Skyfall

“Get on with it, Frank,” the elderly woman beside him hissed behind her hand. The spokesman stammered and his words rushed on.

“You see it's the grain prices at the exchange. We been taking a beating with futures and some people are making a fortune sellin' to the Russians while some of us got to take bank loans for fertilizer and seed crop. 'Taint fair to the independent producer…”

“You sir, ladies and gentlemen, I do know your problem.” The spokesman's voice was cut off instantly as President Ban-din spoke. “I know it well and to be honest it's something that concerns me both night and day. Right here, on my desk at the present moment,” he tapped a thick folder that lay under his right hand, “is the latest study on this important topic and the draft of my plan to alleviate the situation. If there are profiteers they will be punished and they will profit no more. You people who work the soil with your own hands must prosper, not greedy speculators. You are the heartland of this great country and your crops the blood that feeds us all. Your voices will be heard. Thank you.”

With these words as a clue, and the final impressive nod, Charley Dragoni pushed on the nearest arms and began moving them towards the door. An old man, nearest to the desk, was shaking with controlled passion and he called out hoarsely, “Mr. President, I gotta be frank, I didn't vote for you test election. But being here, meeting you like this, it's something, Mr. President, and you got my vote and everyone in my family.”

“Thank you, sir, I appreciate your sincerity and know it is a free choice in a free society.” The President thought for a second, then pulled out his tie pin with the presidential seal upon it. “Your honesty humbles me. Please, take this as a reminder of this visit. It's the last one I have.”

Dragoni passed the pin to the man and his emotional thanks were audible as they all left the room and Dragoni closed the door behind the last blue rinse.

“Is that it for today, Dragoni? I hope to Christ it is.” Ban-din settled back heavily in his chair and loosened his collar while his assistant consulted a card.

“Yes, sir, the last until four this afternoon when you're meeting with the delegation of Puerto Rican Congressmen.”

“More trouble from the spies? They're getting to be worse than the nigs these days.” He took off his jacket and the waiting Dragoni was there to take it and hang it in the closet. “And don't waste your time in there,” Bandin called after him. This message was clear to Dragoni who rattled quickly in the concealed bar and emerged with a large bourbon and branch. Bandin drank heavily and smacked his lips with pleasure, then dug a presidential-seal pin out of the top drawer of the desk and pushed it carefully into his tie. After this he opened the heavy folder under his right hand and took out the betting form and handed it to Dragoni.

“This one with the red line under it, fourth race at Santa Anita. A thousand to win. What about the Prometheus doctor?”

“Finalized, sir. There was some initial problem with Doctor Kennelly but he sees reason now. It's a national emergency and he's a government employee.”

“I'll say it's a national emergency when that bastard Polyarni came up with a girl cosmonaut. After those nice talks at the tractor exhibition; hands across the sea, cooperation, all that crap. And this broad waiting in the closet ready to be pushed on at the last minute. But wait until he has to face his Comintern buddies when he finds out what we've got in our closet. Oh, baby, how I wish I could see his face then I'd give a hundred grand to any CIA spook who could bug the Kremlin room when he tells them.”

“Are you serious about that, sir?”

“You have no sense of humor, Dragoni, none at all. Fill up the glass again.”

4

All people care about is their own tiny corner of the universe, I. L. J. Flax thought to himself.

“You gentlemen do realize that in just forty-five minutes I must be at the first press conference here for Prometheus? Satellite relays for television, the world press, the works.”

He spoke in English to Vandelft who headed the American engineering team, then turned and said the same thing in Russian to Glushko, his opposite number on the Soviet side. What little they spoke of the other's language had long vanished in the heat of the moment. One from Siberia, the other from Oshkosh — it was amazing how much they resembled each other. Gold-rimmed glasses, thinning hair, tobacco-stained fingers, shirt pockets stuffed with pens and pencils, the inevitable calculator slung like a gun in a holster on each hip.

“I know that, Flax,” Vandelft said, his fingers tapping nervously on his clipboard. “But this won't take fifteen minutes, ten, you've just got to do something. What the hell is the point of a news conference if all the final testing's held up? We're never going to launch on time if that happens.”