Little Green Men (32 page)

"Blebnikov believes in flying saucers," the chief of staff said "It was in that CIA profile."

'All right, he's got snakes in his head, too."

The chief of staff nodded to the campaign manager, who handed the president the summary of a tracking poll done among undecided voters. "Over seventy percent think that the government - that's us -
is lying about UFO's and support Banion and his marchers."

"How did we get to this pass?" the president asked, shaking his head. "Doesn't anyone have imagination enough
not
to believe in something?"

"No one's saying we should jump in headfirst," the chief of staff said. "Just a brief statement reiterating our support of open government. We could put it in the context of civil rights."

"Civil rights? These people ought to be locked up in mental institutions. No, and that's final. We're going to do the right thing for once."

"What?"

"Ignore this whole business. Now what else you got for me?" After the meeting, the press secretary whispered to the campaign manager outside the Oval Office, "Let me work on it."

STAKES HIGH IN TONIGHT'S DEBATE RUSSIA, UFO'S, ECONOMY EXPECTED TO DOMINATE AS CANDIDATES CLASH

"Thank you, governor. Mr. President, you have one minute to respond."

"Thank you, Jim. My concern over the possible abduction of American citizens by these . . . whatever you want to call them, is a matter of public record. Not that you would know that from listening to the governor's distortions, if I may with all due respect call them that. When 1 was in the Congress, I introduced legislation time and time again calling for declassification of a vast number of government documents, many of which surely touched, directly or indirectly, on this issue. Now, if the governor wants to engage me on matters related to space, I
welcome
him. I have pushed for Project Celeste's completion practically from the first moment I took office four years ago. And I am
proud
to note that this historic event will take place on my watch.
Over,
1 might add, the constant naysaying of people like Governor Flickery, who would rather spend the money on questionable highway projects than on forging boldly ahead into the future.
I would add, if I might, that I
won't be there personally to wi
tness the launch, since my oppo
nent has seen fit to impugn -"

"Your time is up, Mr. President."

". . . my motives and charge that 1 would be using it for tactical political advantage. I only regret that it had to come to this."

Banion listened wearily to Dr. Falopian. Colonel
Murfletit
, the head of the International Congress of Abductees. the head of the World UFO Congress, and the chairman of the Presidents of Major Paranormal Organizations argue loudly over which of them would have the honor of presenting the opening statement at the Gracklesen hearings. A trio of appalled aides from Gracklesen's office were present, doing their best to cope.

Banion did his best to appear interested, but it was hard going. He felt ontologically stuck. He couldn't go back, and he wasn't sure how to go forward. The head of WUFOC and Falopian were arguing fiercely. The fault lines within the UFO community were showing: the purists held that the abductees were flakes and that the hearings should concentrate on forcing the government to reveal what it knew about UFO technology. Banion now found himself in the unwanted role of mediator between competing groups of maniacs. It took willpower not to stand up and start screaming.

It was getting ugly. The head of Experiencers Anonymous, the abductee support group, had just called the vice president of the Area 51 Investigative Association a "dupe." It reminded Banion of the French Revolution tribunals. The only thing missing was a guillotine. Someone stood up and announced that they had been penetrated. Government agents were among them!

Banion thought, Oh you lambs, you poor, bleating stumblers in Plato's cave, bumping into your own shadows on the wall, if only you knew
...
As the dissonant rumble grew louder, he wanted to shout: Go home! Hug your children, fix yourselves a drink, take up chess, knitting, woodworking, crossword puzzles, kinky sex, anything, but
get a life!
But the show had to go on. The play was still the thing, in which to - what? Scrubbs had no plan. Banion's head throbbed.

He stood up. No one noticed. They were too busy shouting at each other. Gracklesen's aides watched him with silent alarm:
You're not leaving us alone. . . with
them? He shrugged in their direction -
Have Jim, guys
- and left.

Reporters were waiting for him outside his Georgetown office, clamoring for interviews. Let Elspeth deal with them. Inside, Renira was on the phone to Miss Delmar, who was complaining bitterly over having had to share a trailer with Kathy Carr. Between urn hums, Renira handed him a half-inch-thick wad of phone slips. As he walked somnambulantly to his office, Banion flipped through them, discarding them one by one onto the floor like love-me-love-me-nots. He closed the door behind him. He was about to hurl himself onto the couch - and maybe, just maybe, have a good cry - when he saw that it was occupied by the recumbent form of Scrubbs. a newspaper spread over his face like a death shroud.

"There's a couch in the other room, you know," he said. "This is my office, not a bedroom."

Scrubbs stirred. "It's not as comfortable. How'd the meeting go?"

"The techies and the abductees have 'issues' with each other. At least take your shoes off. Damnit . . ."

"Your dedicated techie." Scrubbs said, going back to reading his newspaper, "has no use at all for your abductee."

"Tell me about it."

"He'd rather talk about the hieroglyphics on the Roswell wreckage than alien date rape."

"My God," Banion said, "I used to moderate presidential debates. Now I'm refereeing hissy fits between paranoids and paranormalists." He looked at Scrubbs. "God hates me. That's it. There's a higher meaning to all this."

"I thought we were finished feeling sorry for ourselves."

Banion sighed. "I'm too tired to be angry. I only have the energy for self-pity."

The phone rang. Renira said over the speaker, as if she were announcing the queen of England, "Val Dalhousie."

"What kind of name is that?" Scrubbs said.

Banion put the call on the speakerphone. "Hello, Val."

