"Well," Fisher said thoughtfully, "you wouldn't ask me unless it meant
something more than appears on the surface." He grinned rather
apologetically. "I'm sorry, Jim; it takes a second or two to reconstruct
exactly what _did_ go through my mind." His grin faded into a thoughtful
frown. "Anyway, you asked me, and since you're head of the Committee on
SPACE Travel and Exploration--" He spread his hands in a gesture that
managed to convey both futility and apology. "The mystery spacecraft is
ours," he said decisively.
James Cannon wiped a palm over his forehead and sat down heavily on one
of the beds. "Right. Sit down. Fine. Now; listen: We--the United
States--have a space drive that compares to the rocket in the same way
that the jet engine compares to the horse. We've been keeping it under
wraps that are comparable to those the Manhattan Project was kept under
'way back during World War II. Maybe more so. But--" He stopped,
watching Fisher's face. Then: "Can you see it from there?"
"I think so," Fisher said. "The Soviet Government knows that we have
something ... in fact, they've known it for a long time. They don't know
what, though." He found a heavy briar in his pocket, pulled it out, and
began absently stuffing it with tobacco from a pouch he'd pulled out
with the pipe. "Our ship didn't shoot at their base. Couldn't, wouldn't
have. Um. They shot it down to try to look it over. Purposely made a
near-miss with an atomic warhead." He struck a match and puffed the pipe
alight.
"Hm-m-m. The Soviet Government," he went on, "must have known that we
had something 'way back when they signed the Greenston Agreement."
Fisher blew out a cloud of smoke. "They wanted to change the wording of
that, as I remember."
"That's right," Cannon said. "We wanted it to read that 'any advances in
_rocket engineering_ shall be shared equally among the Members of the
United Nations', but the Soviet delegation wanted to change that to 'any
advances in _space travel_'. We only beat them out by a verbal quibble;
we insisted that the word 'space', as used, could apply equally to the
space between continents or cities or, for that matter, between any two
points. By the time we got through arguing, the UN had given up on the
Soviet amendment, and the agreement was passed as was."
"Yeah," said Fisher, "I remember. So now we have a space drive that
doesn't depend on rockets, and the USSR wants it." He stared at the bowl
of his briar for a moment, then looked up at Cannon. "The point is that
they've brought down one of our ships, and we have to get it out of
there before the Russians get to it. Even if we manage to keep them from
finding out anything about the drive, they can raise a lot of fuss in
the UN if they can prove that it's our ship."
"Right. They'll ring in the Greenston Agreement even if the ship
technically isn't a rocket," Cannon said. "Typical Soviet tactics. They
try to time these things to hit at the most embarrassing moments. Four
years ago, our worthy opponent got into office because our
administration was embarrassed by the Madagascar Crisis. They simply try
to show the rest of the world that, no matter which party is in, the
United states is run by a bunch of inept fools." He slapped his hand
down on the newssheet that lay near him. "This may win us the election,"
he said angrily, "but it will do us more harm in the long run than if
our worthy opponent stayed in the White House."
"Of what avail to win an election and lose the whole Solar System,"
Fisher paraphrased. "It looks as though the President has a hot potato."
"'Hot' is the word. Pure californium-254." Cannon lit a cigarette and
looked moodily at the glowing end. "But this puts us in a hole, too. Do
we, or don't we, mention it on the TV debate this evening? If we don't,
the public will wonder why; if we do, we'll put the country on the
spot."
Matt Fisher thought for a few seconds. Then he said, "The ship must have
already been having trouble. Otherwise it wouldn't have been hovering in
plain sight of the Soviet radar. How many men does one of those ships
hold?"
"Two," the senator told him.
"We do have more than one of those ships, don't we?" Fisher asked
suddenly.
"Four on Moon Base; six more building," said Senator Cannon.
"The downed ship must have been in touch with--" He stopped abruptly,
paused for a second, then said: "I have an idea, Senator, but you'll
have to do the talking. We'll have to convince the President that what
we're suggesting is for the good of the country and not just a political
trick. And we don't have much time. Those moon-cats shouldn't take more
than twelve or fifteen hours to reach the ship."
