Jake felt as if he were waiting for the headsman’s ax to fall on his neck. Manstein was now on Senator Sebastian’s payroll, ready to reveal his juicy piece of gossip whenever the senator told him to.
Outwardly, everything seemed normal. Tomlinson campaigned in Iowa and New Hampshire, with occasional trips to other early primary states in the South. So did Sebastian. The two candidates crossed paths several times over the next few weeks, but never appeared at the same place at the same time.
But the national popularity polls were taking their toll on the candidates. Yeardley Norton was the first to drop out of the race. The feisty Minnesota dentist’s poll numbers never climbed above 10 percent, except in a few Midwestern states, and funding donations to his campaign shriveled. He promised to “keep on fighting for the little folks” when he announced he was quitting the race.
“Sounds like he’s working for the leprechauns,” Kevin O’Donnell quipped.
Two weeks before the second debate was scheduled, California’s Senator Morgan threw in the towel, urging his followers to give their support to “the man who will win for us next November, Senator Bradley Sebastian, of the so-called Sunshine State of Florida.”
Patrick Lovett studied the polls and trends and told Tomlinson and his campaign workers, “It’s boiling down to a two-horse race, our man against Sebastian.”
Amy went with her husband wherever he went, always standing beside him, smiling prettily and waving to the growing crowds. In New Orleans, Tomlinson gave a speech about international trade that was well-received in the news media—and on Wall Street. In Denver, his speech on the war against terrorism won praise from the conservative wing of the party.
But it was Tomlinson’s concept of a renewed space program that got him the most attention.
“A couple of centuries ago, American pioneers headed west, saying to themselves, ‘There’s gold in them thar hills.’ Well, now it’s time to head into space, to return to the Moon, because there’s gold out there: new industries, plentiful natural resources, new breakthroughs in energy and low-gravity manufacturing, new jobs for our next generation of bright youngsters, a new frontier to be developed.”
Jake watched the news reports assiduously. The snide references to “Senator Moonbeam” grew less and less. Articles about potential space industries and developing lunar resources started to appear in local newspapers and TV broadcasts.
But despite all that, the bill introduced by Tomlinson to allow the Treasury Department to guarantee low-interest, long-term loans for private investors in space development remained locked in the finance committee, with no vote scheduled and none expected as long as Sebastian remained opposed.
The loan guarantee bill languished in the Senate’s limbo. Even though Senator Zucco chaired the finance committee, he hadn’t the stomach to challenge Sebastian on the matter. All the talk in the world isn’t going to get the bill out of committee, Jake realized. It’s the key to the space plan, and as long as it stays bottled up like this, the plan is little more than talk.
Still, Tomlinson’s poll numbers inched higher every week. Sebastian was still well ahead, but Tomlinson was gaining on him.
Yet Jake couldn’t shake his feeling of impending doom.
“It’s like having the Sword of Damocles hanging over your head,” he said to Tami as they were dressing for the big Thanksgiving dinner Tomlinson was hosting at the new Grand Hyatt hotel. “Sebastian’s got Manstein in his pocket, ready to spring on Frank whenever he needs to.”
Searching through a bureau drawer for the proper earrings, Tami wondered, “What’s he waiting for?”
“The right moment,” Jake answered morosely. “The exact moment when it will hurt Frank the most.”
She found the earrings she wanted, started to attach them. “And the senator is just plowing ahead as if there’s no problem. Why doesn’t he try to sit down with Sebastian and come to an understanding with him?”
Standing before the bedroom’s full-length mirror as he laboriously knotted his tuxedo’s black bow tie, Jake shook his head. “What kind of an understanding could they come to? They both want the party’s nomination. Only one of them can have it.”
“And neither one will back off.”
“We’re heading for a train wreck,” Jake said. “Two locomotives on the same track, rushing at each other.”
With a cheerless smile, Tami murmured, “Where is Casey Jones when you really need him?”
* * *
If Tomlinson was worried about the Manstein problem, he certainly didn’t show it at his Thanksgiving dinner. The Grand Hyatt’s main ballroom was swarming with guests: campaign workers, political allies, what looked to Jake like half the US Senate, plenty of news reporters, and camera crews.
The senator—with his glitteringly gowned wife at his side—worked his way through the crowd, smiling and shaking hands.
When they came up to Jake, Tomlinson said, “Do you see that Mars guy anywhere?”
“Derek Vermeer?” Jake shook his head. “Nope, haven’t run across him.”
