Powersat

Nashua, New Hampshire

Jane could feel the tension in Morgan’s hand as she sat beside him on the sofa, watching the early election returns on the muted television set across the crowded hotel sitting room. He’s trying to appear relaxed and confident, she knew, but she could sense the stress in every rigid line of his body. The suite was jammed with volunteers, aides, a few local politicians, all standing in clumps of twos and threes, their eyes on the TV and the numbers that were slowly accumulating. They spoke in near whispers, tense with expectation, conversations subdued.

More volunteers were gathering downstairs in the hotel’s ballroom, ready to party if the returns were good, ready to go home through the iron cold of the New Hampshire night if the results were as bad as most of them feared they would be.

Turning her head to look through the window, Jane saw that snow had started to fall outside, big wet flakes sifting silently down, quiet and serene, illuminated by the tall lights of the Nashua Marriott hotel’s half-empty parking lot. A late winter’s night in New Hampshire, Jane thought. It’s quiet in here, too, despite the press of all these people, she realized. Quiet, but taut with anxiety. You can almost smell the fear.

A good thing it didn’t start snowing until after the polling places were closed, Jane told herself. At least the snow didn’t keep the voters at home. And we can blame the snow for a poor showing at the party downstairs.

The TV screen showed the local news, with precincts reporting the results of the nation’s earliest presidential primary election. The volunteers crowding the modest sitting room were young men and women for the most part, dressed in comfortable, practical tweeds and woolens. No straw hats or garish campaign badges. The older politicians carried on terse discussions with one another, each of them wondering if they had backed the wrong horse, their eyes never leaving the numbers shown on the TV screen.

Denny O’Brien was standing by the well-stocked bar, deep in earnest conversation with the city’s leading banker. Jane had to smile at the contrast between them: Denny looked like a sagging, half-deflated blimp next to the lean, flinty-eyed New Hampshireman. No news reporters were among the crowd, Jane noted. Not one.

Well, she thought, we never expected Morgan to carry New Hampshire. He did well enough in the Iowa caucus, but the New Hampshire voters had barely heard of the governor of Texas when the campaign started. Still, we need to make a solid showing here, Jane told herself. The national spotlight is on New Hampshire tonight, and Morgan’s got to show that he can win votes.

“…and the surprise of the evening, so far,” one of the carefully coiffed TV analysts was saying, “is that Morgan Scanwell appears to be doing much better than the polls indicated.”

“Yes,” said his partner, smiling with perfect teeth. “Scanwell’s message of energy independence seems to have struck a chord among New Hampshire voters.”

All the conversations in the suite stopped for a moment, as the TV screen showed fresh numbers. Morgan’s in third place, Jane saw! In a field of seven candidates, third place isn’t bad. She felt her pulse rate quicken. He’s out-polling the Kennedy woman from Massachusetts!

As the evening wore on and the results from across the state came in, the hotel suite became louder and merrier. A couple of news reporters arrived and pushed through the crowd to ask for an interview. Scanwell grinned at them and looked at Jane.

“Let’s wait for the final results, shall we?” Jane said.

Nodding, Scanwell said, “Good idea. Shouldn’t be long now.”

A news camera crew barged in and commandeered one of the big upholstered wing chairs, one guy manhandling it into a corner of the room while his partners set up their minicam and lights.

“All right,” said the analyst on the TV screen, “here are the final results.”

The room fell silent.

“As expected and predicted, the winner of the New Hampshire primary is Senator Charles Waldron, of New York, with forty-seven percent of the vote.”

“Texas Governor Morgan Scanwell,” said his smiling colleague, “is the big surprise of the night, coming in second with twenty-two percent, slightly ahead of Michael Underwood…”

The rest was drowned out by cheering. Jane gave Scanwell a celebratory kiss on the cheek, then the governor jumped to his feet and started shaking hands with everybody. Suddenly everyone in the room wanted to grasp his hand. The TV reporter waded through the pack and led him to the wing chair for a congratulatory interview while the volunteers started for the door, heading downstairs to the ballroom for a well-earned celebration.

And Jane found herself wondering what Dan was doing. She knew she had been foolish, stupid even, to go to see him in Texas, to be alone with him, to love him. That was a mistake, she told herself sternly. It won’t happen again. It can’t happen again. Not now. Not ever.

Still, she wondered what Dan was doing at this very moment.

“I never realized it could be so cold in Texas,” said Asim al-Bashir as he and Dan hustled from his Jaguar to the bar of the Astro Motel.

Dan grinned at him. “The locals say there’s nothing between Texas and the North Pole except a barbed-wire fence.”

It was warm inside the bar, although this close to midnight the place was nearly empty. The TV set at the far end of the bar was showing a hockey game. A couple of rednecks were at the other end of the bar, hunched over longnecked beers. Dan saw that the hockey game was in its final minute: the Dallas Stars were ahead of the Redwings, 3–2. As he led al-Bashir to a booth, the Redwings goalie came out to help in a desperate attempt to tie the score.

