1633

When she wanted to be, Mary Simpson could be graciousness personified. For a moment, the anger and hurt and sorrow on her face vanished, replaced by the serene dame. "Thank you so much, Hilde. That will be all for the night."

The servant nodded nervously, set the tray down on a sidetable, and hurried from the room.

The break in the tension came as a relief for Simpson. All the more so, when he saw that Mary's "dame persona" had settled her down. The expression on her face was now stern, but no longer had any trace of hysteria.

"Tonight, John Chandler Simpson, I am going to tell you the truth. Two years ago, when the Ring of Fire turned our universe inside out, Mike Stearns was right and you-we-were wrong. Just as he was right-not us-during the political campaign."

She waved her hand impatiently. "Oh, stop looking like a boy being forced to swallow a pill. I didn't say he was right about everything, for God's sake. He's still a crude and uncouth man, as vicious in a brawl as anyone you'll ever meet, and I think he's reckless and short-sighted about a lot of things. But-"

The word was spoken almost like a gunshot. "He understood something, right from the beginning, that we didn't. Although, looking back on it now, it's clear as day to me. Those few thousand Americans who came through the Ring of Fire were almost petrified with terror. You saw that also, and-I know you, John, you're not a bad man, never have been-reacted to it by trying to organize the fear in order to save them. And what he saw, and understood, was that fear-organized-would just turn into savagery. No matter how well it was administered. So, he used you-and me-like a punching bag. Hammered on us to dispel the fear by offering them…"

She paused, wiped her face. "Oh, hell, call it inspiration, if you will."

"Mary, that's the most one-sided-"

"Shut up. Can't you ever listen?" The fury was returning to her voice. "I was at those campaign rallies at the Club 250, John. Tonight-now, after it's all over-look me straight in the eye and tell me we weren't staring down the throat of a Ku Klux Klan in the making."

Her shoulders shivered. "I always felt like taking a shower afterward. Would have, too, if the hot water hadn't been rationed. God, those animals. 'No dogs and Germans allowed.' 'Pale niggers.' 'I got nuthin' 'gainst no Kraut-ev'ry Murikan should own one.' That's what they were saying in the crowd, John, it doesn't matter what fine words you were spouting from the speaker's platform."

Simpson swallowed. He'd hated those rallies, himself. But, given Stearns' savage and relentless campaign, he'd had no choice-

He groped for… something. "Damn it, his program and policies were incredibly reckless. Without our traditions, our customs, letting tens of thousands of Germans-I don't care about their so-called 'race,' it's got nothing to do with that and you know it-let them have the franchise-swamping us under with their medieval attitudes and superstitions-God knows what they'd do with it…"

The words petered off. Mary laughed drily.

"Yes? And then what? What have they done with it?" She glanced at the bare wall, and managed a smile. "Having no pictures up isn't really the end of the world, you know. It's been two years now, John. And if the man was wrong about a lot of things-and I think he was, and still do-he wasn't wrong about that. He may have screwed up around the fringes, but he didn't screw up at the core. Did he? Whatever else this new United States is and may become, at least it's nothing we or anybody else needs to be ashamed of. And-be honest, John-are you so sure you'd be able to say the same thing today, if you'd been running the show?"

He tried to say it, but… couldn't. Quite.

"Terror is a horrible thing, John," she said softly. "A monster, if it's set loose. Much less if it's whipped up. And I think, no matter how hard you tried, you wouldn't have been able to control it. Not after you'd done everything you could to ride terror into power. Which-to be blunt-is exactly what you tried to do."

Again, she wiped her face. "Yes, yes, me too. I'm not trying to put the blame on you, John. Just… oh, fuck it."

The profanity jolted him. Mary was usually fastidious in her use of words. More than anything, in fact, it had been Rita Stearns' unthinking use of profanity-and the way it seemed to have infected Tom-which had so instantly turned Mary's prejudice against their son's fiancйe into unyielding opposition to the marriage.

Suddenly, they were both laughing. Almost hysterically, in fact-Simpson himself as much as Mary. Some of that was his own relief at the realization that his marriage was going to survive. But as much-even Simpson could understand it-because the laughter would let him release all errors. Wash them away into the past, without ever actually having to come right out and…

Admit it.