Mayor Grace took her hand. He was an experienced shaker of hands, and managed to hold on to hers until they were inside the airport conference room seated in club chairs opposite his, where he could keep Loretta Vine fully in view.
So delicious was the sight of those long, slender, well-bronzed legs that his mind kept wandering from Gwillam Forte’s presentation, although his politician’s instincts told him that Forte’s words were sound and reasonable. From time to time, when Forte paused, Mayor Grace would nod encouragingly and make noises of understanding and assent, and then let his thoughts graze on greener pastures, just barely retaining the thread of Forte’s discourse.
In fact, Forte had come with a very reasonable request. It was that the City of San Diego show a rather warmer and more human face to the Seventeenth High Seas Fleet than it had been accorded in Seattle and San Francisco. His motives in making the request were strictly business: certain clauses in the Washington Protocols, not yet made public, concerned trade concessions the Soviet Union was considering to benefit the American economy. These concessions might be rescinded if the chill in their reception in American ports continued. On the other hand, if the Russians were really warmly received from now on-which Forte had taken upon himself to ensure-all Americans would benefit from Russia’s gratitude. Washington, in turn, would favor in the award of government contracts those who facilitated this patriotic purpose.
The mayor saw, and saw clearly. Yes, of course he would make the Russians feel welcome. Indeed, he would immediately convene a committee of the heads of colleges, social service agencies, fraternal organizations, civic groups, chambers of commerce, voters’ leagues, and the like and devise a program of official and unofficial entertainment that would make the Russians realize they had found a second home. He would lay out a welcome on as lavish a scale as Gwillam Forte could wish. There was just one thing . . .
“Send the “bills to me,” Forte said. He had been waiting for the bite. “I’m an exsailor, and the drinks are on the house. I know what it’s like to hit a great liberty port like San Diego without a pair of greenbacks to rub together. I want these young men to enjoy themselves to the hilt-get drunk, dance with the bears at the San Diego Zoo, see flicks being made in Hollywood, applaud the seals at Marineland applauding them, go dune-buggying on the Mojave Desert, loll on muscle beach at La Jolla, roll a joint, spend the night in the comforting arms of an understanding woman- Miss Vine will introduce a note of professionalism into this aspect of the operation to keep San Diego’s maidenhood, so to speak, intact-in short, they’re to have a week that will be the high point of their lives even if they all make admiral.”
“Well, Mr. Forte,” said Mayor Grace doubtfully, “the way you put it, it’s going to run into a lot of money. We’ve had a lot of experience with fleet visits to San Diego, you know. The breakage, the . . .”
His voice faded as he strained to read the check Forte was writing on the briefcase balanced on his knees. Forte signed it with a flourish and handed it over.
Grace, who had read the check upside down, regretted he hadn’t poor-mouthed with greater conviction, for the sum barely exceeded the rough estimate he had mentally made of the likely cost of the fleet visit. Then he read the check right side up, and saw that he had missed a zero.
“Well,” he said, “Well! That’s very handsome of you, Mr. Forte.”
“I’ll get it all back, with interest,” Forte promised. “A week-long, nonstop, no-holds-barred party, for every man in the Soviet Seventeeth High Seas Fleet, from Admiral of the Fleet Grell down to Seaman Third Class Ivan Ivanovich-agreed?”
“When they leave port, they’ll be so high they’ll be lucky if they come down this side of Denver,” Mayor Grace promised.
“You’re sure you can handle it?”
“A lead-pipe cinch.”
“Because if you need any help, Miss Vine can stay for a couple of weeks for moral support.”
“On second thought . . .” Mayor Grace grinned like a little boy in ice-cream heaven.
It was nine-fifty Houston time when Gwillam Forte alighted from his plane at Hobby Airport, alone, and boarded his chopper for the heliport atop the Herald tower. As working days went, it was only slightly more vigorous than usual, but what it lacked in incident it more than made up for in expenditure. Still, it was money well spent. If the Washington Protocols were signed, it would be the beginning of the end of an independent United States, as well as the freedom and fortunes of all those who lived within its borders. He had done his part. Now all depended on Mayor Archibold Grace-and Lorry Vine.
