Chapter 7 — SENATOR

I can't say that it makes much logical sense, but that was the turning point of the campaign. Photographs appeared on the front page of the newspaper: the angry worker charging out of the audience; Spirit and I jumping out of the way; Megan standing astonished; Thorley intercepting the laser beam; the worker flying over my shoulder; Spirit bandaging Thorley. The photographer, a professional in his own specialty, had gotten it all, in marvelously clear pictures. No written story was even needed. It was obvious that Spirit and I had acted with dispatch, but that Megan and at least one of us would have been caught by that laser if Thorley hadn't acted.

Thorley was a hero, but I got the votes. Perhaps it was sympathy for my close call. Maybe the voters thought that anyone worth assassinating was worth electing. Most likely, it was merely the impact of notoriety. I won the election by a comfortable margin, unseating the incumbent, who really had had nothing to do with any of this. He was a victim of peculiar circumstances. Of such flukes is politics made. But I felt little sympathy for him. Had he done the decent thing and agreed to debate me, none of this might have occurred.

The event made national news, because I was a former Navy hero and also one of the few Hispanics to win office anywhere. Thorley got less press on the national scene, but there was no question about the enhancement the event brought him. He was now newsworthy in his own right, the conservative who had risked his life to save that of the liberal he was debating. He became the symbol of the saying "I disagree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it." He was promoted and became a popular local speaker after his recovery.

Spirit was away from me much of the time, in the first days after the event, seeing to it that Thorley was taken care of. She arranged for his cat to be cared for, his plants watered, and she made sure his hospitalization was expedient. He was confined only briefly before going home. His insurance did not cover the cost of a registered nurse, but Spirit arranged for that, too, while his wife remained absent. A competent Hispanic boy stayed with him, handling his routine. Thorley was not generally kind to Hispanics as a class, in print, but he had no personal animus. It was that he felt too many of them were illegal immigrants from Redspot, where they forged across the sparsely guarded border, and too many did not bother to learn English, complicating things, and too many of their children were burdening the school system. But it seemed that he had no trouble accepting a Hispanic male nurse and houseboy. Certainly he never expressed objection.

"Whom did you appoint?" I asked Spirit when I saw her again.

"Sancho," she said.

I was taken aback. Sancho was a very special person, who lacked legal status on Jupiter. "Are you sure that's wise?"

She grimaced. "It's necessary. We can afford him."

It was true that our finances were limited, and Sancho was as cheap as it was possible to get. I shrugged, refusing to interfere. "He can certainly do the job—if no one suspects."

"No one will."

"Thorley will! That man is no fool!"

"Thorley knows," she said, meeting my gaze.

I made a motion as of washing my hands. "It is your affair, Spirit."

She smiled obscurely. We did not speak of that matter again.

Megan, stunned by the violence, soon recovered. "I can appreciate the advantage of military reflexes," she remarked. "You and your sister moved like lightning while I stood dazed."

"But it was Thorley who saved you," I reminded her. "He's no military man."

"True. I must call and thank him."

"After he recovers," I suggested, knowing that she would indeed call.

"After he recovers," she agreed. "But I do understand correctly that you have arranged for an illegal immigrant to care for him in the interim?"

"Not exactly," I said. I explained about Sancho, for I kept no secrets from her.

She pursed her lips and nodded thoughtfully. "Certainly it is not my prerogative to interfere." Then, after a moment: "Hope, I am especially vulnerable right now. I wonder whether you—" She did not finish.

She was speaking her special language again. We had replaced our twin beds with a double bed and slept holding hands, but it had not gone beyond that. Now she was suggesting that it should.

It did seem to be time. Gently I led her to that bed, turned out the lights, and took off her clothes and mine. I did not handle her; she was not yet ready for that. I lay on the bed with her and took her in my arms and kissed her, and slowly and delicately made love to her for the first time. It was not anything spectacular in the physical sense; my overwhelming concern was that I not hurt her in any way. I had to climax; she expected that of me, to show that the experience was genuine. But I did not attempt to bring her to climax; that would come another time. It was enough for her to have completed the act without trauma. In that I believe we were successful.

Perhaps it seems I was indifferent to her satisfaction. In fairness to myself I must say that this was not so. I cared very much for her need, but on this occasion that need was not for sexual gratification. It was for that minimal degree of interaction that qualified as complete consummation of our marriage. She was too disturbed to enjoy it physically, and would, ironically, have felt guilty if she had enjoyed it. In her archaic lexicon of romance, which she knew to be dated but which remained in her deepest nature, sex was a thing the cultured woman submitted to as an unfortunate necessity, never for pleasure. Her sole satisfaction was supposed to be in the satisfaction of her man and in the effort to beget offspring. Megan was beyond the latter stage, having had the decycling treatment before I came to her, so only the former remained. Now she had tolerated my ultimate familiarity; the worst was over, and in the future she should be able to relax and participate more fully. I looked forward to that occasion. I remembered how it had been with Juana, my first Navy roommate; a wonderful woman but never comfortable with the sexual act. The Navy had required performance of male and female, so she had obliged—in much the way Megan had. A man who judges a woman solely by her sexual performance is a fool.

When it was done, Megan kissed me more in relief than in passion. "Thank you, Hope," she murmured. "You are very understanding."

"I love you," I said. This had nothing to do with sex, and she knew it. She took my hand again and squeezed it, and I brought her fingers to my lips and kissed them. In this gesture I was perhaps being more intimate than I had been before, because I was showing genuine affection. The body of any woman may be taken by guile or force but never her love.

"Would you mind very much if I cried?" she inquired.

"I would consider it an honor."

She set her head against my shoulder and sobbed, delicately, for several minutes. I stroked her hair. After a time she fell asleep. I thought of Helse, my first love, and knew that however different these two women were in most matters, they were similar in this: Love, and the expression of it, came hard to them. Helse had had absolutely no trouble physically but had been unable for a long time to tell me that she loved me; Megan had not done it yet. That was part of what caused me to love each of them—make of that what you will.

