Windmills of the Gods

‘Yes,’ Mary said. ‘Would you please give the President a message for me?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Would you please tell him that I’m very, very flattered by his offer, but my husband’s profession ties him down here, so I’m afraid it would be impossible for me to accept. I hope he understands.’

‘I’ll pass on your message,’ the voice said non-committally. ‘Thank you, Mrs Ashley.’ The line went dead.

Mary slowly replaced the receiver. It was done. For one brief moment, a tantalizing dream had been offered her. But that was all it was. A dream. This is my real world. I’d better get ready for my fourth period history class.

Manama, Bahrain

The whitewashed stone house was anonymous, hidden among dozens of identical houses, a short walk from the souks, the large, colourful outdoor markets. It was owned by a merchant sympathetic to the cause of the organization known as the Patriots for Freedom.

‘We will need it for only one day,’ a voice over the telephone told him.

It was arranged. Now the chairman was speaking to the men gathered in the living room.

‘A problem has arisen,’ the chairman said. ‘The motion that was recently passed has run into difficulty.’

‘What sort of difficulty?’ Balder asked.

‘The go-between we selected – Harry Lantz – is dead.’

‘Dead? Dead, how?’

‘He was murdered. His body was found floating in the harbour in Buenos Aires.’

‘Do the police have any idea who did it? I mean – can they connect this to us in any way?’

‘No. We’re perfectly safe.’

Thor asked, ‘What about our plan? Can we go ahead with it?’

‘Not at the moment. We have no idea how to reach Angel. However, the Controller gave Harry Lantz permission to reveal his name to him. If Angel is interested in our proposition, he will find a way to get in touch with him. All we can do now is wait.’

The banner headline in the Junction City Daily Union read: JUNCTION CITY’S MARY ASHLEY DECLINES AMBASSADORSHIP.

There was a two-column story about Mary, and a photograph of her. On KJCK, the afternoon and evening broadcasts carried feature stories on the town’s new celebrity. The fact that Mary Ashley had rejected the President’s offer made the story even bigger than if she had accepted it. In the eyes of its proud citizens, Junction City, Kansas, was a lot more important than Bucharest, Romania.

When Mary Ashley drove into town to shop for dinner, she kept hearing her name on the car radio.

‘… Earlier, President Ellison had announced that the ambassadorship to Romania would be the beginning of his people-to-people programme, the cornerstone of his foreign policy. How Mary Ashley’s refusal to accept the post will reflect on –’

She switched to another station.

‘… is married to Dr Edward Ashley, and it is believed that –’

Mary switched off the radio. She had received at least three dozen phone calls that morning from friends, neighbours, students and curious strangers. Reporters had called from as far away as London and Tokyo. They’re building this up all out ofproportion, Mary thought. It’s not my fault that the President decided to base the success of his foreign policy on Romania. I wonder how long this pandemonium is going to last? It will probably be over in a day or two.

She drove the station wagon into a Derby gas station and pulled up in front of the self-service pump.

As Mary got out of the car, Mr Blount, the station manager, hurried over to her. ‘Mornin’, Mrs Ashley. An ambassador lady ain’t got no call to be pumpin’ her own gas. Let me give you a hand.’

Mary smiled. ‘Thanks. I’m used to doing it.’

‘No, no. I insist.’

When the tank was filled, Mary drove down Washington Street and parked in front of the Shoe Box.

‘Mornin’, Mrs Ashley,’ the clerk greeted her. ‘How’s the ambassador this mornin’?’

This is going to get tiresome, Mary thought. Aloud, she said, ‘I’m not an ambassador, but I’m fine, thank you.’ She handed him a pair of shoes. ‘I’d like to have Tim’s shoes re-soled.’

The clerk examined them. ‘Ain’t these the ones we did last week?’

Mary sighed. ‘And the week before.’

Mary’s next stop was at Long’s Department Store. Mrs Hacker, the manager of the dress department, said to her, ‘I jest heard your name on the radio. You’re puttin’ Junction City on the map. Yes, sir. I guess you and Eisenhower and Alf Landon are Kansas’ only political big shots, Mrs Ambassador.’

‘I’m not an ambassador,’ Mary said patiently. ‘I turned it down.’

‘That’s what I mean.’

It was no use. Mary said, ‘I need some jeans for Beth. Preferably something in iron.’

‘How old is Beth now? About ten?’

‘She’s twelve.’

‘Land’s sake, they grow so fast these days, don’t they? She’ll be a teenager before you know it.’

‘Beth was born a teenager, Mrs Hacker.’

‘How’s Tim?’

‘He’s a lot like Beth.’

The shopping took Mary twice as long as usual. Everyone had some comment to make about the big news. She went into Dillon’s to buy some groceries, and was studying the shelves when Mrs Dillon approached.

‘Mornin’, Mrs Ashley.’

‘Good morning, Mrs Dillon. Do you have a breakfast food that has nothing in it?’

‘What?’

Mary consulted a list in her hand. ‘No artificial sweeteners, no sodium, fats, carbohydrates, caffeine, caramel colouring, folic acid or flavourites.’

Mrs Dillon studied the paper. ‘Is this some kind of medical experiment?’