Snow had crusted into ice on his Mustang; it took nearly half an hour before Jake had cleared the windows enough to drive to campus. His ten A.M. class was filled: an even dozen students exchanging ideas about the extent of the frozen underground seas of permafrost beneath the iron-red deserts of Mars.

Jake had been to Tomlinson’s mansion often enough to park on the driveway, within a few yards of the front door. The butler knew him by sight and, after a whispered “Good afternoon, Dr. Ross,” ushered him into the family dining room.

Compared to the grandeur of the formal dining room, this chamber was smallish, almost intimate. The table could seat only eight—ten, Jake thought, if they wanted to squeeze a couple more in. A big window at one end of the room let in bright sunlight. On the opposite wall stood a portrait almost as big as the window: some elderly Tomlinson of yore, frowning petulantly down at his descendents.

Tomlinson was already at the table, in his shirtsleeves and tie-less. Amy sat beside him, wearing a pale yellow double sweater set and big gold hoop earrings.

Alexander Tomlinson sat at the head of the table, the expression on his face remarkably like the grouch in the painting. The butler showed Jake to the chair at the elder Tomlinson’s left.

“All right,” Tomlinson Senior said, in a loud, commanding voice. “Now that we’re all here you can start serving.”

A door to his right swung open and two uniformed servants carried out trays of food and a decanter of white wine.

The elder Tomlinson sampled the wine, nodded to the servant, then turned to his son.

“This man Dant is making a nuisance of himself,” he grumbled.

Tomlinson nodded, almost meekly. “He’s gaining in the polls, I know.”

“If you don’t do something—and soon—you’re going to lose this primary.”

“I’m not going to lose,” Tomlinson said tightly.

His father harrumphed.

Jake blurted, “Dant’s all over the radio. You can’t turn to any station without hearing his commercials.”

“Radio ads are cheap,” Tomlinson quickly replied. “We’ve put most of our money into television. TV gets more response.”

“You hope,” said his father.

Amy said, “Dant is playing the right-wing card. Family values—which is a code phrase for antiabortion.”

“He also talks about crime in the streets,” Jake said.

“But there isn’t any crime in the streets!” Tomlinson countered. “Crime statistics are down, not up.”

You ought to try walking in the streets in my neighborhood, Jake thought. But he kept it to himself.

“Family values,” the elder Tomlinson muttered.

“And lower taxes,” said his son.

“Well,” the father demanded, “what are you going to do about it?”

Before Tomlinson could answer, Amy replied, “Meet him head-on.”

“Eh? What do you mean by that?”