“Uh, sir,” said the radioman as Simpson gave him the opening words of the message, “the President’ll still be asleep. I send this ‘urgent top priority’ they’ll—”
“I know how to tell time, sailor,” rasped the admiral. “And I don’t recall asking for your opinion. Just send it. If the President loses some sleep—”
He bit off the next words. Serve the bastard right, all the sleepless hours he’s caused me. He realized, even if still only dimly, that he was going to have to stop calling Mike Stearns the bastard. Even under his breath.
“Do as you’re told.”
“Yessir.” The sailor hastened to comply.
Two hours later, the sailor’s eyes were no longer bleary with sleep. Indeed, by now he was downright astonished. Not so much by the content of the messages flying back and forth—most of which he barely understood to begin with—but simply by the fact that it was happening at all.
Nobody’s gonna fucking believe this. Not even about the Old Man, much less Mrs. Pruneface. And she’s doing most of the talking.
By dawn, it was over. The radio operator, now too tired to be astonished any longer, handed over the final transmission from the President.
WILL SEND PROPOSAL TO EMPEROR. EXPECT HIM AGREE ALSO. U.S. INFLUENCE HIGH RIGHT NOW. SUSPECT VERY HIGH.
COMING UP MYSELF, AS YOU SUGGEST. AGREE THAT WITH CRISIS LOOMING, APPEARANCE OF UNITY AS ESSENTIAL AS FACT ITSELF. WILL BRING VERONICA DREESON, IF SHE AGREES. PROBABLY WILL. TOUGH OLD BIDDY. APPROVES HIGHLY OF MRS. SIMPSON ALSO.
“That seems to be it, sir.”
Simpson passed the message over to his wife, smiling about the last two sentences. He’d suspected it was true, as hard as it was to believe. Granted, Veronica had married Henry Dreeson, the mayor of Grantville. However, she was also the grandmother of Gretchen Richter—and Richter’s dislike of the Simpsons was well-known.
But Veronica Dreeson had wound up traveling with his wife, when Mary had finally moved up from Grantville. Having established a school in Grantville, Veronica had been bound and determined to set up a branch of it in the new imperial city. Odd as it may have been, in the days of their shared journey up the rivers, the two women had discovered they had several things in common. First, firm convictions on the subject of child discipline. Second, a passion for setting up schools. Third—probably most important—the mutual esteem of tough old biddies.
Mary, new to the city herself and—it was obvious to Simpson now, looking back on it—mired in a quiet, deep depression, had still done what she could to help Veronica’s project. Apparently the experience had left Veronica with as high an opinion of Mary as Mary had of her. Which, given the new situation, probably boded well for Veronica’s ambitions.
Mary smiled also, reading the message. But, by the time her husband rose, the smile was gone.
“That’s it then, Mary. We’ve done all we can. It’s late—early, I should say. We need some sleep.”
“No, John.” She shook her head firmly. “There’s still one last message to send. And this is not a message that can be sent to ‘Mr. President.’ It’s a message that has to be sent to Mike Stearns. Our son’s brother-in-law.”
She took a deep breath, her nostrils flaring. “If you can’t do it, I will.”
Simpson sighed. Then, turned to the radio operator.
“Last message. Address this one, ‘Dear Mike.’ ” Simpson almost laughed, seeing the man’s efforts to keep a solemn face. They’ll never believe this in the barracks. What, sailor, you think I don’t know that you’ll gossip about the Old Bastard?
“Dear Mike,” he dictated. One glance at Mary told him not to try compressing the language for the sake of transmission brevity. “Mary and I would much appreciate it if you would do what you can . . .” He groped for the words. Then just said, quietly: “We’d like our son to speak to us again. We miss him. Thanks, John.”
The reply came back immediately.
WILL DO MY BEST. MY WORD ON IT.
“As much as I can ask,” said Simpson quietly, handing it over to Mary.
“He’ll keep his word,” she said. Even confidently.