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Hagen left the limousine, climbed the steps to the porch furnished with old-fashioned rockers, and passed into a lobby filled with antique furniture clustered around a cozy fireplace containing a crackling log. In the dining room he was shown to a table by a girl dressed in colonial costume.
"Is Dean around?" he asked casually.
"Yes, sir," answered the girl brightly, "The Senator is in the kitchen. Would you like to see him?"
"I'd be grateful if he could spare me a few minutes."
"Would you like to see a menu in the meantime?"
"Yes, please."
Hagen scanned the menu and found the list of early American dishes to be quite tempting. But his mind didn't really dwell on food. Was it possible, he thought, that Dean Beagle was Senator Dean Porter, who once chaired the powerful Foreign Relations Committee and narrowly lost a presidential primary race to George McGovern? A member of the Senate for nearly thirty years, Porter had left an indelible mark on American politics before he had retired two years ago.
A baldheaded man in his late seventies walked through a swinging door from the kitchen, wiping his hands on the lower edge of an apron. An unimpressive figure with a grandfatherly face. He stopped at Hagen's table and looked down without expression. "You wish to see me?"
Hagen came to his feet. "Senator Porter."
"Yes.
"My name is Ira Hagen. I'm a restaurateur myself, specializing in American dishes, but not nearly as creative as your recipes."
"Leo told me you might walk through my door," Porter said bluntly.
"Won't you please sit down."
"You staying for dinner, Mr. Hagen?"
"That was my plan."
"Then permit me to offer you a bottle of local wine on the house."
"Thank you."
Porter called over his waitress and gave the order. Then he turned back to Hagen and looked him solidly in the eye. "How many of us have you tagged?"
"You make six," Hagen answered.
"You're lucky you didn't go to Houston. Leo had a reception committee waiting for you."
"Were you a member of the ìnner core' from the beginning, Senator?"
"I came on board in 1964 and helped set up the undercover financing."
"I compliment you on a first-rate job."
"You're working for the President, I take it."
"Correct."
"What does he intend to do with us?"
"Eventually hand out the honors you all so richly deserve. But his main concern is stopping your people on the moon from starting a war."
Porter paused when the waitress brought over a bottle of chilled white wine. He expertly pulled the cork and poured one glass. He took a large sip and swished the wine around in his mouth and nodded.
"Quite good." Then he filled Hagen's glass.
"Fifteen years ago, Mr. Hagen, our government made a stupid mistake and gave away our space technology in a sucker play that was heralded as àhandshake in space'. If you remember, it was a much publicized joint venture between American and Russian space programs that called for our Apollo astronauts to team up and meet with the Soyuz cosmonauts in orbit. I was against it from the beginning, but the event occurred during the détente years and my voice was only a cry in the wilderness. I didn't trust the Russians then and I don't trust them now. Their whole space program was built on political propaganda and damned little technical achievement. We exposed the Russians to American technology that was twenty years ahead of theirs. After all this time Soviet space hardware is still crap next to anything we've created. We blew four hundred million dollars on a scientific giveaway. The fact we kissed the Russians' asses while they reamed ours only proves Barnum's moral about òne born every minute.' I made up my mind to never let it happen again. That's why I won't stand dumb and let the Russians steal the fruits of the Jersey Colony. If they were technically superior to us, there is no doubt in my mind they would bar us from the moon."
