Interface by Neal Stephenson, J. Frederick George Page B
Authors: Neal Stephenson, J. Frederick George
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Science-Fiction, Thrillers, Political, Presidents, Political Fiction, Political campaigns, Election, Presidents - Election, Political campaigns - United States
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him utter profanity when he knew that she was listening. "Call her."
"Call whom?"
"The three-alarm lamp scooter," he said.
Cozzano flapped his right arm, causing his whole body to bend perilously to that side, and pointed across the office at his wall of pictures. "Three-alarm lamp scooter."
Marsha couldn't tell which picture he was pointing at. Christina? The little Vietnamese girl? One of the bridesmaids? Or his daughter, Mary Catherine?
Mary Catherine was a doctor, three years out of medical school. She was a neurology resident at a big hospital in Chicago. The last time the Governor had gone to the city, he had visited her apartment and come back chuckling about one detail of her life: She spent so much time on call and slept so little that she had to have three alarm clocks by her bed.
"Mary Catherine?"
"Yes, goddamn it!"
Marsha went back to her little cockpit, where she sat all day, irradiated on three sides by video screens. Sliding a computer mouse around on the desktop, she located Mary Catherine Cozzano's name and slapped a button. She heard the computer dialing the number, a quick tuneless series of notes, like the song of an exotic bird.
"South Shore Hospital switchboard, may I help you?"
Cozzano's voice broke in before Marsha could say anything; he had picked up his extension. "The budlecker! Make the budlecker go!" Then, infuriated at himself: "No, goddamn it!"
"Excuse me?" the operator said.
"Mary Catherine Cozzano. Pager 806," Marsha said.
"Dr. Cozzano is not on call at this time. Would you like to speak to the doctor who is?"
Marsha did not understand the following words were true until she spoke them: "This is a family emergency. A medical emergency."
Then she dialed 911 on another line.
Then she went back into the Governor's office to make sure that he was comfortable in his chair. He had slumped over to one side. His right arm kept lashing out like a gaff, trying to hook on to something sturdy enough to pull his full weight, but the surface of his desk offered no purchase.
Marsha grabbed the Governor's upper left arm in both of her hands and tried to move him. But Cozzano reached across his body with his right hand and gently, firmly, pulled her hands loose. She
watched his hand for a moment, confused, then noticed that he was staring directly into her eyes.
He glanced significantly at the telephone on his desk. "Fuck me," he said. "Get the maculator!" Then he closed his eyes tight in frustration and shook his head. "No, goddamn it!"
"The maculator?"
"The old Egyptian. Glossy head. He'll fix this muggle. Get the boy of my father's acehole! Ace in the hole."
"Mel Meyer," she said.
"Yeah."
That was an easy one; Mel was the second preset on the Governor's phone, a one-button job. Marsha picked up the phone and pushed that button, with a sense of relief that made her decisive. Mel was the guy to call. She should have called him first, before calling the ambulance.
She ended up having to try a couple of numbers before she reached him on his car phone, somewhere on the streets of Chicago.
"What is it!" Mel snapped, getting things off to a typically brisk start,
"It's Marsha. The Governor has had a stroke or something."
"Oh, no!" William A. Cozzano said. "You're right. I had a stroke. That's terrible."
"When?" Mel said.
"Just now."
"Is he dead?"
"No."
"Is he in distress?"
"No."
"Who is aware of this?"
"You, me, an ambulance crew."
"Is the ambulance there?"
"Not yet."
"Listen carefully." In the background, Marsha heard honking, the squealing of tires, the dim filtered sound of other motorists shouting at Mel, their voices Dopplering wierdly as they veered and accelerated around him. He must have pulled on to the shoulder, sidewalk, or wherever else he saw clear space. Mel kept talking smoothly and without interruption. "You don't want an ambulance there. Even at night the Capitol is crawling with media jackals. Damn that glass wall!"
"But-"
"Shut up. I
"Call whom?"
"The three-alarm lamp scooter," he said.
Cozzano flapped his right arm, causing his whole body to bend perilously to that side, and pointed across the office at his wall of pictures. "Three-alarm lamp scooter."
Marsha couldn't tell which picture he was pointing at. Christina? The little Vietnamese girl? One of the bridesmaids? Or his daughter, Mary Catherine?
Mary Catherine was a doctor, three years out of medical school. She was a neurology resident at a big hospital in Chicago. The last time the Governor had gone to the city, he had visited her apartment and come back chuckling about one detail of her life: She spent so much time on call and slept so little that she had to have three alarm clocks by her bed.
"Mary Catherine?"
"Yes, goddamn it!"
Marsha went back to her little cockpit, where she sat all day, irradiated on three sides by video screens. Sliding a computer mouse around on the desktop, she located Mary Catherine Cozzano's name and slapped a button. She heard the computer dialing the number, a quick tuneless series of notes, like the song of an exotic bird.
"South Shore Hospital switchboard, may I help you?"
Cozzano's voice broke in before Marsha could say anything; he had picked up his extension. "The budlecker! Make the budlecker go!" Then, infuriated at himself: "No, goddamn it!"
"Excuse me?" the operator said.
"Mary Catherine Cozzano. Pager 806," Marsha said.
"Dr. Cozzano is not on call at this time. Would you like to speak to the doctor who is?"
Marsha did not understand the following words were true until she spoke them: "This is a family emergency. A medical emergency."
Then she dialed 911 on another line.
Then she went back into the Governor's office to make sure that he was comfortable in his chair. He had slumped over to one side. His right arm kept lashing out like a gaff, trying to hook on to something sturdy enough to pull his full weight, but the surface of his desk offered no purchase.
Marsha grabbed the Governor's upper left arm in both of her hands and tried to move him. But Cozzano reached across his body with his right hand and gently, firmly, pulled her hands loose. She
watched his hand for a moment, confused, then noticed that he was staring directly into her eyes.
He glanced significantly at the telephone on his desk. "Fuck me," he said. "Get the maculator!" Then he closed his eyes tight in frustration and shook his head. "No, goddamn it!"
"The maculator?"
"The old Egyptian. Glossy head. He'll fix this muggle. Get the boy of my father's acehole! Ace in the hole."
"Mel Meyer," she said.
"Yeah."
That was an easy one; Mel was the second preset on the Governor's phone, a one-button job. Marsha picked up the phone and pushed that button, with a sense of relief that made her decisive. Mel was the guy to call. She should have called him first, before calling the ambulance.
She ended up having to try a couple of numbers before she reached him on his car phone, somewhere on the streets of Chicago.
"What is it!" Mel snapped, getting things off to a typically brisk start,
"It's Marsha. The Governor has had a stroke or something."
"Oh, no!" William A. Cozzano said. "You're right. I had a stroke. That's terrible."
"When?" Mel said.
"Just now."
"Is he dead?"
"No."
"Is he in distress?"
"No."
"Who is aware of this?"
"You, me, an ambulance crew."
"Is the ambulance there?"
"Not yet."
"Listen carefully." In the background, Marsha heard honking, the squealing of tires, the dim filtered sound of other motorists shouting at Mel, their voices Dopplering wierdly as they veered and accelerated around him. He must have pulled on to the shoulder, sidewalk, or wherever else he saw clear space. Mel kept talking smoothly and without interruption. "You don't want an ambulance there. Even at night the Capitol is crawling with media jackals. Damn that glass wall!"
"But-"
"Shut up. I
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