Now, finally, some of the anger seeped into his voice. “For God’s sake, Stearns, half of my ancestors on my mother’s side are German. Her maiden name was Schreiber. How in the world—”
“John!” The half-shouted word cut Simpson off. “If you don’t want to accept a man’s apology, then don’t. But don’t accept it one minute and throw it back in his face the next.”
Simpson froze. Then, abruptly, nodded again. “Fair enough.”
“Besides, you should have told me sooner. I didn’t realize—” Mike let out a breath. “Sorry. My fault. I hadn’t really thought about it. Or, when I did . . .” For a moment, his lips twisted. “Truth be told, I was assuming you and your wife Mary were hobnobbing with the upper crust here in Magdeburg. Letting them all know—privately, of course—that I was indeed the reckless and disreputable and dangerous fellow they thought I was.”
Simpson’s stance was as rigid as ever. “We have not been invited to any . . . ‘hobnobbings,’ as you put it. Neither upper-crust nor any other kind. And even if we had, I can assure you—” His voice was starting to rise hotly again.
“John.” Again, Simpson broke off. “Give me a break, will you? I wasn’t accusing you of anything.”
Mike motioned toward the ironclads. “As a naval officer in the service of the U.S. government, I will expect you to refrain from public attacks on your commander-in-chief. Or, if you feel strongly enough about something that you can’t, I will expect your resignation. But what you say about me in private, as long as you’re reasonably discreet about it . . . I won’t go so far as to say that I don’t care about it, but I will look the other way. Is that fair enough?”
Simpson’s hesitation was very brief. “Yes,” he said curtly. “That’s fair enough.”
Mike nodded. “Good. That’s settled.” His smile was now actually a bit warm. “Do keep in mind, of course, that I certainly won’t object either if—just now and then—you find you have something positive to say about me also.”
Simpson chuckled. And, there too, there was a bit of actual warmth in the sound. “Actually—and just in private, between you and me—there are a few things I like about you. Not many, mind. But . . .” He took a deep breath of his own. “I’ll give you this much, Mike Stearns. At least you’re not one of those presidents we had back up-time who shilly-shallied and danced around every time the shit hit the fan.”
The reminder jolted Mike. “Oh, hell,” he muttered. He held up his watch, trying to read the old-style face in the dim lighting. That was the disadvantage of the somewhat antique mechanical watch he owned. The advantage, of course, was that it still worked—where almost everyone else’s fancy digital timepieces were unusable because the special batteries had gone dead long since, and Grantville had few spares.
“You need to send a radio message, while the window lasts?”
Mike nodded. “Yeah. I’ve still got a bit of time, though. But I’d better—”
He was starting to turn away already. Then, struck by a thought, stopped and turned back.
“What the hell. As it happens, John, I’ve got a decision to make. And—in a different way—it’s the same kind of decision you and I fought about once. When a man stumbles, does he try to break it by running or taking the fall? So I’ll be interested to see what you think about this one.”
Quickly, he sketched out Becky’s radio message and the choice he had to make. When he was done, Simpson shook his head.
“Jesus. That one’s a bitch.” Simpson thought a moment. “Even leaving aside the decision itself, it’s the kind of thing your political enemies could try to make hay over.”
“I’m not worried about that.”
Simpson smiled thinly. “No, you wouldn’t be. If nothing else, because—with your roughhouse political skills—you’d leave them bleeding in the street.”
“Yeah, I would. Bloody, bruised, battered, and beat to shit. And I’d make no apologies for it, either.” Harshly: “But that’s neither here nor there, John. I wouldn’t let that influence me anyway. You may not like my character, but don’t make the mistake of thinking I don’t have one.”