Slowly, with an enormous weight inside him that made his words hesitant, Brumado asked, “Suppose… suppose… I could get Waterman to make a statement that would… support your candidacy?”
Her eyes flashed, then became calculating. “Why would he support me?”
“Because,” Brumado had to struggle to get the words out, “because you will go on record as favoring further missions to Mars.”
“I couldn’t do that,” she snapped.
“When the first expedition returns they will all be heroes. The public acclaim will be enormous. And there is no Vietnam War to take the public’s mind off their success.”
The Vice-President muttered, “They’ll be coming back just in time for the primaries.”
“You could capitalize on their success.”
“You can get Waterman to make a statement supporting me?”
“Once you go on record as supporting further Mars missions.”
The Vice-President had spent enough years in politics to understand that getting elected was the most important thing, and the way to get elected was to clear enemies away from your path. Sometimes this meant adopting their coloration-at least for a while.
She also understood that it was foolish to give a definite commitment right away. “I’ll have to think about that. It sounds as if it might be workable.”
“It will remove Mars as an issue during your campaign,” Brumado said.
She nodded briskly. “I’ll get back to you.”
Then she stepped toward the doors, which a Secret Service agent pushed open for her. The entourage swept out onto the loading dock. Before the doors swung shut Brumado got a glimpse of a phalanx of limousines waiting where delivery trucks usually parked.
Then the doors closed and he was alone in the kitchen with the noisy, banging, yelling, clattering clean-up crew.
He smiled to himself. But the smile faded as he realized that he had just promised to “deliver” James Waterman for the Vice-President’s election campaign.
That will not be an easy task, he realized.
NEW YORK: “But it doesn’t make any sense!” Edith insisted. “Jamie’s not the type to snub the media. He wouldn’t refuse to be interviewed.”
“Are you saying that the government’s keeping him from talking to us? Muzzling him?”
“Yes! I’m certain of it!”
It was almost eleven p.m. Edith had waited for three days to see Howard Francis. As network news vice-president, he held the power of decision and she was determined to make him decide in her favor. Her days in New York had generated a frantic urgency in Edith. No longer the happily smiling former cheerleader, ex-beauty queen, anchorwoman for the local Houston TV news, she was in the Big Apple now, struggling with every weapon at her command to win a job with the network news organization.
Howard Francis’s office was so high above the street that Edith expected to see clouds wafting past the window behind his broad gleaming desk. The walls were covered with photographs of Howard Francis with the great and near-great of politics, show business, and the news industry: smiling, shaking hands, presenting awards, receiving awards. The man behind the desk was almost as young as Edith herself. His suit cost more than Edith’s weekly salary back in Texas. His necktie was fashionably loosened at his unbuttoned collar. He had the sharp-eyed features of a rodent, big teeth, and even a twitch when he got excited. Edith could see the tic contorting one side of his face.
Francis leaned his skinny forearms on his desktop and said to Edith, “Look-it’s late and I haven’t had dinner yet. I’ve got problems up to my eyebrows and a meeting with the corporate brass tomorrow morning at nine. Can you prove what you’re saying?”
She made herself smile at him despite the sick feeling in her stomach. “Well… nobody in NASA is going to admit to it in public.”
“Off the record?”
“I’ve got a lot of friends down at the Johnson Space Center,” she said.
“Look,” he said, “I’ve got whole teams of correspondents working for me in Houston and Washington and everyplace else. What can you do for me that they can’t?”
“What about Jamie’s parents?” she countered. “And his grandfather in Santa Fe? He’s pure Navaho.”
Francis shook his head. “The parents are dull. Maybe the grandfather, if he’s really an Indian. That might be something. But later. First you’ve gotta prove to me that the government’s muzzling your Indian. That would be news.”