 

I do learn from experience. I had supposed that I had put physical violence behind me when I left the Navy, but obviously that was not the case. I believed that Spirit and I could take care of ourselves, but when a laser was as apt to be trained on Megan as on us, I got nervous. So I set about hiring a bodyguard. "Find me some candidates," I told Shelia. "Winnow them down to the probables and let me know."

"Got it, boss," she said. Shelia still looked young and frail in her wheelchair, but that was deceptive. She had kept her head during the assassination-attempt crisis and had summoned the police and ambulance, though the experience must have brought most unpleasant associations to her. Now she was glad to get on this assignment.

"We could use a gofer, too," Megan said.

"A gofer?"

"Gofer. A person to run errands," she explained.

"Got it, Megan," Shelia said.

"Why do you call her by name and not me?" I inquired.

"The distaff hath its privileges," Shelia replied, and went to her communications.

The gofer was easy to find: Shelia sent the first applicant on to me. She was a Black woman named Ebony, about thirty, without distinguishing features.

"That name—isn't it unkind?" I asked, nonplussed.

"Nickname that stuck," she explained, evidently used to this. "In the flux of the reintegration of schools I got shipped to a mostly Saxon nursery school, and I was twice as dark as anyone else there, so they called me Ebony, and I stayed with it."

"You are aware that this is a rather simple, low-paying job?" I inquired. "You will simply run errands for others?"

"That's what I'm good at," she said.

I found no fault with her; she was honest and interested in doing a good job, simple as that job might be. She had accurately assessed her prospects and capabilities and knew that she would never be a top executive or policy-maker; she was good at following simple directions and satisfied to do that all her life. What she wanted most was the security of a regular job, one that she understood.

There really wasn't any problem; I hired her.

The other was more complicated. For a bodyguard I needed a man I could trust with my life, and that was not a casual thing. It wasn't just a matter of skill or trust; I had to be sure that he knew how to ferret out the threats before they materialized, and distinguish real from false. We found a number of highly trained martial artists, but some were unprincipled and others were unsubtle. For a politician needs not only to protect himself physically but also to protect his image. If my bodyguard attacked a man who turned out to be innocent, my career could suffer. Discretion and finesse were vital. Far better to nullify a killer by applying a subtle come-along grip and marching him quietly to the police than to have a blazing brawl that might damage bystanders. I had known people in the Navy who qualified, but this was not the Navy. So the search continued, fruitlessly.

One day a young Mongol woman called for an appointment, wishing to talk to me personally. She said she sought employment and was qualified. Shelia tried to explain that we already had hired our gofer, and in any event there was a language handicap, for the woman was a refugee from Saturn and spoke English poorly. But she would not take no for an answer; she believed that everything would be all right if she could just meet me directly.

At last Shelia buzzed me. "Senator, if you could make a few minutes for Miss Coral—" She knew I could, as she maintained an iron grip on my schedule; at the moment I was researching a routine piece of legislation, doing my homework before deciding my position. She knew I had a way with people, and this was called for now.

So Coral was admitted to my private office. I could tell immediately that she was far more potent as a person than she looked; her motions were precise and her expression sure. She was a petite, black-haired, olive-skinned woman whose figure, while not voluptuous, was remarkably apt; she could be a beauty of her race—or any race—if she wished. But she did not wish; her simple trousers and long-sleeved jacket deemphasized her attributes, and her hair was cut almost masculinely short.

"Coral," I said, wishing to feel her out before committing myself to any further impressions. "That is not a Saturnine name."

"Name-translation," she said, her words accented. "Pretty snake-poison."

"The coral snake," I agreed. "Loveliest and most deadly reptile in the zoo."

"Yes. For job."

Suddenly it clicked. She meant the bodyguard! I had never thought of a woman, but of course, it was possible. "You know martial arts?"

She nodded curtly.

I kept a rubber knife in my desk, a memento of Navy days. I brought it out, flexed it to show its nature, and circled my desk. Suddenly I charged her, knife stabbing.

She caught my arm in an aikido hold that caused me to pause and drop the knife. So I closed my left hand into a fist and moved it toward her pert Oriental nose. Her free hand intercepted mine, deflected it, and her fingers seemed only to touch my forearm. Suddenly my arm was numb.

I was now standing behind her, one arm trapped, the other numb. I raised a knee, slowly, as if to ram her in the back. She twisted around, caught my standing foot with her own, and laid me gently on the floor.

It wasn't just the fact that she had countered my moves; it was the way she had done it. I had made my moves deliberately, inviting the appropriate counters. I am versed in judo, aikido, and karate, and can tell the competence of an opponent almost immediately. Coral was black-belt level in any of these and, despite her smaller size, could probably have taken me in an honest match.

But I needed more than this. I got up and returned to my desk, flexing my arm to restore sensation while she remained where she was. "Suppose that door," I said, gesturing to one across the room, "is a man with drawn laser, about to shoot."

Coral's arm hardly seemed to move, but something flashed through the air and smacked into the door at head level. It hung there, a bright little metal star, one point lodged in the door. "Shuriken," she said.

"Shuriken," I agreed. It was one of the throwing-knife type weapons of the ancient Earthly ninjas, or secret warriors.

"But if I want merely to disarm, not to hurt—" Her arm moved again. This time a little whirling thing flew, with extended weighted threads. It wrapped around the shuriken and carried it to the floor, entangled.

Impressive indeed! "Suppose we suspect a concealed ambush, in a crowd, and want no disturbance?"

Coral smiled. "You buy X ray, computer, red-beam?" The so-called X rays were no longer used, being hazardous to human tissues, but I knew what she meant: a device that used radiation in radarlike fashion, with computerized image-tracking. We had such equipment in the Navy, to locate all metals in the vicinity and distinguish what belonged from what did not. In this fashion the metal components of a laser pistol could be distinguished from those of a news camera, even if the laser parts were built into the camera. Once a weapon was identified, it could be neutralized in several ways, such as the use of a spot-infra-red heater that would cause the metal of the weapon—and no other metal—to heat until too hot to handle, or to melt.

"Will you swear loyalty to me and mine?" I asked.

She nodded, knowing she had the job. The code of the bushido under which she had been trained made such a commitment absolute; having so sworn, she would dedicate her career to my service.

