from the University of California. Professor Boyd seemed to be acting as moderator, and also as a gadfly intent on irritating the others.

"Lewis points out that the existence of intelligent aliens impacts Christianity only if we assume they are in need of redemption, that redemption must come in the same manner as it was delivered to humanity, and that it has been denied them," the Episcopal bishop continued. "I doubt we know any of that just yet."

"What if they've never heard of Christianity?" Professor Boyd asked. "If they have no legends of gods, no notion of sin, no thought of redemption?"

"It wouldn't change the facts of our revelation," Cardinal Manelli said. "The Resurrection took place in our history, and no alien ship will change that. We'll know soon enough. Why speculate? If you want to ask 'what if?' then what if they have both the Old and New Testaments, or documents recognizably related to them?"

That would be interesting, Jeri thought.

"I predict that what we'll find will be ambiguous," one of the ministers said. "God doesn't seem to speak unequivocally."

"Not to you," Cardinal Manelli said. The others laughed, but Jeri thought some of the laughter was strained.

The doorbell rang. She went to answer it, a little unhappy at missing the program, which was interesting. Melissa raced down the hall and got to the door first.

The man at the door had red hair and beard fading to white. His gut spilled out over the top of his blue jeans. He'd never be able to button his denim jacket. Melissa stepped back involuntarily for a moment. Then she smiled. "Hi, Harry!"

Jeri didn't encourage Melissa to call adults by their first names, but Harry was an exception. How could you call him Mr. Reddington? "Hello," Jeri said. "What brings you here?" She stepped back to let him in and led him toward the kitchen. "Beer?"

"Thanks, yes," Harry said. He took the can eagerly. "Actually. I was just over to see Ken Dutton, and thought I'd stop by."

Melissa had gone back to her room. "Horse crap, Harry," Jeri said.

He shrugged. "Okay, I have ulterior motives. Look, they're throwing me out of my apartment—"

"Great God, Harry, you don't expect me to put you up!"

He looked slightly hurt. "You don't have to be so vigorous about the way you say that." Then he grinned. "Naw, I just thought, well, maybe you could put in a word with the Enclave people. I could go up to Washington state any time."

"Harry, they don't want you." That hurt him. She could see it. Even so, it had to be said. Harry had done odd jobs for the Tate-Evanses, as well as for the Wilsons, and although he'd never been invited to join the Enclave, he knew about it because David had talked about it with him.

Harry shrugged. "They don't want Dutton, either. But they do want you."

"Possibly. I'm not so sure I want them."

Harry looked puzzled.

"I've been thinking of going east. To join David." Not yet, he said. But it wasn't no!

Melissa came in to get a Coke from the refrigerator. "Is that your motorcycle out there?" she asked.

"Sure," Harry said.

"Will you take me for a ride?"

"Melissa, you shouldn't bother—"

"Sure," Harry said.

Jeri frowned. She wasn't worried about Melissa's going with Harry, but—"Is it safe?"

Harry grinned. "Safe as houses." He patted his ample gut. "If we fall off, I'll see she lands on me."

He just might do that, Jeri thought. "Look, Harry, not too fast—"

"Speed limit, and no freeway," Harry said.

Melissa was dancing around. "I'll get my jacket," she said. She dashed out of the kitchen.

"Oh, all right," Jeri said. "Harry, do be careful."

 

An hour later, Melissa came in the front door.

"Have a good time?" Jeri asked.

"Yeah, until his motorcycle blew up."

"Blew up!"

"Well, that's what he said. It just died. We were a long way off."

"How did you get home?"

"Harry asked if you let me take the bus by myself, and when I said sure, he waited at the bus stop with me." Melissa giggled. "He had to borrow bus fare from me so he could get home, too."

* * *

Linda Gillespie drained her margarita and set the empty glass down too hard. When she spoke, her voice was too loud for the dimly lit Mayflower cocktail lounge. "Dammit, it just isn't fair!"

Carlotta Dawson shrugged. "Lots of things aren't. At least you had fair warning! You knew you were marrying an astronaut. I thought I'd married a nice lawyer."