“He was invited. And he accepted.”
Jake shrugged. “He’s sort of an odd duck, you know.”
Tomlinson grinned. “Maybe he is, but he’s happy with us now that we’ve included a Mars training facility in our Moon base plans—I think.”
Before Jake could reply, the senator said, “That was your idea, Jake. Good going. Turn an enemy into an ally. We’ll make a politician out of you yet.”
Jake forced a smile as he said, “I’ll look through the crowd for him, tell him you want to say hello.”
“Good.”
With Tami trailing along at his side, Jake worked his way through the crowd.
Grinning as she sipped champagne, Tami said, “Frank should have given this bash on Halloween. It would have been more fun to see these folks in costumes.”
Jake countered, “The gowns are pretty impressive. And the jewelry.”
“But the men all look alike in their tuxedos.” She giggled. “A ballroom full of penguins.”
Jake had barely sipped from the champagne flute he held in his hand. “Halloween would’ve been too early. Frank wouldn’t have gotten such a big crowd a month ago.”
After several more fruitless minutes of searching Jake conceded, “I guess he’s not here.”
“He should have sent his regrets,” Tami said. “It’s rude to just not show up.”
Jake led her through the throng of partygoers and out into the hotel’s lobby. It was considerably quieter there.
Pulling his smartphone from his jacket pocket, Jake tapped Vermeer’s number. It rang once, twice …
“Hello?” A woman’s voice, tight with anxiety.
“Derek Vermeer, please,” said Jake.
“Who’s this?”
“Dr. Jacob Ross, from Senator Tomlinson’s office.”
“Oh! He was supposed to attend the party tonight, wasn’t he?”
“Yes. Can I speak to him, please?”
The woman’s voice edged up a notch. “We’re in the hospital. He’s dying!”
“What?”
“He collapsed earlier this evening. We’re in Howard University Hospital.” Her voice broke, then she sobbed, “They don’t expect him to make it through the night.”
Jake felt the breath gush out of him. “Howard University Hospital?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll be there in a few minutes!”
* * *
There’s a special air about a hospital, Jake thought as he and Tami hurried down a long corridor toward the room where Derek Vermeer lay dying. Is it the smell of antiseptic, the tension, the pain? All of that, he decided, and more. The fear, Jake realized. The fear of death hung over every corridor, every room, every part of the hospital.
Jake had pushed through the crowded hotel ballroom to tell Senator Tomlinson that Vermeer was dying. The senator shook his head. “Too bad.”
“I’m going to see him,” Jake said, surprising himself.
Tomlinson nodded. “Give him my sympathies.”
Now Jake dashed down the pastel-painted corridor, practically towing Tami in one hand. Abruptly, he stopped.
“Four twenty-two,” he said, puffing. “This is it.”
Tami was panting, too. She mumbled something about high heels as Jake tapped on the door.
A tall, rake-thin woman opened the door. Her bony face was runneled with tears.
“I’m Jake Ross—”
“You’re too late, Dr. Ross,” the woman whispered. “My brother died a few minutes ago.”
She opened the door wider, and Jake and Tami stepped into the room. It held two beds, one of them empty, the other surrounded by an emergency team with a crash cart, methodically disconnecting the tubes and wires from Vermeer’s body. The monitor consoles along the wall were all turned off, silent. Vermeer lay in the bed, his eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling.
No, Jake thought. He’s staring at Mars.
A nurse gently closed Vermeer’s eyes, then pulled the bedsheet over his face.
His sister broke into open sobs. Tami wrapped her arms around the woman, making consoling noises. The medical team pushed their cart out into the corridor and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind them.
Jake stood there, feeling utterly helpless, even stupid in his tuxedo.
Then he realized that the two women made an incongruous pair: Tami barely came to the sister’s shoulders, even in her heels.
“He so wanted to reach Mars,” the sister was whimpering.
“He will,” Jake heard himself say.
Both women stared at him.
“I promised him that his remains would be buried on Mars. I’ll see to it that they are.”
The beginning of a smile worked its way across Vermeer’s sister’s face. “That’s very kind of you.”
“And we’ll name the Mars training facility at the lunar base after him,” Jake added.
“He would have liked that.”
Jake recalled reading somewhere, long ago, a line that a famous general once uttered: “We bury our dead and we keep moving forward.”
Reaching out to Tami, Jake said, “Come on, honey. It’s time to move forward.”