“Yes, sir, I have.” Don leaned forward to speak into the microphone on the table before him, even though there was no need to amplify his voice in the nearly-empty, quiet room.
“In view of the hour”—Buford turned hour into a two-syllable word—“we will dispense with your reading your statement and have it inserted into th’ record as ‘tis. With youh permission, of course.”
Don felt sweat beading on his forehead and upper lip. “Certainly, sir.” His statement was merely the regular public relations pamphlet the agency put out, extolling its current operations and promising wonders for the future.
Senator Buford smiled coldly. Don thought of a rattlesnake coiled to strike.
“Now what’s this I heah,” the Senator said, ” ‘bout livin’ in space prolongin’ youh life?”
Don coughed. “Well, sir, if you’re referring to. . . ah, to the remarks I made on television. . .”
“I am, sun.”
“Yes, well, you see. . . I had to oversimplify some very complex matters, because. . . you realize. . . the TV audience isn’t prepared. . . I mean, there aren’t very many scientists watching daytime television talk shows. . .”
Buford’s eyes bored into Don. “Ah’m not a scientist either, Mr. Arnold. I’m jest a simple ol’ country lawyer tryin’ to understand what in the world you’re talkin’ about.”
And in a flash of revelation, Don saw that Senator Buford was well into his seventies. His skin was creased and dry and dead-gray. The little hair left on his head was wispy and white. Liver spots covered his frail, trembling hands. Only his eyes and his voice had any spark or strength to them.
A phrase from the old Army Air Corps song of Don’s childhood skipped through his memory: We live in fame or go down inflames.
Taking a deep breath and sitting up straighter in the witness chair, Don said, “Well, sir: there are two ways to look at any piece of information—optimistically or pessimistically. What I’m about to tell you is the optimistic view. I want you to understand that clearly, sir. I will be interpreting the information we have on hand in its most optimistic light.”
“You go right ahead and do that,” said Senator Buford.
They lunched in the Senate dining room: dry sherry, mock turtle soup, softshell crabs. Just the two of them at a small table, Don and Senator Buford.
“I finally got me a NASA scientist who can talk sense!” Buford was saying as he cut through one of the little crabs.
Don’s head was still reeling. “You know, Senator, that there will be lots of experts inside NASA and outside who’ll make some pretty strong arguments against me.”
Buford fixed him with a baleful eye. “Mebbe so. But they won’t get away with any arguments ‘gainst me, boy.”
“I can’t guarantee anything, you realize,” Don hedged. “I could be completely wrong.”
“Ah know. But like you said, if we don’t try, we’ll never know for sure.”
This has got to be a dream, Don told himself. I’m home in bed and I’ll have to get up soon and go testify before Buford’s committee.
“Now lessee what we got heah,” Buford said as the liveried black waiter cleared their dishes from the table. “You need the permanent space station—with a major medical facility in it.”
“Yessir. And the all-reusable shuttle.”
Buford looked at Don sharply. “What’s wrong with th’ space shuttle we got? Cost enough, didn’t it?”
“Yessir, it did. But it takes off like a rocket. Passengers pull three or four gees at launch. Too much for. . . er, for. . .”
“For old geezers like me!” Buford laughed, a sound halfway between a wheeze and a cackle.
Don made his lips smile, then said, “An advanced shuttle would take off like an airplane, nice and smooth. Anybody could ride in it.”
“Uh-huh. How long’ll it take to get it flyin’?”
Don thought a moment, considered the state of his soul, and decided, What the hell, go for broke.
“Money buys time, Senator,” he said craftily. “Money buys time.”
Senator Buford nodded and muttered, mostly to himself, “I finally got a NASA scientist who tells me the truth.”
“Sir, I want you to realize the whole truth about what I’ve been telling you—”
But Buford wasn’t listening. “Senator Petty will be our major obstacle. Scrawny little Yankee—thinks he’s God’s chosen apostle to watch out over the federal budget. He’ll give us trouble.”
The name of Senator Petty was known to make scientists weep. NASA administrators raced to the bathroom at the sound of it.
Buford waggled a lean, liver-spotted hand in Don’s general direction. “But don’t you worry none ‘bout Petty. Ah’ll take care o’ him! You just concentrate on gettin’ NASA to bring me a detailed program for that space station—with th’ medical center in it.”
“And the advanced shuttle,” Don added, in a near whisper.
“Yen, of course. The advanced shuttle, too. Cain’t ride up there to your geriatrics ward in th’ sky on a broomstick, now can I?”
“The twins were twelve years old today.”
Don looked up from the report he was writing. It had been nearly midnight by the time he’d gotten home, and now it was well past one.
