* * * * *
That year, late August was a real blisterer along the eastern coast of
the United States. The great megalopolis that sprawled from Boston to
Baltimore in utter scorn of state boundaries sweltered in the kind of
atmosphere that is usually only found in the pressing rooms of large
tailor shops. Consolidated Edison, New York's Own Power Company, was
churning out multimegawatts that served to air condition nearly every
enclosed place on the island of Manhattan--which served only to make the
open streets even hotter. The power plants in the Bronx, west Brooklyn,
and east Queens were busily converting hydrogen into helium and energy,
and the energy was being used to convert humid air at ninety-six
Fahrenheit into dry air at seventy-one Fahrenheit. The subways were
crowded with people who had no intention of going anywhere in
particular; they just wanted to retreat from the hot streets to the
air-conditioned bowels of the city.
But the heat that can be measured by thermometers was not the kind that
was causing two groups of men in two hotels, only a few blocks apart on
the East Side of New York's Midtown, to break out in sweat, both
figurative and literal.
One group was ensconced in the Presidential Suite of the New
Waldorf--the President and Vice President of the United States, both
running for re-election, and other high members of the incumbent party.
The other group, consisting of Candidates Cannon and Fisher, and the
high members of _their_ party, were occupying the only slightly less
pretentious Bridal Suite of a hotel within easy walking distance of the
Waldorf.
Senator James Cannon read through the news release that Horvin had
handed him, then looked up at the PR man. "This is right off the wire.
How long before it's made public?"
Horvin glanced at his watch. "Less than half an hour. There's an NBC
news program at five-thirty. Maybe before, if one of the radio stations
think it's important enough for a bulletin break."
"That means that it will have been common knowledge for four hours by
the time we go on the air for the debate," said Cannon.
Horvin nodded, still looking at his watch. "And even if some people miss
the TV broadcast, they'll be able to read all about it. The deadline for
the _Daily Register_ is at six; the papers will hit the streets at
seven-fifteen, or thereabouts."
Cannon stood up from his chair. "Get your men out on the streets. Get
'em into bars, where they can pick up reactions to this. I want as good
a statistical sampling as you can get in so short a time. It'll have to
be casual; I don't want your men asking questions as though they were
regular pollsters; just find out what the general trend is."
[Illustration: ILLUSTRATED BY SCHOENHERR]
"Right." Horvin got out fast.
The other men in the room were looking expectantly at the senator. He
paused for a moment, glancing around at them, and then looked down at
the paper and said: "This is a bulletin from Tass News Agency, Moscow."
Then he began reading.
"Russian Luna Base One announced that at 1600 Greenwich Standard Time
(12:00 N EDST) a presumed spacecraft of unknown design was damaged by
Russian rockets and fell to the surface of Luna somewhere in the Mare
Serenitas, some three hundred fifty miles from the Soviet base. The
craft was hovering approximately four hundred miles above the surface
when spotted by Soviet radar installations. Telescopic inspection showed
that the craft was not--repeat: not--powered by rockets. Since it failed
to respond to the standard United Nations recognition signals, rockets
were fired to bring it down. In attempting to avoid the rockets, the
craft, according to observers, maneuvered in an entirely unorthodox
manner, which cannot be attributed to a rocket drive. A nearby burst,
however, visibly damaged the hull of the craft, and it dropped toward
Mare Serenitas. Armed Soviet moon-cats are, at this moment, moving
toward the downed craft.
"Base Commander Colonel A. V. Gryaznov is quoted as saying: 'There can
be no doubt that we shall learn much from this craft, since it is
apparently of extraterrestrial origin. We will certainly be able to
overpower any resistance it may offer, since it has already proved
vulnerable to our weapons. The missiles which were fired toward our base
were easily destroyed by our own antimissile missiles, and the craft was
unable to either destroy or avoid our own missiles.'
"Further progress will be released by the Soviet Government as it
occurs."
Senator Cannon dropped the sheet of paper to his side. "That's it. Matt,
come in the bedroom; I'd like to talk to you."
* * * * *
Matthew Fisher, candidate for Vice President of the United States,
heaved his two-hundred-fifty-pound bulk out of the chair he had been
sitting in and followed the senator into the other room. Behind them,
the others suddenly broke out into a blather of conversation. Fisher's
closing of the door cut the sound off abruptly.
Senator Cannon threw the newssheet on the nearest bed and swung around
to face Matthew Fisher. He looked at the tall, thick, muscular man
trying to detect the emotions behind the ugly-handsome face that had
been battered up by football and boxing in college, trying to fathom the
thoughts beneath the broad forehead and the receding hairline.
"You got any idea what this _really_ means, Matt?" he asked after a
second.
Fisher's blue-gray eyes widened almost imperceptibly, and his gaze
sharpened. "Not until just this moment," he said.