Celine nodded. Of course she had. The Argos Group had suggested Hyslop, but that wasn’t enough. Her checks had all come back positive: Hyslop’s reputation as an engineer was superb. But that didn’t stop Celine from worrying. She wanted to meet John Hyslop herself, to take the gauge of the man. But she couldn’t hold things up waiting for that meeting.

“When are you going back to Sky City?”

“Within forty-eight hours.” Fatigue showed for a moment in Maddy’s eyes, and the pale skin seemed a little too pale. “As soon as I’ve met with Gordy and we’ve put out a few fires locally.”

“The sooner the better. We really need that third Aten asteroid to supply us with raw materials. You really need it. Without the asteroid, the shield schedule is a mess and Argos carries part of the blame for delay. But if we solve the schedule problem, then I may be in a position to help you.”

That was as far as Celine was willing to go in a recorded conversation. It ought to be enough. More than six months ago the Argos Group had requested a license to construct a launch facility off the southern tip of Florida. Political pressure to veto the application came from World Protection Federation, but it was assumed that on this issue they acted on behalf of someone else. Argos had its eye — one of its many eyes — on a big new station in geostationary orbit. That would provide a jumping-off point into deep space that did not depend on Sky City. And Bruno Colombo, director of Sky City, had the backing of Nick Lopez, head of the WPF and a man with more power than most heads of nations.

The real battle was the Argos Group versus Sky City, and Celine had just taken sides. She was promising that Argos would get their license — as soon as the space shield project was back on schedule.

Maddy had picked up that commitment, and its conditions. She said nothing, but her tiny nod of the head was enough. They had a deal.

“How’s it going on the Sky City murders?” The change of subject was Celine’s way of telling Maddy Wheatstone that the main meeting was over. “If you can get results there, then everybody will owe Argos. Are you getting anywhere?”

Celine wasn’t expecting an answer, but Maddy said, “We have someone assigned to it. I gather it’s someone good, but as far as progress is concerned, I have no idea.”

When the wind unexpectedly blows your way, hoist a sail. Celine kept her eyes away from Maddy and fixed on the round bottles of fizzes. “Your man doesn’t keep you posted?”

“I don’t think he keeps anyone posted — not even Gordy. It makes more sense than you might think. That investigation runs under Special Projects, so it includes special methods. Some of their stuff can get pretty ripe.”

“Ripe how?”

But Maddy finally caught herself. “I couldn’t tell you if I wanted to, because I don’t know. I’d better be going. I’ve had my time and more.”

“That’s all right. This is my last meeting for today.”

“So early?”

“Last official meeting. I still have to see who’s waiting out there. When do you hope to bring Hyslop down from Sky City?”

“Three or four days, if I can. You think you’ll be free?”

“I’ll be free. I’ll make room on my calendar even if I have to cancel an appointment with—” Celine paused. She had been about to say “God,” but she didn’t know Maddy Wheatstone’s religious beliefs. She remembered the history of the Argos Group, and she finished weakly, “—my entire Cabinet.”

As Maddy left, Celine made another note. MW’s religion? It was not on her crib sheet. Her prep team was getting sloppy. She added a note about that, then turned on her autocom and spoke into it. “Maddy Wheatstone was the last of my scheduled meetings. Who’s waiting?”

There would be someone. There was always someone.

The autocom answered, “You have nine individuals or groups of individuals requesting meetings.”

She could ask for a ranking of priorities, but for such judgment calls the autocom was still unreliable. A more sophisticated piece of equipment was promised “soon,” whatever that meant.

Meanwhile. “Put Claudette Schwinger on, if you please.”

“One moment.” There was a five-second silence, then the steady voice of the human appointments secretary. “Yes, Madam President?”

“Claudette, what do you have out there? Anyone we can offload to the VP or a Cabinet member?”

“Yes. Three of them should not be here at all. I suggest a meeting for the Surinam minister with the Secretary of State, followed by attendance at a White House dinner next week. All she really wants is to be able to say that she met with you, and it does not have to be one-on-one. The head of DNAture arrived early from Zurich, but his samples are still in transit. He has an appointment tomorrow, so I suggest we stay with that and arrange for accommodation tonight in the White House. That will please him. Dennis Larksbury of Con-Cern is here again, although we told him on his last visit that the thinning of the ozone layer is an inevitable consequence of the frequency of space shipments and the building of the shield. He wants us to stop building the space shield.”

“He’s a lunatic. Send him to Milton Glover and the Trust In Government coalition, with a note from me. They deserve each other. What about the others?”

“Everyone has legitimate reasons for meeting with you, except for two that I can’t comment on because I have never heard of them. A Mr. Jahangir Hekmat represents the Society of Socinists, whatever that is. He was referred here by Secretary Branksome. The note from Mr. Branksome says, ’This may be important.’ But it doesn’t explain why.”

“It can wait. What about the other one?”

“I do not know.” Claudette’s voice betrayed her irritation. She was a first-rate appointments secretary, with endless patience and tact, but she took any lack of information about White House visitors as a personal failing. “He says he was not referred here by anyone. He does not have an appointment. He refuses to tell me what he wants. I don’t even know how he got into the building. All he says is that his name is Wilmer, and he insists that it’s urgent — most urgent — that you meet with him right away.”

Celine felt a tingle all through her. “What does he look like?”

“He’s tall and broad, and a bit pudgy.”

“Balding?”

“More like bald. With a high, lined forehead.”

“Claudette, Wilmer is his first name. It’s Wilmer Old-field.” She waited, and when no gasp of recognition came from the other end of the line, she went on, “Dr. Wilmer Oldfield was with me on the first Mars expedition. Tell everyone but him to come back tomorrow, say there’s no chance that I can meet with them tonight. Then give me ten minutes alone before you show him in.”

“Yes, Madam President. Ma’am, he insists that when he meets with you he must bring someone else.”

“Who?”

“He says you don’t know her and you have never heard of her. She’s waiting in one of the outer offices.”

“Security cleared her?”

“Apparently so, Madam President.”

“Very well.” Celine thought for a moment. Unless Wilmer had changed beyond belief, this was going to be a long session. “Arrange for us to have dinner here. Three of us.”

She stood up, went through into the washroom off her office, and laved first hot and then cold water onto her face. She noticed that her cupped hands were trembling slightly.

Wilmer Oldfield.

Claudette Schwinger was what, twenty-six or twenty-seven? So much for fame. The appointments secretary was reasonably well-educated, and she could surely rattle off the names of the three Mars expedition members who had died. Zoe Nash, Ludwig Holter, and Alta McIntosh-Mohammad had monuments, separately and together, all over the country and all over the world. Celine’s own name was also famous, because she was President. But Wilmer Oldfield, the brightest of them all, had quietly gone back to research in what was left of Australia, and the new generation didn’t even recognize his name. Somewhere in the annals of the Mars expedition was surely recorded the fact that during the journey and for a year after the return, crew members Celine Tanaka and Wilmer Oldfield had been lovers. But that, to the post-supernova generations, was ancient history.