"They could let us go to Houston with them."

"Speak for yourself," Carlotta said. "I've got work to do. Someone has to think about his career, and it's for sure Wes won't now that he's got a chance to go to space. If you're looking for something to do, come help me with the constituent mail."

"Yeah, sure—"

"I mean it," Carlotta said. "Sure, it gives you something to distract you, but seriously, I need the help. It's hard to find intelligent people who know California and live in Washington."

"I don't blame them."

"So why don't you go home?"

"We were going to have the house painted anyway, and when the President ordered Ed to Washington we decided to have an extra room put on the attic. The house is a madhouse, crawling with contractors."—

"You could go see Joel."

"No I can't. That expensive boarding school doesn't like having Mommy drop in. Interferes with their routine. Of course if Ed wants to come—"

Carlotta smiled. "Astronauts are always welcome. You knew that when you married him."

"Yes. And I still love him, too. But it gets damned lonesome sometimes." Linda signaled the waitress. "Another round, please."

"Not me," Carlotta said. "Two's more than enough. Linda, be reasonable. Ed and Wes don't have any time at all, that's straight enough. They're living on the base . . ."

"I could stay in a hotel."

"Be pretty expensive, and he still wouldn't have any time for you."

Linda nodded. "I know. But it's still not fair."

Carlotta chuckled. "The aliens are coming. Our husbands are intimately involved in making contact with them—and we're sitting here grousing because we're not seeing them in Washington instead of being ignored by them in Houston."

"You don't like it either—"

"No. I don't. Congress recesses about the time Wes actually goes into orbit, and I'll like that even less—but there's nothing I can do about it." She stood and fumbled in her purse until she found a five-dollar bill. She put the money on the table. "I mean it, Linda, I could use some help. Call me at the office".

"All right."

"I like your enthusiasm. Well, if you do, I guarantee I'll put you to work. Bye."

Linda watched Carlotta leave, and turned back to her drink. I probably should go help Carlotta. It's something to do—

"Five dollars for your thoughts."

"Uh—" She looked up at the man standing where Carlotta had been. "Roger!"

"Yep. Were you thinking about me?" He sat down without waiting to be asked.

"No." He still looks pretty good. He must be—what, fifty? That's about right. Good-looking man for fifty. Good-looking for forty, for that matter. "After five years? Why should I?"

He chuckled. "Because you're alone in my town. You ought to have been thinking about me for weeks."

"That's silly." I did think about you, damn you. "How do you know I'm not waiting for my husband?"

"Because he's in Houston, sheep dogging the Honorable Wesley Dawson. You were with Carlotta Dawson until a minute ago." He flashed a grin. "I passed up a chance to interview her, waiting for you to be alone—"

"And if I'd left with her?"

"I'd have got my interview, of course. Or at least had a chance to talk with the wife of the U.S. Ambassador to Outer Space. Now I have to settle for the chauffeur's wife. How's Ed taking it?"

"Not well . . . I've never seen him so twitchy."

"He projects that "Right Stuff" image. Cool and collected, like all the astronauts."

"That's on TV," Linda said. "And usually he really is like that. Now he doesn't know how to feel . . . Well, look at it. That alien ship is the biggest thing since the invention of the lung, Ed's sister-in-law discovers it even, and a congressman steals his mission."

"You ought to be glad it's Wes. If it wasn't him, it still wouldn't be Ed," Roger said. "The Sovs don't want Edmund Gillespie. An American military officer, a general—he outranks Rogachev, for God's sake!"

"Yeah, he knows that, really," Linda said. "But it doesn't help that he knows it. Roger, what are you doing here?"

"Trying to seduce you."

"Roger!"

He shrugged. "It's true enough. I had a lead on a story, brought her here for a drink, spotted you, and got rid of Ms. Henrietta Crisp of the Business and Professional Women's Alliance. Surprised hell out of her, it did."

"Well, you might as well go find her again."

"All right." He didn't move.