"What's your idea?"
"Well, it's pretty rough right now; we can't fill in the details until
we get more information, but--" He knocked the dottle from his pipe and
began outlining his scheme to the senator.
* * * * *
Major Valentin Udovichenko peered through the "windshield" of his
moon-cat and slowed the vehicle down as he saw the glint of metal on the
Earthlit plain ahead. "Captain!" he snapped. "What does that look like
to you?" He pointed with a gloved hand.
The other officer looked. "I should say," he said after a moment, "that
we have found what we have been looking for, major."
"So would I. It's a little closer to our base than the radarmen
calculated, but it certainly could have swerved after it dropped below
the horizon. And we know there hasn't been another ship in this
vicinity."
The captain was focusing a pair of powerful field glasses on the object.
"That's it!" he said bridling his excitement. "Egg-shaped, and no sign
of rocket exhausts. Big dent in one side."
Major Udovichenko had his own binoculars out. "It's as plain as day in
this Earthlight. No sign of life, either. We shouldn't have any
trouble." He lowered the binoculars and picked up a microphone to give
the other nine moon-cats their instructions.
Eight of the vehicles stayed well back, ready to launch rockets directly
at the fallen spacecraft if there were any sign of hostility, while two
more crept carefully up on her.
They were less than a hundred and fifty yards away when the object they
were heading for caught fire. The major braked his vehicle to a sudden
halt and stared at the bright blaze that was growing and spreading over
the metallic shape ahead. Bursts of flame sprayed out in every
direction, the hot gases meeting no resistance from the near-vacuum into
which they spread.
Major Udovichenko shouted orders into his microphone and gunned his own
motor into life again. The caterpillar treads crunched against the lunar
surface as both moon-cats wheeled about and fled. Four hundred yards
from the blaze, they stopped again and watched.
By this time, the blaze had eaten away more than half of the hulk, and
it was surrounded by a haze of smoke and hot gas that was spreading
rapidly away from it. The flare of light far outshone the light
reflected from the sun by the Earth overhead.
"Get those cameras going!" the major snapped. He knew that the eight
moon-cats that formed the distant perimeter had been recording steadily,
but he wanted close-ups, if possible.
None of the cameras got much of anything. The blaze didn't last long,
fierce as it was. When it finally died, and the smoke particles settled
slowly to the lunar surface, there was only a blackened spot where the
bulk of a spaceship had been.
"Well ... I ... will ... be--," said Major Valentin Udovichenko.
* * * * *
The TV debate was over. The senator and the President had gone at each
other hot and heavy, hammer and tongs, with the senator clearly emerging
as the victor. But no mention whatever had been made of the Soviet
announcement from Luna.
At four thirty-five the next morning, the telephone rang in the
senator's suite. Cannon had been waiting for it, and he was quick to
answer.
The face that appeared on the screen was that of the President of the
United States. "Your scheme worked, senator," he said without preamble.
There was an aloofness, a coolness in his voice. Which was only natural,
considering the heat of the debate the previous evening.
"I'm glad to hear it, Mr. President," the senator said, with only a hair
less coolness. "What happened?"
"Your surmise that the Soviet officials did not realize the potential of
the new craft was apparently correct," the President said. "General
Thayer had already sent another ship in to rescue the crew of the
disabled vessel, staying low, below the horizon of the Russian radar.
The disabled ship had had some trouble with its drive mechanism; it
would never have deliberately exposed itself to Russian detection.
General Thayer had already asked my permission to destroy the disabled
vessel rather than let the Soviets get their hands on it, and, but for
your suggestion, I would have given him a go-ahead.
"But making a replica of the ship in plastic was less than a two-hour
job. The materials were at hand; a special foam plastic is used as
insulation from the chill of the lunar substrata. The foam plastic was
impregnated with ammonium nitrate and foamed up with pure oxygen; since
it is catalyst-setting, that could be done at low temperatures. The
outside of the form was covered with metallized plastic, also
impregnated with ammonium nitrate. I understand that the thing burned
like unconfined gunpowder after it was planted in the path of the Soviet
moon-cats and set off. The Soviet vehicles are on their way back to
their base now."
