Memo and his chief scientist, Dr. Alonzo X. Pencilbeam, were sitting on one side of a small conference table, Driver and I on the other. Keene was at the end, dozing restfully. The only light in the room came from the little projector, which threw a blank glare onto the wan-yellow wall that served as a screen now that the last image had been shown.
Driver clicked the projector off. The light went out, and the fan’s whirring noise abruptly stopped. Keene jerked awake and instantly reached around and flicked the wall switch that turned on the overhead lights. I had to admire the man’s reflexes.
Although the magnificent TURD building was sparkling new, Memo’s spacious office somehow looked seedy. There wasn’t enough furniture for the size of it: only a government-issue steel desk with a swivel chair, a half-empty bookcase, and this slightly wobbly little conference table with six chairs that didn’t match. The walls and floors were bare, and there was a distinct echo when anyone spoke or even walked across the room. The only window had vertical slats instead of a curtain and it looked out on a parking building. The only decoration on the walls was Memo’s doctoral degree, purchased from some obscure “distance learning” school in Mississippi.
From across the conference table, Driver fixed Memo with his steely gaze. “Well, what do you think of it?” he asked subtly.
Memo pursed his lips. He was jowly fat, completely bald, wore glasses and a rumpled gray suit.
“I don’t know,” he said firmly. “It sounds . . . unusual . . .”
Dr. Pencilbeam was sitting back in his chair and smiling benignly. His PhD had been earned in the 1970s, when newly graduated physicists were driving taxicabs on what they glumly called “Nixon fellowships.” He was very thin, fragile looking, with the long, skinny limbs of a praying mantis.
Pencilbeam dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out an electronic game. Reformed smoker, I thought. He needs something to do with his hands.
“It certainly looks interesting,” he said in a scratchy voice while his game softly beeped and booped. “I imagine it’s technically achievable . . . and lots of fun.”
Memo snorted. “We’re not here to have fun.”
Keene leaned across the table and fixed Memo with his best here’s something from behind the scenes expression. “Do you realize how the White House would react to a sensible program for a supersonic transport? With the Concorde gone, you could put this country into the forefront of air transportation again.”
“Hmm,” said Memo. “But . . .”
“Think of the jobs this program can create. The president is desperate to improve the employment figures.”
“I suppose so . . .”
“National prestige,” Keene intoned knowingly. “Aerospace employment . . . balance of payments . . . gold outflow . . . the president would be terrifically impressed with you.”
“Hmm,” Memo repeated. “I see . . .”
I could see where the real action was, so I wangled myself an assignment to the company’s Washington office as Keene’s special assistant for the SSZ proposal. That’s when I started learning what money and clout—and the power of influence—are all about.
As the months rolled along, we gave lots of briefings and attended lots of cocktail parties. I knew we were on the right track when no less than Roger K. Memo invited me to accompany him to one of the swankiest parties of the season. Apparently, he thought that since I was from Anson’s home office in Phoenix, I must be an engineer and not just another salesman.
The party was in full swing by the time Keene and I arrived. It was nearly impossible to hear your own voice in the swirling babble of chatter and clinking glassware. In the middle of the sumptuous living room, the vice president was demonstrating his golf swing. Several cabinet wives were chatting in the dining room. Out in the foyer, three senators were comparing fact-finding tours they were arranging for themselves to the French Riviera, Bermuda, and American Samoa, respectively.
Memo never drank anything stronger than ginger ale, and I followed his example. We stood in the doorway between the foyer and the living room, hearing snatches of conversation among the three junketing senators. When the trio broke up, Memo intercepted Senator Goodyear (R-OH) as he headed toward the bar.
“Hello, Senator!” Memo boomed heartily. It was the only way to be heard over the party noise.
“Ah . . . hello.” Senator Goodyear obviously thought that he was supposed to know Memo, and just as obviously couldn’t recall his name, rank, or influence rating.
Goodyear was more than six feet tall and towered over Memo’s paunchy figure. Together they shouldered their way through the crowd around the bar, with me trailing them like a rowboat being towed behind a yacht. Goodyear ordered bourbon on the rocks, and therefore so did Memo. But he merely held onto his glass while the senator immediately began to gulp at his drink.
A statuesque blond in a spectacular gown sauntered past us. The senator’s eyes tracked her like a battleship’s range finder following a moving target.
“I hear you’re going to Samoa,” Memo shouted as they edged away from the bar, following the blond.
“Eh . . . yes,” the senator answered cautiously, in a tone he usually reserved for news reporters.
“Beautiful part of the world,” Memo shouted.
The blond slipped an arm around the waist of one of the young, long-haired men, and they disappeared into another room. Goodyear turned his attention back to his drink.
“I said,” Memo repeated, standing on tiptoes, “that Samoa is a beautiful place.”
Nodding, Goodyear replied, “I’m going to investigate ecological conditions there . . . my committee is considering legislation on ecology, you know.”
“Of course. Of course. You’ve got to see things firsthand if you’re going to enact meaningful legislation.”
Slightly less guardedly, Goodyear said, “Exactly.”
“It’s a long way off, though,” Memo said.
“Twelve hours from LAX.”
“I hope you won’t be stuck in economy class. They really squeeze the seats in there.”
“No, no,” said the senator. “First class all the way.”
At the expense of the taxpayers, I