"Darling
boy, what have you gone and done? Everyone is
bouleverse.
It's too delicious for words. How are you? I know you're gaga with work, so I won't keep you. Are you in town Saturday? I'm having a completely informal brunch, all your favorite people, Henry and Nancy, Polly and Lloyd, the Galilees, Burts, Organgorfers, Hynda and Tucker, Eela Dommage, Knatch and Penny Wemyss, oh, and Nicholas and Sveva Romanov - I
adore
her, one of her ancestors is in the
Inferno,
Ugolino something-or-other, he's supposed to have eaten one of his relatives or something macabre, but
how
chic to have an ancestor in Dante . . ."

"What the hell was that all about?" Scrubbs said after Banion hung

up.

"It appears" - Banion sighed - "that I am back on the A-list." "You don't sound very happy about it."

Hearing Scrubbs point it out made Banion conscious of the fact. True enough, he felt curiously indifferent to his reelection to the innermost circle. Only a few months ago he had gone to pieces over his ouster. Now, really, he couldn't care less.

He became intrigued by this transition he had apparently made, without so much as realizing it. Why did he feel so - oblivious? He couldn't quite put his finger on it. Was it some still-glowing ember of resentment over having been dumped by his former friends? Or was it simply that all his former glories and laurels - the plaudits, the invitations to dine with kings and princes - now seemed somewhat . . . dull beside this gaudy existential drama into which he had been freakishly drawn? What thrill was there left in watching the peacock pageant when you stood at the head of an army on the march?

He was on the phone to
Newsweek
- also doing a cover story on him - when Scrubbs bolted from the sofa and held out his folded newspaper to Banion, urgently tapping a story headlined
shoot-out in s.e.

leaves two dead.

"Excuse me," Banion said, cupping the phone.
"What?"
"This."

Banion scanned the story. "Happens every day in Washington." "Hang up. We gotta call the office."

Scrubbs's briefing on the Bradley business left Banion numbly contemplating the Dorothy Parker line "What fresh hell is this?" The shadowy feds - identified in the newspaper story as Drug Enforcement agents

(Scrubbs assured him they were not in fact DEA) - had apparently knocked on Bernard the drug dealer's door at an inopportune time, but then what hour of the day is appropriate to call on a drug dealer? The unexpected fusillade of machine-gun fire that greeted them was described by one Metro police officer as "impressive."'

Scrubbs dialed the number and put the call over the speaker.

"Creative Solutions, how may
1
direct your call?"

"It's Scrubbs." He whispered to Banion, "Creative Solutions. Cute, huh?"

"Hello, Nathan," said the familiar voice. It sounded tired and somber and all business. "I was wondering when you'd call." "I've been kind of busy."

"I see you're not calling from your usual pay phone. Sharing an office, huh? Is Mr. Banion with you?" "He's here."

"May I speak with him?"

"He doesn't want to talk to you. He's kind of upset."

"That makes everyone."

"You got his message? In the speech?"

'"Majestic situation'? Yes, I got that. About a dozen times. You can tell him he doesn't have to say that anymore in all his public statements. We all understand where we are and where we stand."

"So, we're square?"

"Hardly. The arrangement that we discussed did not happen. And the present situation is untenable. It has been elevated beyond proportion. It is a very unmajestic situation. And a murder warrant is about to be issued for you."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know very well what I'm talking about. Two law enforcement officers are dead, another is wounded."

"Law enforcement officers, my ass. Assassins."

"We know about your friend Bradley. And we
will
find him." Banion saw Scrubbs recoil.

"I
was the one who sent them over to Bernard's house," Scrubbs said.

"1
don't think so. Not from the description the wounded agent gave, unless you're now black and in your early sixties." "What do you want?"

"You know what we want. You need to come in. And your friend needs to call all this off. He can issue a statement to the effect - well, he's good with words. Delusions can result from any number of causes. Medication, alcohol, bipolar disorders. There's no dishonor in it. But it needs to be an emphatic, and immediate, public rejection and denunciation of his recent activities. The situation is too highly charged. It needs to be unplugged. If these two things occur, tomorrow, if not sooner, then your friend Bradley is a nonissue."

Now it was Banion's turn to ask, 'Are you going to drink all of that at once?"

Scrubbs sat on the edge of the sofa, silent, hunched forward over the remains of enough vodka to stun a Russian. Finally he spoke. "Shit."

"That's not a particularly penetrating analysis of the objective situation," Banion said. "Fuck off."

"Don't get bilious with me." "I've gotta do what he says." 'And me? What about me?" "You'll be all right." "I'm so reassured."

"Just what he says. Say you went nuts on medication or something. Disband the marchers. There's only one problem. If you do that, you won't have any leverage left. They'll be able to do anything they want to you."

"Then I'm not about to announce that this was all just some midlife crisis."

"Yeah. I guess I'd hold on to the army. Oh,
man
..."

Scrubbs picked up the phone.

"What are you doing?" Banion asked.

"I'm going to call him and tell him I'm coming in."

"Why?"

"Bradley. He saved my ass. Twice. They'll find him. I can't let that happen."

"Wait," Banion said. "I have to."

'And what am I supposed to do?" "You'll be fine."

"As long as I remain leader to three million kooks? This is the rest of my life? The Lonely Messiah? No thanks."

"Where do you get off feeling sorry for yourself? I'm the one who's going off to get killed."

"Talk about self-pity! Well see here, pal, this is not Paris, and you are not Sydney Carton, so you can stuff the 'It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done' speech."

"You got a better idea? Asshole?"