After a moment's hesitation, he went on: "Senator, in spite of our
political differences, I want to say that I appreciate a man who can put
his country's welfare ahead of his political ambitions."
"Thank you, Mr. President. That is a compliment I appreciate and accept.
But I want you to know that the notion of decoying them away with an
inflammable plastic replica was not my idea; it was Matt Fisher's."
"Oh? My compliments to Mr. Fisher." He smiled then. It was obviously
forced, but, just as obviously, there was sincerity behind it. "I hope
the best team wins. But if it does not, I am secure in the knowledge
that the second best team is quite competent."
Firmly repressing a desire to say, _I am sorry that I don't feel any
such security myself_, Cannon merely said: "Thank you again, Mr.
President."
When the connection was cut, Cannon grinned at Matthew Fisher. "That's
it. We've saved a ship. It can be repaired where it is without a fleet
of Soviet moon-cats prowling around and interfering. And we've scotched
any attempts at propagandizing that the Soviets may have had in mind."
He chuckled. "I'd like to have seen their faces when that thing started
to burn in a vacuum. And I'd like to see the reports that are being
flashed back and forth between Moscow and Soviet Moon Base One."
"I wasn't so much worried about the loss of the disabled ship as the
_way_ we'd lose it," Matthew Fisher said.
"The Soviets getting it?" Cannon asked. "We didn't have to worry about
that. You heard him say that Thayer was going to destroy it."
"That's exactly what I meant," said Fisher. "_How_ were we going to
destroy it? TNT or dynamite or Radex-3 would have still left enough
behind for a good Soviet team to make some kind of sense out of it--some
kind of hint would be there, unless an awful lot of it were used. A
fission or a thermonuclear bomb would have vaporized it, but that would
have been a violation of the East-West Agreement. We'd be flatly in the
wrong."
Senator Cannon walked over to the sideboard and poured Scotch into two
glasses. "The way it stands now, the ship will at least be able to limp
out of there before anyone in Moscow can figure out what happened and
transmit orders back to Luna." He walked back with the glasses and
handed one to Fisher. "Let's have a drink and go to bed. We have to be
in Philadelphia tomorrow, and I'm dead tired."
"That's a pair of us," said Fisher, taking the glass.
* * * * *
Another month of campaigning, involving both televised and personal
appearances, went by without unusual incidents. The prophets, seers,
and pollsters were having themselves a grand time. Some of them--the
predicting-by-past-performances men--were pointing out that only four
Presidents had failed to succeed themselves when they ran for a second
term: Martin Van Buren, Grover Cleveland, Benjamin Harrison, and Herbert
Hoover. They argued that this presaged little chance of success for
Senator James Cannon. The pollsters said that their samplings had shown
a strong leaning toward the President at first, but that eight weeks of
campaigning had started a switch toward Cannon, and that the movement
seemed to be accelerating. The antipollsters, as usual, simply smiled
smugly and said: "Remember Dewey in '48?"
Plays on Cannon's name had caught the popular fancy. The slogan "Blast
'em With Cannon" now appeared on every button worn by those who
supported him--who called themselves "Cannoneers." Their opponents
sneeringly referred to them as "Cannon fodder," and made jokes about
"that big bore Cannon."
The latter joke was pure epithet, with no meaning behind it; when
Senator James Cannon spoke, either in person or over the TV networks,
even his opponents listened with grudging interest.
The less conservative newspapers couldn't resist the gag, either, and
printed headlines on the order of CANNON FIRES BLAST AT FOREIGN POLICY,
CANNON HOT OVER CIA ORDER, BUDGET BUREAU SHAKEN BY CANNON REPORT, and
TREASURY IS LATEST CANNON TARGET.