I had my bodyguard and, to my surprise, an all-female team. It was of course not long before the media remarked on this, both positively and negatively, but I had not done it for either sexist or social reason; it just happened. I always did get along well with women.

 

There followed a flurry of work. The state of Sunshine was growing rapidly in population, which complicated things, and that growth was comprised in part by the influx of conservative middle-class Saxons from the industrial north and in part by the influx of poor Hispanics from the politically and economically desperate south. The problems increased logarithmically as the two elements merged. Merged—like fire and water! Mine was one of the two districts where the most solid collisions occurred, for Ybor was a city with a significant Hispanic base, while nearby was Pete, a resort and retirement city. It hardly helped that both groups, whatever else they might have left behind, brought their cultural prejudices with them undiminished. I was Hispanic, so I got hate mail from the Saxon bigots and also love letters from the militant Hispanics that were just as awkward, because they expected me to solve all problems instantly. The truth is, a state senator has very little real power. He can not reduce a person's planetary income tax or sales tax or property tax, and even in the in-between region of state taxes, he's only one of a hundred senators. Sunshine had fifty somewhat arbitrarily defined districts, crafted to be equal in population, each electing two senators on a staggered basis: an election every two years for a four-year term. As one of the most junior senators, I was at the bottom of the totem in just about every respect and had no effective leverage in the State Senate. In addition, that Senate was in session only two months of each year, its agenda determined by the governor and Senate leaders, and it related to things like the regulation of intrastate commerce, insurance, and educational requirements. There was another sore spot. Recently a state literacy requirement had been restored, in the form of a standardized test for all high school students. They had to make a certain minimum score or be denied graduation, and any county school system with too low an average would be penalized. Since many Hispanics spoke English poorly, and some spoke it not at all, they were at a serious disadvantage and scored in the lower percentiles of this test. Not only was this unfair but also it annoyed all parties: those who scored low, those who blamed the Hispanics for pulling down the county averages, and the school administrators who were caught in the middle. But I couldn't even get the matter on the agenda for reconsideration. Not as a fledgling senator, Hispanic at that. So I simply could not do very much for my constituents, whatever their culture. The office I had won seemed a lot less effective from the inside than it had from the outside.

I did the best I could. I was allowed a small staff, and the budget for that just about covered the salaries of Shelia, Ebony, and Coral, who had to pitch in to help answer my mail. Soon the letters I dictated became so repetitious and familiar that Shelia rigged the word processor for standard statements and simply brought me the printouts to sign. It was impersonal, which bothered me, but how personal can you get when trying to explain to a constituent that you have very little control over interplanetary relations or the price of imported vehicle-bubbles? In those rare cases where I really could do something positive, such as sending my autographed picture to a grade-school civics class, I did give them my personal attention. But all this was another learning experience, as Megan had warned me it would be. I now understood why the bureaucracy tended to become impersonal. My attitudes toward government were changing as my knowledge of it increased. In these practical matters my philosophy became almost indistinguishable from that of the most conservative of senators, and indeed I found myself making friends with exactly such folk, because they understood my situation as perfectly as I understood theirs. It became increasingly easy to indulge in the quid-pro-quo bartering I had, as an outsider, condemned: I'll give you your tax break for the citrus beverages if you'll give me mine for disabled Hispanics. We were, after all, friends, but we did have our separate constituencies, and this was perhaps the only way to do any good at all for the people we represented.

"Am I being corrupted by power?" I asked Megan in some distress. "I am doing the very things I once condemned."

"You are not being corrupted as long as you retain your ideals and strive to achieve them," she reassured me. "What you are doing now is coming to terms with the realities of government. It is a somewhat debasing process, but necessary, like cleaning up after a sick animal. I had to do it when I was in office. Do the best you can and broaden your base of acquaintance, but never lose sight of your ideals."

There was the formula, of course. I knew that the moment I started accepting money or privilege for special-interest legislation, I would be on the road to corruption. I swore to myself never to do that.

Meanwhile I had another problem: earning my living. My Navy stipend halted when I won election, for I was now employed, and there were laws against so-called "double-dipping" that had been passed by reformers like me. Spirit had elected not to take any paid position in my office, so her pension remained, but I was not seeing much of her at present. I knew she could take care of herself and would return the moment I truly needed her; I was not concerned. But the job of state senator was part-time, and the pay was not enough to sustain a family in the manner a public family needed to be sustained. So I had to moonlight: that is, get another job. The term dates from centuries past, when people worked on Planet Earth and the light of Earth's relatively huge moon shone down at night. The term doesn't apply well in the present situation but remains because of its usefulness as a concept. There was nothing illegal in getting other work; it was standard and open practice, justified on the basis of not soaking the suffering taxpayers unnecessarily. I agreed with the principle, but how was I to hold a full-time job without shortchanging my constituents? There was a lot less glamour in holding office than I had fancied.

Megan again had the answer: I would become a consultant. "Use your talent, Hope," she told me. "There is a great need for expert advice on the employment of key people in industry, and you need to establish statewide contacts beyond the legislature."

"Statewide contacts?"

"For the time when you run for governor."

Oh. She had never lost sight of the stages of my political career, however embroiled I might be in the problems of the moment. I had married her, theoretically, for that, and she was delivering. The fact that I loved her was presumed to be secondary.

I knew now that the political program that Spirit and I had envisioned before we went to Megan would never have worked. We had asked Megan whether she wished to be a part of my drive toward the presidency, but I now know that without Megan there could never have been such a drive. Megan, of course, had known it from the outset but had joined me, anyway.

"Why did you do it?" I asked her.

She understood me. "Your sister was persuasive."

"But our program was hopelessly naïve. We had no notion of the nature or magnitude of the task."

"It was her love for you that was persuasive," she clarified. "I suspected that if a woman of her caliber could love you, then perhaps you were worthy of it."

"But she's my sister. We Hispanics are very close—"

"She is more than your sister. Do you not have another sister?"

I nodded soberly. "Faith, my senior by three years. But she is gone, perhaps dead."

"But when you were with her, were you as close to her as to Spirit?"