He looked down on the lights of Houston from his fifty-eighth floor eyrie. That wasn’t quite accurate, he reflected-with Lorry Vine in charge of the entertainments, the fate of the Soviet Seventeenth High Seas Fleet was chiseled in stone.
27 JUNE 1998
Forte, Dr. Ed Curry, and Dr. Herbert Fallows were shucking off their white lab coats and hard hats in the shower room of the nuclear test area when they heard the commotion. A moment later the door burst open and a man stumbled in, shoved along by four stern-jawed security officers. He collapsed on the floor, a rivulet of blood trickling down his forehead, another larger stream from his nose. His face was puffy and bruised, and one sleeve of his white overall was torn at the shoulder.
Forte looked interrogatively at the security men.
“Spy, sir,” said one of them, who also guarded his words.
“Let’s have a look at him.”
Two of the security men hauled the recumbent one to his feet. Clipped to his lapel was the standard SII radiation plaque, and beneath it a plasticized identification card. The picture of a sallow, fat-nosed man with pale-blue eyes matched his face. The name on the card was Izard T. Opal.
“Mr. Opal?” Gwillam Forte asked the man, who was sagging between the guards, as limp as spaghetti al dente.
Opal opened a puffy eye. “You’ll answer for this, Forte.”
One of the guards casually elbowed Opal in the ribs. He gasped with pain.
“Mr. Forte to you, cheese-head.”
Opal set his lips in a firm line.
The guard repeated his recommendation, punctuating it with a sharp rap of his night stick on Opal’s elbow. Opal faulted.
When he revived, his arm was throbbing with pain and his rib cage seemed to have caved in. Obduracy, he decided, must wait until he could try it on someone more impressionable than Gwillam Forte.
“This is illegal,” he said through tumescent lips. “The law is explicit,” he continued, warily eying the man with the sharp elbow and leaden night stick.
“Absolutely,” Forte replied. “At the shaft head of SD-1 there is a sign that says ‘Authorized Personnel Only.’ You are here illegally.”
“The law says-”
“The law down here is these gentlemen who have been interviewing you. I suggest you tell me what they wanted to know.”
“Or else?” Opal said sarcastically, his nerve returning with the use of his arm. “You’ll have your goons work me over some more?” Automatically he flinched, and felt foolish when nothing happened.
Forte laughed.
“They were just auditioning you for the company lacrosse team, Mr. Opal. You’re free to leave.”
The two men released him. Opal shook the wrinkles out of his rumpled clothes and drew himself up to his full five feet five inches.
“Thank you,” he said stiffly.
He turned on his heel and marched out the door toward the principal manway, just around the turn in the passage.
Gwillam Forte and the others put their lab clothes in their lockers and were about to go when Izard T. Opal returned.
“They won’t let me in the lift,” he said plaintively. “They said that only authorized personnel are admitted.”
“I warned you,” Forte sighed. “This plant’s strong on authorization. You need it to get into work spaces, to get a drink of water or a bite of food, to use the toilets. However, you’re free to walk up and down the corridors, Mr. Opal.”
Forever, Opal thought desperately. The old man’s manner was mild enough, but beneath it was steel. He might last five or six hours treading water in this sea of hostility among men with elbows like pickaxes, but in the end he would have to capitulate.
Forte saw submission surfacing in Opal’s watery eyes. He waited.
“I want to make a statement . . . My name is Izard T. Opal. Dr. Izard T. Opal, Regional Safety Engineer, Nuclear Regulatory Commission.”
“Oh? What happened to Gluyas Grant?”
“You mean Gluyas Gant,” Opal replied, sidestepping the trap. “He-ah-resigned. I was his assistant. I replaced him.”