The various newspaper columnists, expanding on the theme, made even more
atrocious puns. When the senator praised his running mate, a columnist
said that Fisher had been "Cannonized," and proceeded to call him
"Saint" Matthew. The senator's ability to remember the names and faces
of his constituents caused one pundit to remark that "it's a wise Cannon
that knows its own fodder."
They whooped with joy when the senator's plane was delayed by bad
weather; causing him to arrive several hours late to a bonfire rally in
Texas. Only a strong headline writer could resist: CANNON MISSES FIRE!
As a result, the senator's name hit the headlines more frequently than
his rival's did. And the laughter was _with_ Cannon, not _at_ him.
Nothing more was heard about the "mysterious craft" that the Soviet
claimed to have shot down, except a terse report that said it had
"probably been destroyed." It was impossible to know whether or not they
had deduced what had happened, or whether they realized that the new
craft was as maneuverable over the surface of the moon as a helicopter
was over the surface of Earth.
Instead, the Sino-Soviet bloc had again shifted the world's attention to
Africa. Like the Balkan States of nearly a century before, the small,
independent nations that covered the still-dark continent were a
continuing source of trouble. In spite of decades of "civilization,"
the thoughts and actions of the majority of Africans were still cast in
the matrix of tribal taboos. The changes of government, the internal
strife, and the petty brush wars between nations made Central and South
America appear rigidly stable by comparison. It had been suggested that
the revolutions in Africa occurred so often that only a tachometer could
keep up with them.
If nothing else, the situation had succeeded in forcing the organization
of a permanent UN police force; since back in 1960, there had not been a
time when the UN Police were not needed somewhere in Africa.
In mid-October, a border dispute between North Uganda and South Uganda
broke out, and within a week it looked as though the Commonwealth of
Victorian Kenya, the Republic of Upper Tanganyika, and the Free and
Independent Popular Monarchy of Ruanda-Urundi were all going to try to
jump in and grab a piece of territory if possible.
The Soviet Representative to the United Nations charged that "this is a
purely internal situation in Uganda, caused by imperialist _agents
provocateur_ financed by the Western Bloc." He insisted that UN
intervention was unnecessary unless the "warmongering" neighbors of
Uganda got into the scrap.
In a televised press interview, Vice Presidential Candidate Matthew
Fisher was asked what he thought of the situation in East Africa.
"Both North and South Uganda," he said, "are communist controlled, but,
like Yugoslavia, they have declared themselves independent of the
masters at Moscow. If this conflict was stirred up by special
agents--and I have no doubt that it was--those agents were Soviet, not
Western agents. As far as the UN can be concerned, the Soviet Minister
is correct, since the UN has recognized only the government of North
Uganda as the government of all Uganda, and it is, therefore, a purely
internal affair.
"The revolution--that is, _partial_ revolution--which caused the
division of Uganda a few years ago, was likewise due to Soviet
intervention. They hoped to replace the independent communist government
with one which would be, in effect, a puppet of the Kremlin. They
failed. Now they are trying again.
"Legally, UN troops can only be sent there at the request of the
Northern Uganda government. The Secretary General can send police troops
there of his own accord only if another nation tries to invade Uganda.
"But--and here is the important point--if the Uganda government asks the
aid of a friendly government to send troops, and if that friendly
government complies with that request, _that cannot be considered an
invasion_!"
Question from a reporter: "Do you believe that such intervention from
another country will be requested by Uganda?"
"I do. And I am equally certain that the Soviet representative to the
UN, and his Superiors in Moscow, will try to make a case of invasion and
aggression out of it."
* * * * *
Within twenty-four hours after that interview, the government of North
Uganda requested aid from Victorian Kenya, and a huge contingent of
Kenyan troops marched across the border to help the North Uganda army.
And the Soviet representative insisted that the UN send in troops to
stop the "imperialist aggression" of Victorian Kenya. The rigidly
pro-Western VK government protested that the Sino-Soviet accusations
were invalid, and then asked, on its own accord, that a UN contingent be
sent in to arbitrate and act as observers and umpires.
"Win one, lose one," Matthew Fisher said privately to Senator Cannon.
"Uganda will come out of this with a pro-Western government, but it
might not be too stable. The whole African situation is unstable.