"No," I admitted. "Spirit has always been like part of me."

"She is a very special woman, and I would do more for her than perhaps you appreciate. She is strong where I am weak, but I sought to understand what she saw in you, and I think I have not been mistaken in the effort."

"I don't think I understand," I said.

She kissed me. "Of course you don't, Hope. But we shall make you president."

And so I became Hubris Consultations, Inc. Here, Megan's national contacts helped. She spoke to friends of old, who spoke to other friends, and some fairly large companies began soliciting my advice. I knew they were doing it mainly as a favor to Megan, but I responded seriously. I traveled to home offices and interviewed personnel and prospective personnel. I was quickly able to perceive who was competent and who was not, and who was motivated and who was not, and who was honest and who was not, and I made my recommendations accordingly. In one case I had to tell the man who solicited me as consultant that he himself was not fitted for the job he held. "You are honest and trying hard, but the sustained tension is destroying you," I said. "Thoughts of suicide are coming to you, and your family is suffering. I recommend that you step aside, accept a non-decision-making position, and relax. It may save your life."

He stared at me. "You have read me like an open book!" he exclaimed. "But it's an executive rat race! How can I ease up without being destroyed?"

I showed him the company chart of responsibility. "Promote this man to your present position," I said. "He is hard-driving and competent—and he never forgets an affront or a favor. Do him this big favor, and trust him to protect you in the future. I believe you will be secure."

He frowned. "But what of this man?" he asked, pointing to another name on the chart.

"He is embezzling from the company. Fire him."

"How can you possibly know such a thing? You've only been here two days."

"It is my private skill. I can read the guilt in a person. Verify the facts in your own fashion. Have a surprise audit made now."

"I will," he agreed. "Though it tears me up to do it—"

"That is why you must step down."

"But if you're wrong—"

I was not wrong. Within a week the personnel changes I had recommended were made, and news spread through the business community. My business picked up. This was something I was good at. My financial concern was over; I was starting to get some fat fees. My income rose, and I entered a higher tax bracket. I began to understand why wealthy folk objected to the graduated bracket system. Through my own effort and skill I had made my business a success; the government had contributed nothing. Why should the government take a larger cut?

In the second year of my office, something quite different and significant happened. A baby appeared. Spirit had been away on separate business for some time, but she returned to consult privately with Megan, and Megan consulted privately with me. It seemed that Sancho had obtained this newborn infant from a mother who could not keep her, as the mother was single and the father was married. The child was a Saxon/Hispanic cross, difficult to place. What was to be done?

"Hope, you know I cannot bear a child," Megan said.

"You decided long ago never to bring a child into this System," I agreed. "I understand that and accept it."

"I want to adopt this one."

I knew her well, but this surprised me. "Are you sure?"

"Completely sure."

My wife was a generous woman, but it had not occurred to me that she would be generous in this way. "Why this one?"

She looked at me as if I were hopelessly naïve. "Hope, you know why."

"But you know what people will say. That baby is Hispanic!"

"And Saxon," she said. "Hope, I never wanted to be a mother, but now I do. For this one baby."

Amazed and gratified and more than slightly discomfited, I acceded. We undertook the necessary paperwork and the foundling became ours. We named her Hopie Megan, because we wanted her to be ours as completely as she could be, in name as well as in law. We became a full family.

It took me some time to adjust to the idea of being a father, but Megan seemed to know what to do. She handled the feeding and changed the diapers and whatever else was required; I was permitted to hold the little thing for a few minutes at a time, and that was about it. Still, my outlook changed significantly, for now there was someone to follow me. When I aged and passed on, she would remain, and perhaps remember me fondly. That made the prospect of eventual extinction less objectionable.

 

Trouble cropped up on the political front. A court decision struck down the system of districts on which the last election had been based and required redistricting with a more equitable division of population. The districts were supposed to be even, within a couple of percentage points, but they were not. The bubbles of Ami, Ybor, and Pete had grown much more rapidly than the state's average, and now my district was a good twenty percent overpopulated. The state legislature had to redraw the lines.

The lines were redrawn in a heated sequence, but in the process I was gerrymandered out of my district. What had been mine was now split between two new districts and incorporated parts of what had been in other districts. My four-year term was cut to two years, and I was forced to run again, for a new four-year term.

They hadn't had to do it that way, but I was short on tenure and had little clout, and I was Hispanic, which was sufficient reason to make me the odd man out. I seethed at the injustice of it, but I had no choice; if I didn't run again, in a district that excluded half my natural constituency, I wouldn't have my office at all.

I ran again. Thorley's caustic pen followed my progress. If we had respect for each other—and we did now—it didn't manifest in public. He pilloried my positions as "bleeding-heart liberal" and "knee-jerk Hispanic" as I suspect they were.

But I was an incumbent now, of a sort. I had a constituency and notoriety and name recognition, and I had learned some things about campaigning. I did not bother to appeal to the Hispanics; I knew, with necessary cynicism, that they were in my pocket. Instead I campaigned for the support of the Saxons, and I had treated them fairly, too, in my tenure. I had mastered my positions and was ready to argue any one of them effectively. Never again would an opponent catch me flat-footed in debate, in the manner Thorley had. Thorley had really done me a favor by showing me my vulnerability.

I had the advantage, so my opponent challenged me to a debate. Here was a direct test of my attitude: It would be to my advantage to decline, but in so doing, I would be turning my back on my ideal of fair campaigning. I didn't even need to consult with Megan; I knew where she stood. I accepted—and destroyed him on stage. Thorley commented wryly on the ethics of mismatches but concluded that I had evidently benefited from competent instruction. I still did not accept special-interest contributions, so my campaign was lean but honest. I picked up several media endorsements, including that of Thorley's own newsfax; it concluded that there was something to be said for having a token Hispanic in the Senate.

I won the special election handily, pulling in almost as great a percentage of the Saxon contingent as the Hispanic, and a fair proportion of the Black vote, too. It seemed that women noted my recent adoption of a foundling and also favored my all-female staff. I had become the candidate of all the people.