Don’t go into overtime, Dan prayed silently. The barmaid sauntered over to the booth and Dan ordered a Glenlivet on the rocks. To his surprise, al-Bashir asked for the same.

“We’re outta Glenlivet,” said the barmaid. “How ’bout Johnnie Black?”

“That will be fine,” al-Bashir answered. Dan agreed with a resigned nod.

The Stars stole the puck from the attacking Redwings and skated to an easy score at the undefended goal. The Detroit crowd groaned and booed. The final buzzer sounded as the barmaid banged the two scotches onto their table.

“Six fifty,” she announced.

“Run a tab for me, okay?” Dan said.

“We’re closin’ in half an hour. Y’ all want me to bring you another round now? Then I can run yer card and get outta here on time.”

Dan grinned at her. “Sure, why not? And turn on Fox News or CNN, will you?”

As the barmaid left their booth, al-Bashir lifted his glass. “To continued success,” he toasted.

“I’ll drink to that,” said Dan, touching his glass to the Arab’s.

As he sipped the whisky, Dan thought that al-Bashir wasn’t one of those fanatical Muslims who wouldn’t touch liquor. All to the good, he told himself. That means he isn’t a terrorist. Dan smiled inwardly. He doesn’t dress like a terrorist. That suit must have cost a small fortune. Silk, it looks like. Probably Saville Row.

“Things are going well,” al-Bashir said as the barmaid brought their second round.

Dan fished out his credit card and handed it to the barmaid. Al-Bashir didn’t move a muscle.

“Yep, we’re perking right along,” Dan said “Thanks to you.”

Al-Bashir shrugged modestly. “I’m glad that I was able to convince Garrison to loan you the money you need.”

“It’s put us over the hump. With a steady inflow of cash we’ve been able to move right ahead.” Dan smiled happily.

“I believe Senator Thornton has been of some help to you, as well.”

Dan’s smile evaporated. But he admitted, “She’s gotten the FAA to back off, that’s the most important thing. We’ll be flying the spaceplane with Gerry Adair at the controls in another week.”

“Despite the cold?” al-Bashir asked. His round, neatly bearded face looked relaxed, at ease, yet his dark eyes were piercing.

“No problem.”

“The satellite is finished?”

Dan sipped his scotch. Then, “We’re just about ready to turn her on. One more flight to send a crew to check out all her systems and we’ll be set to start generating power.”

Smiling, al-Bashir said, “The receiving facility at White Sands is ready. I went down there last week.”

“Did you?” Dan looked into those steady brown eyes. Al-Bashir’s been all over the place, he knew. The man had made himself a familiar figure everywhere in the Astro headquarters. And he went to the rectenna farm, too. Dan felt impressed. He’s really made himself a part of the team. Next thing you know he’ll want a ride in the spaceplane.

Should I worry about him? Dan asked himself. How much should I let him see? The sardonic voice in his head answered, He’s your pipeline to the money, pal. Close him down and you close your whole operation.

Yeah, Dan answered. But still…

Al-Bashir broke into his silent debate. “I would like to hire your secretary.”

“April?” Dan felt a sudden jolt of alarm.

“April Simmonds, yes. I could offer her twice the salary you’re paying.”

“To work for you?”

“As my personal assistant, yes.”

Stalling for time to think this through, Dan asked, “In Houston?”

“Or Tunis, or wherever I need her. I travel a great deal and she would be of invaluable assistance to me.”

“Assistance,” Dan heard himself growl. “And what else?” Al-Bashir smiled smoothly. “Whatever else happens to arise.”

Fighting a sudden impulse to punch al-Bashir in his smirking face, Dan said, “I can’t let her go. She runs my office for me. She’s even doing my public relations work now.”

“Is she under contract to Astro?”

Dan shook his head warily.

“Perhaps she would like to work for me. Would you mind if I asked her about it?”

“I’d mind a helluva lot,” Dan snapped. Then he recovered his self-control and added, “Go ahead and ask her, if you want to.”

“I want to. Very much.”

Steaming, Dan saw out of the corner of his eye that the TV screen above the bar was flashing the words NEW HAMPSHIRE PRIMARY against a background of red, white, and blue. Dan turned to look squarely at the screen, glad of the excuse to cut his conversation with al-Bashir. The sound was muted, but the numbers were clear: Scanwell had come in a strong second, surprising most of the forecasters.

The image changed abruptly to a picture of New York Senator Waldron standing at a hotel ballroom podium, waving, mouthing a victory speech to a crowd of cheering, waving straw-hatted supporters. Then it cut to Scanwell, standing at a podium in a different hotel, a wide smile splitting his craggy face, speaking words that Dan could not hear.

And Jane was standing at his side, also smiling, looking radiant and completely happy.

Dan forgot about al-Bashir sitting in the booth with him. He simply stared at Jane. She waltzes down here and pops into my bed and says she still loves me. And then she tells me she’s married to Scanwell. Married to him. Her husband. She’ll be at his side all the way to the White House. She loves me and she’s married to him. Einstein was right: nuclear physics is a lot simpler than politics. And love.