Mathematically, it has to be."
"How's that?" Senator Cannon asked.
"Do you know the Richardson-Gordon Equations?" Fisher asked.
"No. I'm not much of a mathematician," Cannon admitted. "What do they
have to do with this?"
"They were originally proposed by Lewis Richardson, the English
mathematician, and later refined by G. R. Gordon. Basically, they deal
with the causes of war, and they show that a conglomeration of small
states is less stable than a few large ones. In an arms race, there is
a kind of positive feedback that eventually destroys the system, and the
more active small units there are, the sooner the system reaches the
destruction point."
[Illustration: _Sometimes "resignation" means the highest determination
... when you can't simply resign._]
Senator Cannon chuckled. "Any practical politician could have told them
that, but I'm glad to hear that a mathematical tool to work on the
problem has been devised. Maybe one of these days we won't have to be
rule-of-thumb empiricists."
"Let's hope so," said Matt Fisher.
* * * * *
By the end of October, nearly two weeks from Election Day, the decision
had been made. There were still a few Americans who hadn't made up their
minds yet, but not enough to change the election results, even if they
had voted as a bloc for one side or the other. The change from the
shouting and arguing of mid-summer was apparent to anyone who knew what
he was looking for. In the bars and restaurants, in the subways and
buses, aboard planes and ships and trains, most Americans apparently
seemed to have forgotten that there was a national election coming up,
much to the surprise of Europeans and Asians who were not familiar with
the dynamics of American political thought. If a foreigner brought the
subject up, the average American would give his views in a calm manner,
as though the thing were already settled, but there was far more
discussion of the relative merits of the horses running at Pimlico or
the rise in Lunar Developments Preferred than there was of the election.
There were still a few people wearing campaign buttons, but most people
didn't bother pinning them on after the suit came back from the
cleaners.
A more detailed analysis would have shown that this calmness was of two
types. The first, by far in the majority, was the calmness of the
complacent knowledge of victory. The second was the resignation to loss
manifested by those who knew they were backing the wrong man, but who,
because of party loyalty or intellectual conviction or just plain
stubbornness, would back him.
When Senator Cannon's brother, Dr. Frank Hewlitt Cannon, took a short
leave of absence from Mayo Clinic to fly to the senator's campaign
headquarters, there was a flurry of speculation about the possibility of
his being appointed Secretary of Health, Education, and Welfare, but the
flurry didn't amount to much. If President Cannon wanted to appoint his
brother, that was all right with the voters.
After a tirade by the Soviet Premier, charging that the UN Police troops
in Victorian Kenya were "tools of Yankee aggressionists," Americans
smiled grimly and said, in effect: "Just wait 'til Cannon gets
in--_he'll_ show 'em."
Election Day came with the inevitability of death and taxes. The polling
booths opened first on the East Coast, and people began filing in to
take their turns at the machines. By the time the polls opened in Nome,
Alaska, six hours later, the trend was obvious. All but two of the New
England states were strongly for Cannon. New York, Pennsylvania, New
Jersey, West Virginia, and Ohio dropped into his pocket like ripe
apples. Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, and Florida
did the same. Alabama wavered at first, but tagged weakly along.
Tennessee, Kentucky, Indiana, and Michigan trooped in like trained
seals.
In Mississippi, things looked bad. Arkansas and Louisiana were
uncertain. But the pro-Cannon vote in Missouri, Illinois, Iowa,
Wisconsin, and Minnesota left no doubt about the outcome in those
states. North Dakota, South Dakota, Nebraska, Kansas, Oklahoma,
Texas--all Cannon by vast majorities.
And so the returns came in, following the sun across the continent. By
the time California had reported three-fourths of its votes, it was all
over but the jubilation. Nothing but an honest-to-God, genuine,
Joshua-stopping-the-sun type of miracle could have saved the opposition.
And such was not forthcoming.