Now I had a bit of standing in the State Senate. I was no longer the most junior member; several new ones had appeared around the state, from other new districts, and several old ones had been gerrymandered out. My standing was greater because I had overcome the gerrymander; a number of senators were sympathetic. I introduced a revised literacy bill designed to give Hispanics a fair chance—not a gift but a fair hearing—but I also pushed for reform of the graft-ridden highway-construction funding apparatus. The surveying and netting of the shifting atmospheric currents was assigned to major contractors on the basis of competitive bids, but the process was notoriously corrupt. I lost my Hispanic bill, but my drive at the construction irregularities stirred up so much commotion that a certain measure of reform eventually passed. Even Thorley grudgingly admitted it: "More should have been done, but Senator Hubris's half-loaf is better than none. Too bad a competent conservative didn't initiate this one."

Meanwhile, at home, little Hopie was a surprising joy. Megan, who had no more planned on motherhood—at age forty-one—than I had planned on fatherhood, discovered that she liked it. She believed in woman's rights, and so did I, but she claimed with some justice that I was only marginally competent at important things like formula mixing, midnight feedings and lullaby singing, so she reserved those privileges mostly for herself. All mothers, it seems, are good at singing to babies, but Megan was professional; I tended to listen with much the same rapture that the baby did. To my mind no one ever sang anything as well as Megan did. But I was permitted to bounce the baby on my knee; it seemed that men were considered minimally competent for that sort of thing. As a result it was mostly playtime I spent with my daughter, which had the perhaps ironic effect of causing her always to be happy to see me. She would chortle and hug me with her fat little arms and sometimes burp milk over my suit. Who says men can't burp babies? All it takes is a good, clean suit. We got along famously. I could hardly imagine how I had gotten along all these years without a baby.

Not all my crises were political. Periodically the state of Sunshine suffers fierce storms that rise from the fluxes between planetary bands and drift to intersect settled regions. They seldom, if ever, penetrate to the central section of the equatorial band, but Sunshine is at the southern fringe and can be ravaged. Of course, storms vary in size and intensity; any day, anywhere, there can be fleeting perturbations that cause rain to drive against bubbles. Technically Redspot is a giant storm, so big and stable that it has assumed the status of a band and is occupied in much the same manner. The citizens of Redspot fancy red-hot peppers and sauces and trace their genealogies back to the ancient Earth country of Mexico. Big stable storms aren't our problem; we know their paths and can handle them. But little spinoff storms that happen to plow through our territory can be terrors.

I learned about this the hard way. Remember, I was not raised planetside; there are no storms on airless Callisto and none of this kind in space. I had heard about them, but that's not the same.

"Storm watch," Megan announced, viewing the news while she fed Hopie her bottle.

"Watch?"

"It could strike this area within thirty-six hours."

"It can't hurt this bubble, can it? A little rain?"

She didn't comment. She just tracked the weather reports.

Next day it was a storm warning. "It could strike within a day," Megan said worriedly. "I think we had better take refuge in Ybor." She sounded genuinely concerned, so I humored her. We packed the auto-bubble for overnight, checked out of Pineleaf, and blew out to the highway leading to Ybor.

I began to appreciate Megan's concern. Bubbles jammed the route, and the netting was twisting slowly like a giant python. The current of wind was irregular, as if disturbed by some unseen force. The cloud layer above was thick and restless, forming goblin-faces that glared momentarily before dissipating. Tendrils of cloud descended, with spinoff cloudlets. Occasional flashes of lightning illuminated large patches of cloud. It was indeed ominous.

I drove while Megan held little Hopie in her arms. The baby evidently picked up the tension, for she began to cry and would not be pacified. But we were stuck for the drive, however long it took. The traffic was slow, and I watched nervously as other bubbles crowded closer to ours. The velocity of the highway current changed, causing the bubbles to jam in closer yet. I saw one bubble try to pass on the outside; it bounced off the net and struck another bubble. Suddenly there was a mayday call on the emergency channel: "Collision-crack in hull—need immediate repair!"

A police vehicle answered. "All units occupied. A repair unit will be with you in fifteen minutes."

"Can't wait fifteen minutes," the damaged vehicle replied. "That crack is creeping!"

"We're tied up with four separate accidents and a hole in the net," the police replied. "Get to you soon's we can."

"Four separate accidents," Megan said, appalled. "And a hole in the net! That means a car crashed through and is lost."

For the reaches of the Jupiter atmosphere were so vast and turbulent that any bubble going out of control off the highway was very likely to disappear into the swirl. It might be rescued if its radio-beacon operated, but the chances diminished when the police were already fully occupied. This was ugly.

We moved on, trying to ignore the repeated pleas for faster service by the stricken bubble; there was nothing we could do. Hopie bawled more loudly, adding to our tension. "There just aren't enough traffic police for a situation like this," I said. "After the last budget cut—"

"It's leaking!" the stricken vehicle cried.

"Emergency vehicle now being dispatched," the police reported. "What magnitude leak?"

There was no answer. We knew what that meant: Once the leak had started, it had widened, and suddenly the bubble had been filled with hydrogen at five times Earth-normal pressure. We didn't care to think about what that would do to unprotected occupants.

We blew on, and finally we reached the giant bubble of Ybor. The wait to enter was interminable, and Hopie cried incessantly. I felt as if I were in a space battle, only more helpless.

Inside, we had to pay a ruinous price for a hotel accommodation; naturally prices had been jacked up for this emergency. I smoldered. Gouging those who came here for safety reminded me of pirates preying on refugees. "There should be a law," I muttered. But then I thought of Thorley, raising his eyebrow eloquently as if to inquire, "A law for every little detail of human existence?" and I knew I could not defend that position. The free market had to be given play, even when elements of that market abused the situation.

We thought we were now safe from the storm, but we were wrong. We watched on holovision as the approach was recorded. Small bubbles were rocking like chips on a wave of liquid, and large ones were being shoved from their normal positions. The city-bubble of neighboring Pete was struck first. We watched with awe as the cloud layer broke up, dropped down, and enveloped that bubble, lightning radiating. A report from within showed debris scattered across the central park. "Tremendous vibration," the announcer was saying. "Spin is affected; we're processing as the winds fight our rotation. Gee is down, and power is low. But the hull is tight. Repeat: The hull is tight."

