Colonel Robert Gorman sat down in the velvet recliner. Without, of course, racking it back. He and Millard Forsberg knew each other, but they'd never been actual friends. He doubted that Forsberg had any, or cared to. The man was a stick; hadn't even offered him a drink.
He couldn't imagine why the FBI's "retired" ex-director had invited him to his Arlington condo. All they had in common were some aspects of political and social philosophy, uncovered years earlier. Forsberg had been in charge of the FBI's Denver Office then, and Gorman had been the Army ROTC commander at the University of Denver. Forsberg had carried out a successful investigation of the vandalization of ROTC offices by student activists.
Meanwhile they'd discovered they both liked crosscountry skiing, and several times had skiied together in the Front Range above Nederland. On breaks, they'd talked beside a warming fire, while drinking hot cocoa out of battery-heated Thermoflasks.
Even there they'd had differences, which had bothered Forsberg far more than they had Gorman. The colonel had spiked his cocoa with brandy. Forsberg, consistent with the rest of his personality, was a teetotaler, and visibly disapproved of those who weren't. To Gorman, Forsberg was an interesting duck, with way more than his share of foibles.
Both had been transferred to the District not long afterward, and had run into each other occasionally at social affairs of one sort and another. Forsberg was definitely not a social animal, but first as deputy director, then director of the FBI, there'd been more or less obligatory events to attend. He was a confirmed bachelor, and a misogynist whom Gorman suspected of incipient, or perhaps repressed, homosexuality.
Not that it made any difference to Gorman. People were entitled to their peculiarities, as long as they didn't include what he called aggressive liberalism. He could tolerate liberals, could like them in fact, if (1) their liberalism wasn't militant, and (2) they didn't carry on about it.
Forsberg had invited him to sit, but hadn't yet sat down himself. "Um, would you care for coffee?" he asked.
"Yeah, I could stand some coffee."
The man disappeared from the living room, to reappear a minute later with an empty cup and saucer. Bemusedly, Gorman watched him put them down on the coffee table beside him, then retreat into the kitchen again, to reappear once more with a thermal coffee pitcher. Seemingly Forsberg wasn't having any himself. He probably considered caffeine sinful. He poured, then disappeared into the kitchen again, reappearing empty-handed to sit down opposite his guest.
Apparently, Gorman decided, he's not going to offer me cream and sugar. Not that it mattered. More often than not he took it straight anyway. But to see what would happen, he said, "D'you have cream?"
Blinking, Forsberg stiffened in his chair. "No," he said, "I have skim milk."
"That'll do."
Forsberg stood and again left the room, returning a moment later with a quart milk carton. He poured, and returned to the kitchen. The poor dork can wear out a rug just serving a cup of coffee, Gorman thought. He heard the refrigerator door close, and bemusedly watched his host come back and sit down again. He was tempted to ask for sugar, just for the hell of it. The sad sonofabitch is more hopeless as a host than as a guest, he told himself. But professionally Forsberg was decisive and reasonably smart. And no doubt organized as hell.
Gorman was an inveterate reader of the newsnewsfacs, newspapers and zines, and Web journals. And having worked with Forsberg on the vandalism case, whenever Forsberg's name caught Gorman's eye, he read the articlewhich was rather often after Forsberg became director. So he knew about the man's retirement, and the speculations connected with it. Maybe he'd learn a little more about it this evening.
"So," he said, "what inspired this invitation?"
"We had some good talks in Colorado, on the ski trails," Forsberg said. "I remember them fondly." He paused, then continued more stiffly. "What do you think of our country today?"
"With regard to what?"
"Morals. Government. Religion."
"Morals? About as good as we could expect. Government? About as good as we deserve. Hard to say whether we're dragging it down with us, or it's dragging us down with it. What the country needs is someone to take it by the scruff and knock the illusions and liberality out of it. Bring it back into the real world again. The new pope's a good example of what's wrong with all three: morals, government, and religion."
An eyebrow and one corner of his mouth quirked. "That about cover it?"
Forsberg's mouth worked as if chewing something bitter. "Yes, I would say so. And what about the false messiah? Ngunda Aran."
"Ah! That's what's bugging you. He's a good thing for the country."
Forsberg stared, startled.
"He's bringing things to a head," Gorman continued. "He'll split the country in two. On one side will be the socialists, daydreamers, do-gooders, greens, and New Agers. On the other side, the rest of us. About even in numbers. Then there'll be a war of sorts, and when it's over, there'll be no more illusions. No more functional infrastructure. No more softness. People will have to claw to live."
Forsberg was leaning forward now, partly mesmerized, partly shocked. "And what side will the military be on?" he asked.
"In terms of sentiments, more on our side, no question. Though you might be surprised at how many will be on the other. But operationally? Operationally it'll be on whichever side holds the government . . . until things have unraveled so badly, there's no government left. Then the military will be a power unto itself, and a new government will form out of it. Probably regional governments, kicking ass and shaping things up. They'll talk to one another, maybe fight a little, and end up making some kind of joint agreement. Then a real church will grow out of the rubble, and between a real church and an ass-kicking government, morals will be reestablished."
Gorman had answered only half seriously. Now he eyed Forsberg's face. The man looked as if he'd been sandbagged. "That's what you get for asking, Millard. That's the face of the future. The next few decades, anyway. What do you think of it?"
There was a long lag. "It involves more disorder and destruction than I care for. Tell me: Do you think some advance planning and organization might minimize them?"
They talked awhile longer. Gorman wasn't interested in organization. He'd had a bellyful of it for thirty years. But he agreed to give advice from time to time, when Forsberg asked, and if he had something worthwhile to say.