Cal shakes his head. “You miss the point. Grozny’s people are starving. Civil unrest is reaching dangerous proportions. We can’t just turn our backs on a desperate nation with a nuclear arsenal capable of destroying the world a dozen times over.”

“In my book, it’s still extortion,” Blumner says. “We’re creating a bogus project as a means of paying a faltering superpower and its corrupt leaders billions of dollars so they won’t engage us in a nuclear war they could never hope to win anyway.”

The president holds up his hand to interject. “I think Cal’s point still has merit. The IMF has already made it clear that they won’t give another dime to Russia unless the money is invested in technologies that can help jump-start their economy. Even if this radio signal turns out to be bogus, the telescope would still provide scientists with a real window to explore deep space.”

“It’d help the Russian people more if we opened up a few thousand McDonald’s and let ‘em eat for free.”

Mailer ignores Blumner’s remark. “The G-9 meeting’s in two weeks. I want you and Joyce to prepare a preliminary proposal that uses the radio telescope as a vehicle to channel funds into Russia. At the very worst, maybe we can diffuse some of the paranoia surrounding Asia’s upcoming joint nuclear deterrent exercises.”

The president stands. “Cal, what time is tonight’s press conference scheduled?”

“Nine o’clock.”

“Good. I’ll meet with our new vice president in an hour, then I want you to brief him about the reelection. And tell him to pack a bag. I want Chaney hitting the campaign trail, starting tonight.”

Florida State University

Dominique is seated in the corridor outside her doctoral advisor’s office, squirming uncomfortably on a cushionless wooden bench. She debates whether to chance another trip to the bathroom when the office door opens.

Dr. Marjorie Owen, portable phone pressed to one ear, ushers her inside with a quick gesture. Dominique enters the sanctuary of the department head’s cluttered office and takes a seat, waiting for her professor to finish her phone conversation.

Marjorie Owen has been teaching clinical psychiatry for twenty-seven years. She is unmarried and unattached, her thin, wiry fifty-seven-year-old physique kept in reasonable shape by mountain climbing. A woman of few words, she is well respected, somewhat feared by her nontenured staff, and has a reputation for being strict with her graduate students.

The last thing Dominique wants is to get on her shit list.

Dr. Owen hangs up the phone, retucking her short-cropped gray hair back behind her ear. “Okay, young lady, I’ve listened to your tape and read your report on Michael Gabriel.”

“And?”

“And what? He’s exactly what Dr. Foletta says he is, a paranoid schizophrenic possessing an unusually high IQ,” she smiles, “making for some delightful delusions, I might add.”