For the next few months, the P-Seventeen program began a new routine.
Every Monday, Harold To-kamra, chief editor of Po Publications, arrived at eleven thirty, at which time the security lamp was switched off. He shared the publicity ads that had recently appeared in newspapers and magazines, and on radio and television. Most team members had already seen or heard each one, but they knew he took great comfort in making his report.
He also shared the latest sales figures. At first he could only claim, with a cringe, that a few hundred copies had sold. In March, when the print and radio ads began to appear, the numbers quickly climbed into the thousands.
April brought General Bo-seklin’s first televised interview, and the sales shot into the tens of thousands.
Harold was honored to accept their invitation, every Monday, to stay for lunch and talk to the military and academic people who were attempting to keep his grandchildren from starving in the not-too-distant future. Although he had no hopes of getting the security clearances needed to actually be on the team, for the first time in his life he was filled with a sense of purpose, a warm feeling that no job or business deal, however profitable, had ever given him.
One or two days a week, Heather went back to revealing and analyzing minor events later that century or early the following century. The entire team, both professors and officers, listened respectfully and asked appropriate questions, but just couldn’t find much excitement in the topics, considering
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the much-larger issue that was never far from their thoughts.
The rest of the sessions were devoted to the scientific-journal and popular-magazine articles the team continued to endorse. With the publication of previous articles, and the book itself, the number of manuscripts was increasing rapidly. Some were finding publication on their own, and others were poorly-written, but a few good ones still needed the team’s help to get into print.
Generals Bo-seklin and Ko-fenral arrived at Po Publication’s small video studio, in full dress uniforms, a little unsure of themselves. For the first time, the chief editor wanted them to do a televised endorsement together, without a host putting questions to them. It was an experiment, he admitted, but he had high hopes that it would speak well to the common people.
“Good morning, Sam.”
“How are you, Malcolm?”
“Nervous, but I guess the television cameras might have something to do with that.”
General Bo-seklin smiled. “How did we get into this awkward situation?”
“As I remember, it started almost eight years ago when I handed you the task of looking as far into the future as available methods would allow.”
“You, as my superior, let me run with it, as neither of us had much hope for the project.”
“That changed quickly, when our research about the future started having a better track record than some newspapers reporting on the past! ”
“That was an eye-opener. So when we discovered, three years ago, that we were staring at a future no one wanted . . .”
“And a team of respected professors was checking us at every step . . .”
“And then we discovered that an international group of scientists had arrived at a similar conclusion without any knowledge of our work . . .”
The two generals might have been a little embarrassed, but the rest of the team glowed with pride as the video was played on a small television, placed in front of the blackboard, on a Friday morning in early May.
Heather, in the back row with Susan, knew her name could never be
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mentioned in any of the endorsements. She was quite happy only stepping into the spotlight at the skating rink and the teen dance club, and here in this top-secret facility — all places she was known and respected.
But as the video ended and she returned to the front to lead her team, she had the nagging feeling that she would not always be able to avoid that larger spotlight, the one where people were watching who didn’t know her, nor respect her.
In late May, the team returned from vacation and voted to endorse two scholarly articles and one popular magazine piece, but rejected another in which the author had slipped in his own political agenda.
“The security lamp is off,” Heather began after a short break when the blind transport arrived, “and our favorite chief editor appears, by the look on his face, to have just won the jackpot. Harold, you have the floor.”
“Okay, I’ll admit that I’ve gotten some very nice bonuses recently . . .”
The entire team chuckled.
“But
I’m
most happy to announce that the tenth printing of our beloved book has just been shipped, and it includes the millionth copy!”
The room broke into cheers and clapping, so Harold To-kamra opened a large envelope and pulled out one of the books. Eventually the joyful noise tapered off and allowed him to speak.
“There’s no way to know exactly which book is the millionth, of course, but I wrote the number one million inside six copies — four for the authors, one for you, and one for me. Perhaps you could get the authors to sign yours —
and mine — next time they visit.”
Nods assured him they would do that.
“I have no doubt we will sell out the tenth printing this summer, and there will be an eleventh printing . . .”
Cheers again greeted his announcement.
“There’s
more!”
They chuckled or grinned with expectant faces.
“We have arranged translations into five other languages, three of which the authors can check for accuracy themselves.”
More clapping greeted his announcement.
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“Also, we are starting to receive derivative manuscripts. Some are just copy-cats, and some are poorly-written, but I’ve picked the best five, and would appreciate opinions, even if the team doesn’t want to actually endorse them.”
Several of the professors waved their hands, eager to read them, and Colonel Ma-soran jotted down those names.
Harold took that moment to bask in the privilege of standing before such an elite group. “In publicity, it’s always difficult to know which of your efforts are paying off. I want to give you my analysis that all of our methods are working and should be continued, but the most valuable are the no-host video ads by the two generals, which were clearly responsible for pushing book sales into the hundreds of thousands.”
The cheering and clapping caused Sam and Malcolm to squirm, and Heather used that moment to stand and present the chief editor with another cashier’s check.
It was Harold’s turn to be embarrassed, and he shuffled his feet like a bashful schoolboy as Heather stood near, clapping and grinning at him.
Eventually the applause died down, Harold took his seat, and Maria looked out to see if they were ever going to get hungry.