possible, he would carry it back with him on the plane. Again he wished for a private jet.
“The town is getting carved up into sealed-off enclaves,” Kiefer went on. “Oldsters, mostly.”
Peterson nodded as Kiefer cited statistics for California, which was second only to Florida in percentage of old people. Since the foldup of the Social Security system, the Senior Movement lobby had been pressuring even harder for special privileges, tax breaks, and extra favors. Peterson was sure he knew more of the demographics than Kiefer; the Council had got a worldwide picture on them two years ago, including some confidential projections. Attaining the zero-population-growth birth rate had left the US and Europe with a bulge in the population curve, now hitting retirement age. They expected hefty monthly checks, which had to come from the reduced ranks of younger people through taxes. It led to an “entitlement syndrome.” The old felt they’d paid heavy taxes all along and then been put on the shelf before they could earn the immense salaries now going to junior executives. They were “entitled,” the Senior Movement argued, and society had damned well better cough up. The oldsters voted more often and with a sharper eye for self-interest. They had power. In California a gray head had become a symbol of political activism.
“—they don’t come out for weeks, with the spiffy televideo systems they buy. Saves ’em shopping or going to the bank or seeing anybody under sixty. They just do it all electronically. Kills the town, though. The oldest movie theater in La Jolla, the Unicorn, closed last month. Damned shame.”
Peterson nodded with a show of interest, still thinking about rearranging his schedule. The car swung into a steep driveway as the gate opened before it. They climbed up towards a long white house. Bastard Spanish, Peterson classified silently. Expensive, but without style. Kiefer parked in the carport and Peterson noticed bicycles and a wagon. Christ, children. If he had to share the dinner table with a crew of American brats—
It looked as though his fears were going to be realized when they were met at the door by two young boys jumping at Kiefer and both talking at once. Kiefer managed to quiet them down long enough to introduce them to Peterson. Both children then trained their attention on him. The older boy dispensed with preliminaries and asked directly, “Are you a scientist like my dad?” The younger fixed him with an unwinking stare, shifting from toot to foot in an irritating way. