Yes, by doing that he’d saved the world. But Sheklov thought of an alien ship sparkling near Pluto, and wondered with a shiver: For how long?
An’ outburst of clapping, and there he was, clasping his hands above his head like a boxer. A photographer accompanying him snapped a shot for tomorrow’s papers. He was a large man, broad-faced, broad-shouldered, broad-grinning. As Turpin approached, beaming, he
dropped his hands and changed his grin for his look of sincere pleasure, and the photographer snapped again.
Sheklov hung back, watching intently. A dozen people had actually entered the hall, but all bar Prexy had expertly effaced themselves. That wasn’t hard; guests were pressing forward, determined to shake the famous hand or at least to be told hello. Sheklov had heard about this phenomenon, but until now had barely believed it. Yes, they did worship this figurehead, this waxwork, this mindless creation of a skilled team of Navy publicists!
Don’t they know what’s been done to them? Or is it that they don’t care?
Now Turpin was signaling him, and he had to move forward, other guests reluctantly permitting him passage.
“Proxy I’d like you to meet a friend of mine from Canada, Don Holtzer here!”
Prexy was instantly Prexy-to-the-nth. “Dick, any friend of yours is a friend of mine, and any friend of mine is a friend of the U.S.A., Mr. Holtzer! Or rather: Don!”
He offered his hand, beaming. Sheklov took it. The photographer snapped, snapped again, and glanced up. “Say, Mr. Turpin! That young lady’s your daughter? Like to have her in a shot or two as well, a spot of glam!”
The scene seemed to freeze. At length Turpin said, “Lora?”
She came forward unwillingly, holding her boy-friend tight by the hand. “Only if he’s in the shot too,” she said.
“And why not?” A boom from Prexy. “Here, young lady A kind of parable for us all, isn’t it? rve never been able to hold against them the resentment some of our darker fellow-citizens feel-justifiably, if you look at the historical record. I hope and pray for the day when we shall resolve our disagreements peacefully. And for you and your compatriots, Don, the same thing holds. One’s aware there have been differences, one’s aware that relations between our countries are not as happy as they have been right now, but bonds of honest trade still forge links between our lands, and where business binds, friendship follows, sooner or later-”
Meantime he was putting his arm around Lora and hopefully trying to insert his fingers through the slots of her dress, but she obviously was not one of the many who felt it a privilege to be touched by Prexy. The fact that she wriggled away, however, did not disconcert him in the
slightest. Snap. He altered. his pose with practiced skill. Snap again. Sheklov stood numb, wearing a feeble grin. He was terribly aware of the eyes of Cashew and Levitt fixed on him, saying without words: “We’ll know you next time we see you.”
Snap once more, and finished. As though a spell had been lifted, people started moving about and talking as loudly as before, while Turpin found Prexy a drink and ushered him towards the densest part of the crowd, his favorite spot. Watching him go, Sheklov heard again that slick alliterative catch-phrase-“where business binds, friendship follows”-and felt briefly haunted by the ghosts of a million Asian peasants.
He realized abruptly that he was being stared at. By the young man Lora had insisted on pulling into the photograph with her, the lean black. the only black here. Blacks didn’t make it to Lakonia, he’d been told.
The instant he met that dark gaze, it flicked away. But it left a dismayingly deep dent, for no apparent reason, in his hitherto impermeable composure.
(r)X
After that music began, and Sheklov had to circulate. Almost at once he had an alarming encounter with a TV producer named Ambow, who was eager for praise of some historical-drama series he had made. Sheklov, not having seen the show, had no opinion at first, but by the time Ambow found a more promising victim he had a very firm opinion indeed, The series was decadent bourgeois non-representational escapism of the worst conceivable kind. A man like Ambow couldn’t possibly create anything better.