Atropos by William L. Deandrea Page B

tired himself, but he was damned if he was going to complain about it to a man who’d had a stroke. He just wished he had a walker of his own to lean on.
    The trouble was, the Capitol was so damn big, down there at the end of the road, and the Mall was so damn straight, everything looked closer than it was, easier to get to. The looming museums of the Smithsonian, lining either side, added to the illusion. Trotter reflected that this might be symbolic of what was wrong with Washington—lots of majesty, but lack of perspective.
    Trotter walked alongside his father, taking care not to go too fast and leave the old man behind. He was a little peeved that the emergency summons was an audience with a temporary officeholder and a spell as a physical therapist, but what the hell. The government was paying the plane fare. He could be back in Kirkester tonight.
    The walker stopped again, in front of the Air and Space Museum. Trotter waited for the Congressman to speak, but nothing happened. Tourists, sparse in the January cold, paid much more attention to the old man who seemingly slipped into suspended animation than they ever had when he was discussing top-secret projects in a public street. Trotter’s father had taught him that that would be the case. You can talk about anything in public if you keep your voice normal, don’t be too specific, and don’t act too interested.
    But if you stop, stand in one spot, and stare straight ahead, you’re going to attract attention.
    Trotter figured one of them ought to say something. “What is it? Do you want to go inside and touch a moon rock?”
    His father came out of his trance and looked at him. He always spoke out of the corner of his mouth these days, but this time, it seemed especially appropriate. He gave his son a one-eyed scowl and said, “You mockin’ the afflicted, boy?”
    Then he did a very unusual thing. He laughed. Real, genuine laughter, as though he had actually perceived something as funny. Trotter found it a revelation.
    “No, son. I was thinkin’ something over. Let’s get out of the doorway, and I’ll tell you what’s on my mind.”
    The Congressman stopped again about twenty yards farther down the Mall. “All right,” he said. “There was another reason for calling you down here.” The Congressman’s Southern accent had dwindled to practically nothing, a sure sign that he was getting down to business.
    “Thank you. As somebody said recently, I’m supposed to be the boss.”
    “You are, son, you are. People keep secrets from the boss all the time.”
    “I’m glad you’re going to tell me. I’d hate to have to fire you.” That raised another chuckle.
    “Well, it’s a personal thing, too. I got a call from Jake Feder. He wants to talk to me. I told him you were running the show these days, and he said he knew that, but he wanted to talk to me.”
    “You said okay.”
    “I said okay. He worked for me for a long time, and he was my friend before he worked for me.”
    “I have never noticed,” Trotter said, “that friendship ever cut a whole lot of ice with you.”
    “I could never afford it to. And anyway, you know Jake. Doesn’t give a fat hairy damn for anything in the world but circuits and his grandchildren.”
    Trotter nodded. He’d gotten a full load of Jake Feder’s grandchildren when Jake had come up to Kirkester to install Trotter’s electronics.
    The Congressman continued. “Well, he gives a damn about this.”
    “So talk to him.”
    “I want you there.”
    “He asked for you. This might not even be Agency business.”
    “Right,” the old man said. In the old days, he might have spat, but his control over his lips wasn’t what it had been. “What are the odds of that?”
    “Slim,” Trotter admitted.
    “So I want you there. People like Jake have to know you’re the boss now.”
    “I’m the boss for now. There’s a difference.”
    The old man gave him that half smile. “Whatever you say. Boss.”
    For the first