Damn you, Roger Brooks! I should get up and leave right now—

"I've missed you," he said.

"Sure you have. Three times in fifteen years—"

"Come off it. You weren't about to get divorced, and when Ed's around you don't want to see me across a football field. What was I supposed to do?"

"Yeah." The old feeling came back, excitement and anticipation. Go home now! That wasn't going to work, though.

What is this? I'm happily married, and every five years Roger Brooks finds me, and I feel like a schoolgirl on her first heavy date. How does he do this to me? "I guess I've missed you too. Remember that movie Same Time, Next Year? It's like that with us."

"Except we don't see each other so often." He picked at the scars on his left hand. "But it doesn't mean I don't think about you."

"Oh, sure, and next you'll tell me I'm the reason you never married." Or have you?

Roger spread his hands in an exaggerated gesture. "Dunno. There must be some reason."

"You're too busy chasing stories. That's all you see in me—a news source."

"Come on, now."

"Will you promise you won't try to get information from me?"

"Of course not."

"See? Good. I don't like it when you lie to me. So what do we do now?"

He glanced at his watch. "A bit early for dinner. What say we take a drive through the Virginia countryside? I know a nice restaurant in Fairfax."

"And then?"

"Up to you." Roger stood and came around to hold her chair.

 

"I've got to be going," Linda said. She started to push back her chair from Roger's kitchen table, but Roger stood behind her and blocked her way.

He put his hands under the bathrobe. She felt her nipples erect in the warmth of his palms. "What's the hurry?"

"Stop that—no, don't stop that. Roger, what will I tell Aunt Rhonda?"

"Party at the Thai Embassy. Got late. Some senator from the Appropriations Committee insisted on quizzing you about the space program."

"But—"

"There really is a big party there, so big that you could have been there and been lost in the crowd." He bent around her, took her nipple in his mouth.

She thought she was thoroughly satiated, but his tongue reawakened sensations all through her body. Roger had always been a tiger—they'd made love three times that afternoon after JPL, all those years ago . . . "Are you serious?"

He straightened. "Possibly not."

Linda giggled suddenly.

"Certainly not, then," Roger said. "What is it?"

"I never did get Nat Reynolds's autograph."

"Nat—oh. Yeah. Damn, damn, damn. That ship was there all the time we were looking at Saturn. The twisted F-ring. 'Haven't you ever seen three earthworms in love?' 'You've a wicked sense of humor, Darth Vader.' Remember? The drive flame from that thing must have roiled the whole ring system. It settled down before Voyager Two got there."

Linda stroked his hand, then put it back on her breast. He stood very close to her. "And even if you'd known, if you'd said anything, they'd have put you away for a nice rest."

"Heh. Yes. I might have gone digging. Found some astronomical photographs. Something. I didn't know enough science, then. I've done some studying since."

She grinned and looked up at him without raising her head. "I hadn't noticed." Actually it's not funny. Nothing you could learn, nothing will ever bring back that afternoon. I know that; why do I go on looking? "It was a wonderful day, Roger. All of it. All those Scientists, and the writers—you've been studying science; are you going to write science fiction?"

"Hadn't intended to. Maybe I should. Most of the SF writers have disappeared." He wet one finger and traced a complex pattern on her breast.

"What?"

"Well, not all of them. The ones who make up their own science are being interviewed all over the place. The ones who stick to real science are getting hard to find. Know anything about it?"

"Not really."

He straightened and stepped away from her. "My God, you do know something! What?"

"Roger, I said—"

"Bat shit! I can tell! You know something. Linda, what is it?"

"Well, it's not important. Jenny said something about going to meet the sci-fi people. In Colorado Springs. It wasn't a secret."

"Colorado Springs. NORAD or the Air Academy?"

"I don't know. Aunt Rhonda would know—she'd have Jenny leave her phone number in Colorado Springs. Speaking of Aunt Rhonda, Roger, I really do have to leave. Now let me get up."

"Well, all right, if you insist. I'll call you tomorrow."

Say no. Tell him no. "Fine."

Back | Next
Framed