been trying to substantiate was a particularly strong rumour that the Russians were almost ready to launch a large automated spacelab destined to go into orbit around Jupiter.
His hosts had smiled at his questions but had declined to comment. Seeing his frustration, Vasily Grigorienko, an astrophysicist from Star City, had patted him on the shoulder and said, âIâm sure you understand that in this country there are times when itâs advisable not to be too specific. There are so many things that can go wrong. Let us just say that we still hope to give you a few surprises.â
To which the other Russians in the group had raised their glasses.
The cheeky buggers, thought Cargill. While heâd been ferreting around in Moscow, they had already put the damn thing into orbit. But there had been none of the usual data transmissions from the spacecraft, nor any interrogation signals from Russian ground stations â orany announcement. Cargill suddenly realized what Grigorienko had been trying to tell him. There had been a major balls-up. The Jupiter probe was up but in trouble.
Cargill told his deputy controller to relay all the data to America. He looked at his watch. It was 5:55 P.M. He was bang on time to get a front-page story in tomorrowâs morning papers â in London
and
New York. With luck, heâd beat the rest of the world to it. It would be another major scoop for Jodrell Bank and a much-needed boost for British scientific skills and technology. And it wouldnât do Geoffrey Cargill any harm either.
Sunday/August 5
WESTERN WHITE HOUSE/CALIFORNIA
Following the fashion of his predecessors, the President had set up his own weekend White House. It was situated on a rocky strip of the West Coast up towards Arena Point. The climate wasnât to everyoneâs taste, but the President didnât like dry heat or sterile air conditioning. He needed mist-lined mountain country, steep-rising stands of towering redwoods, a fresh wind off the sea in his face.
His wife Anne liked things that way too. He counted himself fortunate in having made a politically-advantageous marriage to someone he genuinely loved. Anne had not only returned that love, she had used her familyâs vast wealth to help bring him to power.
It had been a long haul. As the first American President of Italian descent, Lorenzo had had to fight the inevitable campaign of smear and innuendo that if elected he would turn out to be the Mafiaâs man in the White House. Thesame tactics had been used to cripple Geraldine Ferraroâs ambitions to high office but, after a string of investigations and open hearings which had examined his private life, his professional career, tax returns and business connections, he had emerged as the squeaky clean candidate. Having won the nomination he had gone on to win the election. But it had not been a landslide and, like many of his predecessors, he had problems with Congress and the Senate. Compromise had become the name of the game â and that was why Mel Fraser had been appointed Secretary of Defense.
The Californian estate which his wife had inherited and which was now the West Coast White House had been big enough to accommodate the necessary staff and secure enough to shelter a President without extensive alterations and additions. The communications facility and the helicopter pad had been the only problems but as soon as he had decided to set up shop there, everything had been organized swiftly and efficiently. The homely touches he had left to Anne and her gaggle of gay decorators who had already left their mark on 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
Connors didnât go out in the big cabin cruiser with the President. He watched from the small stone jetty as Silvermann shepherded his five favourite newsmen aboard and waved briefly as
SantâAnna I
pulled away. The waiting Navy patrol boat took up station on the starboard rear quarter, then throttled back its big engines to
His hosts had smiled at his questions but had declined to comment. Seeing his frustration, Vasily Grigorienko, an astrophysicist from Star City, had patted him on the shoulder and said, âIâm sure you understand that in this country there are times when itâs advisable not to be too specific. There are so many things that can go wrong. Let us just say that we still hope to give you a few surprises.â
To which the other Russians in the group had raised their glasses.
The cheeky buggers, thought Cargill. While heâd been ferreting around in Moscow, they had already put the damn thing into orbit. But there had been none of the usual data transmissions from the spacecraft, nor any interrogation signals from Russian ground stations â orany announcement. Cargill suddenly realized what Grigorienko had been trying to tell him. There had been a major balls-up. The Jupiter probe was up but in trouble.
Cargill told his deputy controller to relay all the data to America. He looked at his watch. It was 5:55 P.M. He was bang on time to get a front-page story in tomorrowâs morning papers â in London
and
New York. With luck, heâd beat the rest of the world to it. It would be another major scoop for Jodrell Bank and a much-needed boost for British scientific skills and technology. And it wouldnât do Geoffrey Cargill any harm either.
Sunday/August 5
WESTERN WHITE HOUSE/CALIFORNIA
Following the fashion of his predecessors, the President had set up his own weekend White House. It was situated on a rocky strip of the West Coast up towards Arena Point. The climate wasnât to everyoneâs taste, but the President didnât like dry heat or sterile air conditioning. He needed mist-lined mountain country, steep-rising stands of towering redwoods, a fresh wind off the sea in his face.
His wife Anne liked things that way too. He counted himself fortunate in having made a politically-advantageous marriage to someone he genuinely loved. Anne had not only returned that love, she had used her familyâs vast wealth to help bring him to power.
It had been a long haul. As the first American President of Italian descent, Lorenzo had had to fight the inevitable campaign of smear and innuendo that if elected he would turn out to be the Mafiaâs man in the White House. Thesame tactics had been used to cripple Geraldine Ferraroâs ambitions to high office but, after a string of investigations and open hearings which had examined his private life, his professional career, tax returns and business connections, he had emerged as the squeaky clean candidate. Having won the nomination he had gone on to win the election. But it had not been a landslide and, like many of his predecessors, he had problems with Congress and the Senate. Compromise had become the name of the game â and that was why Mel Fraser had been appointed Secretary of Defense.
The Californian estate which his wife had inherited and which was now the West Coast White House had been big enough to accommodate the necessary staff and secure enough to shelter a President without extensive alterations and additions. The communications facility and the helicopter pad had been the only problems but as soon as he had decided to set up shop there, everything had been organized swiftly and efficiently. The homely touches he had left to Anne and her gaggle of gay decorators who had already left their mark on 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
Connors didnât go out in the big cabin cruiser with the President. He watched from the small stone jetty as Silvermann shepherded his five favourite newsmen aboard and waved briefly as
SantâAnna I
pulled away. The waiting Navy patrol boat took up station on the starboard rear quarter, then throttled back its big engines to
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