* * * * *
At Cannon's campaign headquarters, a television screen was blaring to
unhearing ears, merely adding to the din that was going on in the
meeting hall. The party workhorses and the volunteers who had drummed
for Cannon since the convention were repeating the scene that had taken
place after Cannon's nomination in the summer, with an even greater note
of triumph.
In Cannon's suite, six floors above, there was less noise, but only
because there were fewer people.
"Hey!" Cannon yelled good-naturedly. "Lay off! Any more slaps on my
back, and I'm going to be the first President since Franklin Roosevelt
to go to my Inauguration in a wheelchair! Lay off, will you?"
"A drink, a drink, we got to have a drink," chanted Representative Edwin
Matson, his bulldog face spread wide in a happy grin while he did things
with bottles, ice, and glasses. "A drink, a drink--"
Governor Harold Spanding's lantern-jawed face looked as idiotically
happy as Matson's, but he was quieter about it. Verbally, that is. It
was he who had been pounding Cannon on the back, and now he was pounding
Matthew Fisher almost as hard.
Matt Fisher finally managed to grab his hand, and he started pumping it.
"What about you, Harry? I'm only a poor, simple Vice President. You got
re-elected governor!"
Dr. Frank Cannon, looking like an older, balder edition of his brother,
was smiling, too, but there was a troubled look in his eyes even as he
congratulated the senator. Congressman Matson, passing out the drinks,
handed the first one to the senator.
"Have a drink, Mr. President! You're going to have to make a speech
pretty soon; you'll need a bracer!" He handed the second one to the
physician. "Here you go, Doc! Congratulations! It isn't everyone who's
got a President in the family!" Then his perceptive brain noticed
something in the doctor's expression. "Hey," he said, more softly,
"what's the trouble? You look as though you expected sickness in the
family."
The doctor grinned quickly. "Not unless it's my own. I'm used to
worrying about a patient's health, not a Presidential election. I'm
afraid my stomach's a little queasy. Wait just a second; I've got some
pills in my little black bag. Got pills in there for all ailments. Find
out if anyone else needs resuscitation, will you?" Drink in hand, he
went toward the closet, where his little black bag was stashed.
"Excitement," said Senator Cannon. "Frank isn't used to politics."
Matson chuckled. "Do him good to see how the other half lives." He
walked off, bearing drinks for the others. Governor Spanding grabbed one
and came over to the senator. "Jim! Ready to tear up your capitulation
speech now?"
Cannon glanced at his watch. "Almost. The polls closed in Nome just ten
minutes ago. We'll wait for the President's acknowledgment of defeat
before we go downstairs." He glanced at his brother, who was washing
something down with water.
Behind him, he heard Matson's voice saying: "I'm sure glad Horvin isn't
here! I can hear him now: 'Image! Image! That's what won the election!
Image!'" Matson guffawed. "Jim Cannon was winning elections by
landslides before he ever heard of Horvin! Jim Cannon projects his own
image."
"Sure he does," Matt Fisher said, "but what about me?"
"You? Hah! You're tops, Matt. Once a man gets to know you, he can see
that, if he's got any brains."
Fisher chuckled gently. "Ed, you've got what it takes to be a
politician, all right."
"So do you, Mr. Vice President! So do you! Hey!" He turned quickly. "We
got to have a toast! Doc, you're his brother. I think the honor should
be yours."
Dr. Frank Cannon, looking much more chipper since swallowing the pills,
beamed and nodded at his brother. "It will be a pleasure. Gentlemen,
come to attention, if you will." They did, grinning at first, then
forcing solemnity into their expressions.
"Gentlemen," said. Dr. Cannon gravely, "I give you my brother, Senator
James Harrington Cannon, the next President of the United States!"
"To the President!" said Governor Spanding.
"To the President!" chorused the others.
Glasses clinked and men drank solemnly.
Then, before anyone else could say anything, Dr. Cannon said: "I
further propose, gentlemen, that we drink to the man who will spend
the next four years in the White House--God willing--in the hope that
his ability to handle that high office will be equal to the task before
him, and that he will prove worthy of the trust placed in him by those
who had faith in that ability."
"Amen," said Congressman Matson softly.
And they all drank again.