Unpopular Science

“You know my popularity in the polls goes down every time I even talk to you on the phone.”

“Isn’t this a secure line?”

“Oh, they know. Somehow they know,” the Prime Minister said, low and full of suspicion. “Don’t you call here anymore.”

The President heard a click. He punched the phone again. The correct button this time. After his assistant brought him a couple of Extra Strength Tylenol he got back on the line with Smith.

Smith was still there, which was a mild surprise. He continued. “The Department of Defense has transferred most of their highly sensitive systems to new locations as a precautionary measure. They have not moved the Full-spectrum Environmental Monitoring Robots, however.”

“Yes, well, the system is designed for the White House. Moving it would be the same things as shutting it down.”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

“Wrong. It’s a defensive system. Smith. It is designed to keep intruders out, even if the intruders are there to take the system itself.”

“Not these intruders. Remember, they have assimilated some of the great achievements in stealth technology we developed ourselves. There has not been time to reconfigure the White House defenses to accommodate those technologies. Also, the intruders will likely be deposited into the White House from the air. The full-spectrum robots don’t cover the airspace over the White House.”

“We’ve got lots of security that does, however.”

“You also have a spy in the highest levels of military security.”

The President forgot his headache. “Say again?”

“A spy.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. But it is the only explanation for the events in recent weeks. The intelligence needed to stage the various threats came from multiple sources. Their only communality came in their being reported to the highest levels of military and intelligence command. Possibly they gleaned some intelligence on CURE through whatever source they have.”

“But I’m the only source of intelligence on CURE,” the President complained. “Are you saying I may be bugged?”

“No, Mr. President. You have never possessed some of the intelligence the thieves have had on security measures around the research sites. It’s someone closer to the research. One of the Joint Chiefs, perhaps.”

“What?”

“It might be the secretary of defense.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“It could even be the secretary of homeland security.”

“Smith, you’re way out in left field. I know those men. I respect those men, even if I disagree with some of their political views. They are loyal Americans.”

“I think one of them is not.” Message delivered, Smith returned to the unresolved issue. “Do you intend to order the dismantling of the Full-spectrum Environmental Monitoring system at the White House?”

“No. I see no need. Is there anything else, Smith?”

“Perhaps it would be best, then, if my enforcement arm performed security watch on the White House, at least until I have another course of investigation.”

“Sure. Fine. Send them on up. They won’t get halfway across the lawn.”

Then the President hung up on Smith. For a change. He frowned at the red phone, then put it away. He had become too defensive, but Smith had stepped over the line.

On the other hand, Smith was usually, annoyingly, right.

Maybe it would be better to have Smith’s muscle on hand, just to keep an eye on things.

The President grabbed his titanium desk phone.

“Sandra? Get me the man in charge of the U.S. atomic clock. No, I’ll hold.”

It took surprisingly little time to find him. “Yes, Mr. President?” answered the secretary of the Navy.

“Ronald, your clock’s slow.”

The head of the U.S. Navy said, “Who told you this, sir?”

“Is it true?”

“Well, yes. I just got the communique myself. There was a malfunction in the processor that coordinates the synchronization. But it is just a few seconds from true.”

“Fix it.”

“We’ll have it right in minutes, Mr. President. My understanding is that the master synchronizing clock—”

“Not another word. General. Just fix it.”

“But how did you know, Mr. President?”

“Guess I just know some folks with a better clock, General,” said the President.

The general chuckled nervously. “With all due respect, sir, there is no better clock. The Navy’s hydrogen maser and cesium chronometers are the most precise…”

But he was talking to himself.

Chapter 28

Jacob Fastbinder III stepped out of the front door carefully, taking the first big step as if his leg was not trustworthy. When he was on solid ground he turned and locked the door behind him. The house was a low concrete structure that was actually half submerged in the desert soil. The concrete walls were three feet thick, the roof almost as thick, designed to keep the structure cool when it had served as a produce distribution plant in the late 1960s. A chiller, which once kept the warehouse refrigerated, was just so much collapsed, corroded wreckage alongside it.

“That’s Fastbinder?” asked the attorney.

“That’s him,” said museum manager Margo.

“That guy looks old. I thought Fastbinder was in his fifties.”