It was a necessary reassurance, for if the hull leaked, the whole city could be afflicted with five-bar hydrogen atmosphere, exactly as the stricken car had been. That would mean hundreds of thousands of deaths.

The holo switched to another locale. "One of the suburbs is moving out of control!" the announcer exclaimed. "It's starting to drop. Power seems to be out—" Then, with open horror: "The gee-shield's failed!"

We watched, appalled, as that small bubble, about the size of Pineleaf, started its fall. Nothing anybody could do could save it now as it spiraled down into the immense and deadly gravity well of the planet. All its occupants were doomed to implosion and pressure extinction.

Megan cut off the holo. "Oh, I wish I had stayed in Golden!" she cried, distraught. I did not argue; at this moment I wished I had stayed in space. The deep dread of the crushing pressure of Jupiter tormented me. How was it that puny man had dared to try to tame the Lord of Planets?

There was a shudder through the city. The walls creaked. We were encountering the high winds. Suddenly it was much easier to believe that the hull of the city-bubble could crack and leak, or that the gee-shield could fail. I felt claustrophobic. How much better it was on a moon or planetoid, where gravity was so slight it had to be enhanced.

The power flickered, causing us both to start. "Oh, Hope, I'm afraid!" Megan cried.

So was I. But I had a job to do. "It's just turbulence," I said reassuringly. "Nothing to worry about." But neither of us believed that, and neither did little Hopie; she was squalling with nerve-racking penetration.

I simply didn't know how to cope with this. In the Navy all personnel were trained and tough, knowing death was part of combat. But this was civilian life. I hated to see Megan like this; suddenly she was looking very much her age. Violence terrified her, and all my skill of analysis was useless in the face of the storm.

"Let me take Hopie," I said gruffly. Wordlessly Megan gave up the baby and huddled alone on the bed. I paced around the room, holding the screaming baby, no better at comforting her than I had been with Megan. Seldom had I felt this inadequate.

Then the door alarm sounded. "Not more bad news," I breathed, and went to answer it.

It was Spirit. "I would have come sooner, but the traffic—" Then she saw our situation. She reached out her arms, and I handed Hopie to her. "You take care of your wife," she said, holding Hopie close.

I went to Megan and took her shivering body in my arms. "Spirit is here," I said, as if that made everything all right.

Megan sat up, listening. "Hopie—"

Hopie had stopped screaming. "She's with Spirit," I explained. "Now relax."

"Yes..." she agreed, relaxing.

Spirit was supporting Hopie close to her bosom and singing her a lullaby. Why hadn't I thought of that? Of course, that was the way to soothe a baby, as Megan had done so often before. I had forgotten my common sense in the pressure of the moment. My sister had retained hers and acted on it, as she had during combat situations as a refugee and in the Navy. We were indeed in combat now, the foe being the raging storm. Our weapons were not ships and lasers but understanding and song.

"Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee," Spirit sang, "all through the night."

Megan heard. Suddenly she became animated. She sat up and joined in, her fine voice filling the room. "Guardian angels God will send thee, all through the night."

I joined in, too. Soon we were singing other songs, including our Navy identity songs. How clearly I remember Spirit singing "I know who I love, but the dear knows who I'll marry," while the baby slept blissfully. I realized at that moment what I had not chosen to understand before, that Spirit had found love—and could not marry. She had been as fortunate in love as I had been but not in marriage.

And so we spent the tense night, Megan with me on the bed, Spirit with the baby on the chair. Perhaps it was my imagination, but the force of the storm seemed to abate after Spirit arrived, and we knew things were getting better. Maybe it was just that when Hopie's crying stopped, things seemed more positive. Maybe it was that Spirit has always been my mainstay in crisis of any kind; she really is stronger than I am, in ways she seldom cares to show. It is a secret between us, this aspect of our relationship.

In the morning Spirit looked tired but relieved. She gave the baby back to Megan and went her way. I doubted that she had had much sleep, but she could handle that, too. We cleaned up, ate a quick breakfast, and checked out, nervously eager to get back to Pineleaf.

The press of traffic was much less, but the highway was just as grim: defunct bubbles littered the route. We did not pause to peer into any, knowing there could be nothing inside we would want to see. A devastating battle had been fought here, the carnage no less awful because the enemy had been the weather. About halfway along we encountered a wrecker-bubble hooking on to a car; the cleanup was commencing. Soon all would be as before, except for the relatives of the casualties.

The Pineleaf bubble was intact. "We could have stayed here," I said, aggrieved. Megan didn't answer, but the little grim lines deepened on her face. No, we couldn't have stayed here; she had had to have the security of a major bubble. Pineleaf's survival was mere chance; a gust could have swept it away.

Our apartment was in a shambles; this bubble had evidently received a worse shaking than had Ybor. It would not have been at all comfortable here, physically or psychologically. In my mind I saw the other suburb-bubble plummeting to its ghastly doom, and I shuddered. Jupiter was a monster!

But the storm was past, and we had survived. That was what counted. Now I would have to see what I could do as a state senator to alleviate the problems of those who had suffered more than we had. At least I had a notion how they felt.

 

In the last year of my four-year term Megan discussed strategy with me for my next effort. "You are now forty, which is coming into prime time for a politician, and you have good, solid credits and a loyal constituency. It is time for your first try for governor."

"My first try?"

"You will lose," she said matter-of-factly. "Your support statewide is too thin. But you can make a creditable showing, and that will prepare you for the second try, which should be more successful."

"I would distrust a commander who planned to lose the first battle, to gain experience for the second."

"Fortunately, few political campaigns are run by military men." She kissed me warmly. Over the years our relationship had ripened, and our love had become correspondingly strong. I had always known I would love her but had not been certain she would love me. That concern had abated. Though her love had been glacially slow in its development, it had also been glacially certain. It had flowered at last with something less than volcanic force—metaphor-mix permitting—but persisted like hardened lava. There are those who suppose that a woman in her forties is not worthwhile as a love object, that her form and fire are gone. The truth is that a literate, feeling, competent woman is never past her prime. There is, to put it colloquially, one hell of a lot more to a woman than sex appeal, but in Megan I had that, too. She was, indeed the ten most beautiful women, and well worth the wait.

