“Well,” he said, “I guess we should raise a toast to Professor Wescott.”

“There’s more,” Laurie said.

“They’re going to do resurrections as well?”

“Almost. He says they’ll also be able to reverse the aging process. But we knew if they could do one, they could manage the other.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it.” George simply would have liked it to come when someone else was in office. “Seniors also get a break.”

“Yes. It’s hard to believe, Mr. President.” She walked over to the couch and sat down.

“When?” he asked.

“They’ll be ready to start treatments in six months.”

“How much will it cost? The individual, I mean?”

“Wescott promised it would be affordable for most people. He’s estimating less than a thousand dollars per patient. For another eighty years of life.”

“People playing basketball at a hundred and twenty.”

“I know it will create some problems, Mr. President.”

“We can’t very well deny something like this to the poor. Everybody will have to get access.”

“I know.”

“Can’t have a quarter of the population ageing twice as fast as everybody else.”

“Do we have a plan to deal with it?” She’d understood the societal impact from the beginning. And she read the answer in his clamped lips.

“I’m working on it.” Life extension was okay in small increments. But doubling the game. And some of the science magazines were saying that was just a start. Huge advances lay just ahead. “First thing, I guess, Laurie, will be to revamp Social Security.”

She nodded.

The country would be faced with bosses who never retire. Politicians who never leave office. The population would double within a short time. The highways were jammed now. They’d need twice as much energy. Twice as many houses. And that was only the beginning. He was going to have to sell family planning, which would put him even more at odds with the nation’s conservatives. And he could probably expect complaints from the union of funeral directors and embalmers. “Just in time for the election,” he said.

“It’s okay, sir. People are going to be very happy about it.”

“At first. Within a few years, we’re going to be asking people to do their patriotic duty when they hit the century mark and jump off a pier. “

“They’re also getting serious about genetic manipulation.”

“I know. Want a kid with double your IQ? We can handle it.”

“I don’t think they’re going to be able to do that,” said Laurie. “At least not for a long time.”

“Well, that’s a blessing, anyhow.”

“They’ll be able to give you a pretty good politician, though.” She smiled. “Kidding. But they will be able to tinker with people’s looks. What’s that old radio show about the town where everybody was above average?”

Then there were the two wars in Africa, with local dictators massacring protestors while the U.N. debated the issue and half the country was enraged that Cunningham had not yet committed American forces. Group marriage had shown up in—where else?—California, and was now a constitutional issue. Cunningham’s father had told him at the start of his presidential campaign that he couldn’t imagine why anybody would want the job. Now, of course, he was locked in.

His phone sounded. He leaned forward. Pushed the button. “Yes, Kim?”

“They’re here, sir.”

“Thanks. I’ll just be a moment.” He turned back to Laurie. “Anything else?”

“I understand Maurice Barteau and his team have successfully cloned a child.”

“Okay.” He’d known that was coming, too. He had no control over the French, of course, but there were already storm clouds in the United States. It was just what he needed: one more major fight. “Thanks, Laurie. I think I’ll just hide under the desk for a while.”

She smiled. “One more thing, sir.”

“Not sure I need anything more at the moment.”

She cleared her throat. Looked at him oddly. “There are several research groups working on producing artificial semen. But they’re probably six or seven years away. So it’s not likely to happen on your watch.”

“Artificial semen?”

“Yes.”

“What’s the point of artificial semen?”

“You have better control of the product.”

“You mean the baby.”

“Yes. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. But you’re telling me that males are going to become irrelevant.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

“Mr. President.” She delivered a wicked grin. “I don’t think you have to worry about guys becoming completely irrelevant. That’s never going to happen.”

—

In the face of so much turmoil, the Moon story should have been a light diversion, a bit of stand-up comedy delivered by an egomaniacal billionaire with too much time on his hands. But people were jittery. Too much was happening. The voters had reached a point that nothing surprised them anymore. They were prepared to believe anything.

Ray Chambers was standing in the doorway.

Cunningham waved him in, and they both took seats at the exquisitely carved round table he’d inherited from the Obamas. “Got anything, Ray?” he asked.

“George, it looks as if the situation in Utopia is working out.” That was Ray’s ongoing joke, implying that everything was fine save for one or two minor issues. “I understand we’re going to live a lot longer.”

“If not,” said Cunningham, “it will at least seem that way. Is there anything new on the Myshko business?”

“Maybe,” said Ray. “I still think we should just get away from it.”

“What have you got, Ray?”

“We’ve been calling around. Jasper and I have talked to everyone we can think of who was ever associated with the Nixon White House. One of them was a staffer for Bob Haldeman. Her name’s Irene Akins.”

“Okay. What did Irene have to say?”

“That NASA saw something on the Moon. Before Neil Armstrong. She said it was a ‘big deal’ at the time.”

“When was that?”

“She’s not sure of the date. And she told us, she wasn’t supposed to say anything. She never did, never heard anything more, and eventually decided it was all a joke of some kind.”

“So what did NASA see?”

“She never knew. And she never heard about any secret flights.”

“Where does she live, Ray?”

“Apparently, she’s still in the area. She’s over in Alexandria.”

“Bring her into the White House.”

“George, that’s not a good idea.”

“Just do it, Ray. Try to get her here this afternoon.”

—

Irene Akins had joined the White House in March 1965, and had remained until 1978, when the Carter administration was in place. Her name until 1970 had been Hansen. She’d received positive evaluations from three presidents, which suggested she hadn’t been simply another political appointee.

At a quarter after four that afternoon, Kim informed him that Ms. Akins had arrived and was waiting for him, as per his instructions, in the Vermeil Room. The Vermeil Room had a fireplace, and the walls were decorated with portraits of five of the twentieth century’s first ladies. Its name derived from the collection of gilded silver on display. Despite the glitter, it possessed a casual ambience. It was the place Cunningham always used when he wanted to put a guest at ease.

Ray was waiting with her when he entered. They were drinking coffee, and she was standing in front of the portrait of Jackie Kennedy.

Akins was in her seventies. A small woman, with white hair and glasses. A walker stood to one side of her chair. Her face was creased, but she managed a delighted smile. “It’s hard to believe this is actually happening,” she said.

Ray did the introduction and turned to leave, but Cunningham signaled him to stay. “Is this the first time you’ve been back?” he asked her.

“To the White House?” Her eyes gleamed. “Oh, no. I’ve been here any number of times, Mr. President. Brought my kids on the tours. And their kids. I have a lot of happy memories here.” The smile faded. “And some unhappy ones.”