“More business gets done at parties like this than on Capitol Hill,” Jake said as he unconsciously tugged at the collar of his tuxedo.
“Don’t be nervous,” Tami said. “You’ll do fine.”
The two of them were standing at the doorway to the party room of Cecilia Goodlette’s house, in a posh neighborhood of elegant homes, not far from the Capitol itself. The spacious room was already jammed with men in tuxedos and women in colorful gowns and glittering jewelry.
Tami’s dress was pink and white, like springtime, its skirt an inch or so below her knees. Jake thought she was by far the loveliest woman in the place.
“There’s Frank,” Jake said, consciously preventing himself from pointing. Senator Tomlinson was deep in conversation with Senator Bradley Sebastian, chairman of the Senate’s subcommittee on space, science, and competitiveness.
The two men looked enough alike to be cousins: Tomlinson tall, athletically slim, handsome, elegant in his tailor-fitted tux; Sebastian showed what Tomlinson might look like in ten years, still tall, still somewhat elegant, but heavier, grayer, bowed with years and responsibilities. And they were very different in background, outlook, and attitude. Tomlinson was from Montana, youthful, wealthy, progressive. Sebastian was from Florida, middle-aged, born to hardscrabble poverty, a neoconservative.
“They seem to be friendly,” Jake said. “Maybe I shouldn’t butt in.”
Tami shook her head the barest centimeter. “It’s your program they’re talking about, I bet. Let’s walk past and smile hello and see what happens.”
At that moment a miniskirted waitress came out of the crowd bearing a tray of champagne flutes. Tami took one, handed it to Jake, then took another for herself.
“Now we’re armed and ready,” she said.
“You may be ready,” said Jake. “I always feel out of place at—”
“There you are!” came the high-pitched voice of Cecilia Goodlette. “I thought you were going to snub me.”
Jake forced a smile. “We wouldn’t miss your party, Cecilia. You know that. I just had some work to finish up before we could come over.”
Tami leaned closer to Lady Cecilia and confided, “The truth is, it takes him forever to get the cuff links and shirt studs in right.”
Cecilia cackled happily. “Like my second husband. If he had to dress himself he’d never have gotten to his own funeral.”
Tami laughed. Jake grinned weakly.
Cecilia Goodlette actually was a Lady, thanks to her titled British third husband. She had gone through four husbands altogether, divorcing two and burying two. And growing wealthier each time.
She was a short, thickset woman with a figure like a sewer pipe, an unfortunately froglike face with thick lips and a dark pageboy wig. She was wearing a stylish aqua-blue pantsuit, though, and enough jewelry to ransom a maharaja.
Cecilia was an important person in Washington’s social whirl, the author of Power Talk, a blog unknown beyond the Beltway but followed assiduously by the movers and shakers—real and pretended—on the inside.
“And how are you, Jake,” she asked, all a-smile, “now that you’ve got your shirt studs in?”
Jake smiled patiently. “I’m fine, Cecilia, thanks. You look very glamorous tonight.”
“Flatterer.” She turned to Tami. “I think you’re civilizing him, my dear. When Jake first got to town I thought he was a mute!”
Jake fidgeted inwardly while Lady Cecilia prattled on, mostly to Tami. Then Cecilia abruptly excused herself to greet a newly arrived guest, an imposingly tall brown-skinned man luxuriantly bearded, wearing a knee-length golden-tan jacket and a white turban.
“Mr. Ambassador!” Cecilia fairly shrieked, loud enough for most of the people in the room to turn and look her way.
Tami clutched Jake’s arm. “Now’s our chance to get to work,” she said.
Arm in arm, Jake led Tami across the crowded room to where Tomlinson and Sebastian were still standing, locked in earnest conversation.
Tomlinson saw them approaching and flashed his incandescent smile. “Here’s Jake now, and his lovely wife.”
Senator Sebastian made a fatherly smile as Tomlinson introduced Tami to him.
Then, “Jake here is working on a plan to revitalize our space program.”
Putting on a mock frown, Sebastian said, “That’s my turf, son.”
“Yessir,” said Jake. “I’d like to present the plan to you, as soon as it’s in presentable shape.”
“Fine. Fine.” Turning back to Tomlinson, Senator Sebastian said, “The voters aren’t interested in space, Frank. Astronauts aren’t heroes anymore, they’re just working stiffs doing strange stuff that hasn’t any relationship to what the voters are really interested in.”
Before Jake could contradict the senator, Tomlinson said, “But space always ranks pretty high in opinion polls.”
Sebastian said, “Oh, nobody’s really against space. But the average voter doesn’t think it’s as important as crime in the streets or the unemployment rate.”
“Space can create new jobs,” Jake blurted, “whole new industries.”
“I don’t see that,” Sebastian said, shaking his head. “I know there are some nutcases out there who want to go to Mars.” Chuckling, he added, “If they can ever raise the money. Certainly the United States government isn’t going to finance them.”
Smiling back at the senator, Tomlinson said, “Our plan isn’t about Mars. It’s about developing new industries in orbit, and on the Moon.”
Sebastian’s expression went from amusement to disbelief. “Industries on the Moon? What are you going to build there, blue cheese factories?”
Jake started, “We can develop—”
Tomlinson stopped him with an upraised hand. “You’ll be the first to see the plan—once it’s ready. You’ll see that it makes a lot of financial sense. Especially for the state of Florida.”
Sebastian laughed tolerantly. “Well, that’s something, at least.”