It was more complicated, running for governor, than it had been running for the relatively minor office of state senator. Technically I was running for the nomination for governor, because Sunshine is essentially a one-party state on the local level. The Ybor bay region had two parties, but that was atypical. If I could get the nomination the election would follow almost automatically. I needed a lot more campaign money, and I needed significant endorsements, and I had to do an extraordinary amount of campaigning. I could no longer speak to PTA meetings and impromptu gatherings in parks; I had to travel fast and far and with an entourage. I needed my staff with me, and I did not want to be dependent on commercial carriers to get me to my appointments on time.

"A campaign car," Megan said. "It may seem a trifle quaint today, but it is feasible and it makes sense."

"A what?" I asked blankly.

"In the old days politicians campaigned from trains," she explained. "It was convenient and cheap and it got the job done."

"I'm game," I said.

Spirit returned to be my campaign manager for this effort. Megan remained as my strategist, preferring to take no overt part, but she consulted frequently with Spirit. My secretary Shelia knew exactly how much money we had to work with and where our contacts were. My bodyguard and my gofer were drafted again to handle the details of campaigning; this was the way it had to be, for a lean campaign. Together, these five women decided where I should go and how I should spend my time. It was reminiscent of my time as captain in the Navy, when women had mostly run my show.

I should explain that a train, in the Jupiter atmosphere, is not the same as the archaic vehicles that roamed old Earth on metal rails but does have its affinities. Indeed, those affinities were deliberately strengthened by the transport companies, who played upon the vested nostalgia of our culture. A train is a chain of transport bubbles linked by means of special flexible airlocks and towed by a tug. It takes relatively long for such a string of beads to accelerate to effective velocity, but a good deal of freight can be transported in that manner cheaply. There are special train routes established between major cities, marked by glowing buoys, and the trains have the right of way over any other vehicles that may intrude on such routes, because the trains are unable to halt or maneuver rapidly. It can be quite comfortable aboard a train, however; in fact, train travel was once considered to be the ultimate in luxury. I was intrigued.

What we could afford, it turned out, was a rental unit. This was an old dining car converted to residence after being retired from active duty and now used mainly for novelty occasions. It was shaped like a cylinder rounded off at the ends, so as to be aerodynamic; that was important for any vehicle traveling rapidly in atmosphere. It was so narrow I was sure rotation would be unfeasible; how would it provide gee?

The answer was obvious: It used natural planetary gee. Its gravity shield deflected approximately sixty percent of Jupiter's gravitrons, leaving enough to provide precisely Earth-normal gee. What prevented the car from plummeting down toward compression and destruction? The buoyancy of the other cars in the train. Inanimate freight required no weight and was easier to handle in free-fall, so full gee-shielding was used in them. It was the same principle as dirigibles, or passenger balloons that once floated in old Earth's atmosphere; the relatively large volume of diffuse balloon provided buoyancy to offset the small volume of dense payload, and so the whole was suspended stably. Only the freight cars were not gaseous; they were absolutely solidly filled, with the gee-shielding making them as light as balloons. I remember a minor historical note about the buoyancy of lead-filled balloons on Earth that did not float well. Today, of course, lead balloons readily float, with null-gee.

There is another intriguing parallel to the old times of Earth: the railroad discovered that freight was more lucrative and easier to handle than people, as it did not complain about delays and didn't even require oxygen to breathe. It could simply be loaded, sealed, and shipped. But the railroads were subsidized by the government, because of the great expense in starting up, so were expected to cater to public need. As a result, they served that need nominally but with increasing ungraciousness, trying to discourage voluntary passengers. The prices of tickets moved up; delays were so common that trains hardly ever arrived at their destinations on time, and personnel were discourteous. But such was the society's romance with the concept of trains that it took many decades for the companies to discourage a significant fraction of their passenger market. Even today, there were those who, contrary to all common sense, insisted on using this form of transport. I, it seemed, had become one of these.

The car, inside, was reasonably sumptuous. There was room for our family and several staff members. Spirit saw to the room assignments, and Megan kept Hopie out of mischief. There were cabins for Shelia, Ebony, and Coral. I was, in a manner of speaking, just along for the ride.

Of course we had to align our timetable with that of the railroad. That was awkward, because the freight trains were not scheduled with political campaigns in mind, or, indeed, with any living folk in mind. But it was cheap. The cheapest possible way for a party our size to travel the state, in style.

We worked it out. We set up a campaign route that meshed with convenient freight-train schedules. We hooked on to the first freight train, paid the rental, and headed for a date with Ami, across the state.

The start was slow, as the distant engine cranked up. It was an old-fashioned chemical burner that spewed its exhaust into the atmosphere, leaving a trail of smoke that slowly dissipated behind. We watched from the old-fashioned observation windows; since the car did not spin, such apertures were feasible. We saw the buoys flashing by for a while, faster and faster as the train slowly accelerated, until they were pretty much of a blur, and the route seemed almost enclosed in the fashion of the netted highways. But this soon got boring, even for little Hopie, and we turned our attention back inside. Travel really wasn't all that exciting, not when the surroundings were largely featureless.

In Ami I encountered something new, unfamiliar, and disturbing. Several men in the audience periodically yelled terse objections to my points. They were not reasoned refutations, merely opposition, such as "Says who!" or "That's bull!" They put me off my verbal stride.

I got through by ignoring the gibes, but I was disturbed. After the speech I consulted with Spirit and Megan.

"It's heckling," Megan explained. "Every politician suffers it eventually. It's a sign of success."

"Success! They were interfering with my speech!"

Spirit was more practical. "I gather this is a tactic of the opposition?"

"Of course," Megan said. "Such men are for hire, relatively cheap. But a candidate who is sure of success does not bother with such a minor tactic."

"I still don't like it," I said. "How can I stop it?"

"Let me consider," Spirit said.

Megan glanced at her. "I don't think I want to know what you are going to come up with," she murmured.

