Prisoners of Tomorrow by James P. Hogan

haven’t got something for kids to tap into phone lines?”
    “Give them time, dear.”
    “Okay, I’ll see you later tonight.”
    “You too. Have fun today.” Myra kissed him lightly on the cheek and watched from the door at the top of the stairs leading down into the garage as he descended and climbed into his maroon Cadillac. The outside door opened, and he backed out.
    Minutes later in the thick of morning traffic streaming toward the Beltway, he caught sight of the KGB car, sitting solidly four places behind him as he swung right off an overpass to take the ramp down to the freeway. Several cars farther back still, just coming across the overpass, was the blue FBI Ford that tailed the KGB every morning. Foleda shook his head as he turned on a piano concerto to relax himself before the working day started. It was all sure as hell a crazy way to run a planet.

    Gerald Kehrn was a born worrier. When he was younger he had worried about the things he read that said resources were about to run out. And then when they didn’t run out and scientists began convincing the world that the whole problem had been exaggerated, he had worried that too many resources would produce too many people. When right-wing administrations were in power he worried about conservative fascists and fundamentalists, and with left-wing administrations he worried about liberal fascists and regulators. And of course, he had always worried about a war breaking out; the more time that went by without there being one, the more he worried that because weapons were constantly getting bigger and deadlier, it would be so much the worse when it did. He worried especially about things he didn’t know about, and so tried to keep himself informed about everything. That made him good with details and a useful person to have around, which helped explain how he had made it to a senior position on the staff of the defense secretary. And the position suited him, for if worse did come to worst, he would prefer to be right there in the center of the action—not able to influence the course of events very much, perhaps, but at least knowing what was going on.
    As he drove toward the Potomac on his way to the Pentagon on the morning of May 4, an inner foreboding told him that this was the beginning. He wasn’t sure why, for there had been enough diplomatic goofs and intelligence screwups before, and this was hardly the first time the Soviets had nailed a couple of agents. Maybe it was the involvement of Mermaid, which had been taking on such big proportions in everyone’s thinking lately. But something about the situation filled him with the dull, cold certainty that this was the first tripping over the edge into the scrambling, steepening tumble that would take them all the way to the Big One.
    Because he worried about being late whenever he had an appointment, he always left early. Hence, none of the others had arrived yet when he got to Foleda’s office. He found Foleda’s operations assistant, Barbara Haynes, a tall, graying but elegant woman in her late forties whom he knew well, and Rose, Foleda’s personal secretary, discussing something being displayed on a screen in the outer room. The strains of some piece of classical music coming through the open door at the rear—Kehrn had no idea what it was; he preferred jazz himself—indicated that Foleda was already ensconced within.
    “We heard there was a snarl-up on the George Mason Bridge,” Rose said. “Didn’t think you’d make it so soon.”
    “A vegetable truck decided to unload itself there,” Kehrn said. “But I left in good time. It wasn’t so bad.”
    “Well, at least the rain’s stopped.”
    “I’m glad I came in the other way this morning,” Barbara said.
    “Who’s out there?” Foleda’s voice called from inside.
    “Gerry Kehrn,” Barbara called back.
    “Tell him to come on in. And you might as well come too, Barb. Let’s get our thoughts together before the others start