My next address was in Kyst, the southernmost bubble of the band. We drove down through a long highway that was a scenic wonder. It followed the five-bar contour, but the dynamics of the planet and the fringe of the band caused the cloud cover to dip, so that first it loomed low, then intersected the route, so that special fog-cutting buoys were necessary. It was like an eerie tunnel through foam that seemed always about to stifle out. As usual, Spirit and I gawked, while the Jupiter natives of our party ignored it. Little Hopie, now a pert four years old, sat in my lap and shared my enthusiasm; she liked traveling. She was a charming child, and increasingly people were remarking how much she resembled me. We had not made a secret of the fact that she was adopted but did not advertise it, either, so most people assumed she was ours by blood rather than by choice. That hardly bothered me.

The clouds dropped below the highway, so it was like emerging from some nether realm to the surface. The light was stronger here, and because there was a fracture zone in the next cloud layer above, some halfway direct light came down. To an Earth person all this would have seemed shrouded in gloom but bright enough. As we rose somewhat above the cloud surface the light touching it sharpened the fringe so that it resembled an enormous mountain slope. Rifts in it seemed like reaches of dark water, as I explained to Hopie while Megan smiled tolerantly. Thus we were, in our innocent and childlike fancy, driving along a narrow length of land, or a series of islands, bright fragments surrounded by the enormous silent sea. But, of course, I am a dreamer, and perhaps it was wrong for me to infect the child with that virus. On the other hand, I thought wryly, maybe it was in her genes: a fascination for the kingdom by the sea.

Kyst was a delight, seemingly perched on the last major cloud-isle of the series, overlooking the southern reaches of the planet. Some distance farther along, I knew, was the giant Redspot, but here nothing like that showed. Jupiter is big, and thousands of miles can separate adjacent territories. We had traveled at quite high velocity, our auto-bubble boosted by special jets, but still the drive had taken several hours.

The hecklers had also made the trip. I had two speeches scheduled here, on consecutive days, and the hecklers were present in force at the first. News must have spread that I was not apt at dealing with them, and so they swarmed like the proverbial stinging flies. I suffered through, not daring to take any overt notice of them, for fear I would be drawn into a type of exchange I could not profit from. But my audience became increasingly restless as their interference went unchecked.

However, I saw the personnel of my staff quietly taking pictures of the culprits, so I knew Spirit was working on something. Ebony was stalking each one with her camera. That reassured me.

After the program Spirit explained, "Now we know exactly who they are. As they enter next time we'll touch them with mustard-six. You will have the activator at your podium."

Slowly I smiled. Mustard-six was the colloquial name for a rather special, if minor, preparation used in Navy training drills. It burned like fire when activated by a particular electronic signal but was otherwise quiescent. It was considered a nuisance device, not a dangerous one, as it lost its effect only after a few seconds of activation, but no victim ever forgot those seconds! I remembered it from my time in officer training school; I had had to infiltrate a mock enemy position, and every time I blundered into an activation zone, I regretted it. "Just remember," the training officer had reminded us. "In real action those errors will cost you more than burns. Then the antipersonnel agents will be real." The lesson had been effective.

I proceeded with my address on the following day. Soon the heckling commenced. I gave it a few minutes, so that every individual heckler had his chance to sound off and the audience had opportunity to appreciate what was going on. Then I said, "I would like to take an impromptu survey. Will all those who harbor un-Jupiterian sentiments please rise and make yourselves known?" Then I switched on the mustard-six activator.

Six hecklers leaped out of their chairs, exclaiming loudly.

I turned off the juice after a one-second jolt. The hecklers were abruptly free of discomfort. They stood bemused, not understanding what had happened, as the other members of the audience chuckled.

"Thank you," I said graciously. "I am glad to know your true nature. I happen to support Jupiter myself; indeed, I chose to be a naturalized citizen of this great planet. But tastes do differ, and you certainly have a right to follow your own beliefs. It's a free planet! I hope someday you will come to respect it as I do."

The audience applauded patriotically. Sheepishly the hecklers resumed their seats, and I resumed my speech. My audience was now somewhat more responsive.

After a while the heckling resumed. They had been paid to do a job. I paused. "Is there by chance any person here whose mother was a baboon?" I inquired, and hit the switch.

Again the six hecklers jumped up, cursing. I cut the current after two seconds, and they quieted. "Thank you," I repeated. "I'd go to meet your mothers at the zoo, but I'm afraid they wouldn't vote for me." The audience laughed.

Later in the speech the heckling began again. Once more I paused. "Do any here support my opponent for election?"

"Oh, no!" a heckler cried, just before I activated the mustard. Again they all danced out of their chairs, to the delighted laughter of the audience.

I didn't have much further trouble with heckling, on that day or during the rest of the campaign. Little Hopie amused herself by doing an imitation of a heckler cutting the mustard. The episode made minor planetary news. "Hecklers," Thorley remarked wryly, "had better not mess with Navy heroes. If only the complex problems of government could be similarly addressed." Naturally the implication was that my solutions were simplistic.

That was perhaps my high point of the campaign. I lose my taste for remembering the rest of it, so I'll just say that it was not yet the season for Hispanic candidates on the statewide level. I made a good effort, but I lacked the finances for a saturation campaign, while my opponent seemed to have, literally, millions of dollars to spend. The special interests fairly poured money into his coffers. Had significant campaign finance reform been instituted... but perhaps that is sour grapes. I saw that as long as the special interests could put their favored candidates into office, the system would not be reformed.

So I lost the nomination, as Megan had foretold, but it was a creditable loss, a respectable showing. I had gotten my name known to the electorate.

Now, however, I was out of a job, for I had not been able to run for another term as state senator, an office I could readily have retained, otherwise. It was not permitted for candidates to run for two different offices simultaneously, and I don't fault that regulation. It had been put in by reformers, but again I had come to understand the other side of it. When good office holders are required to give up their offices in order to gamble on higher offices, good men are going to be lost.

Megan assured me that my political career was not over, just on hold, and I was sure she was right. She had always been right hitherto. But still it smarted. I could so readily have won, had I only accepted enough special-interest money to finance a broader campaign.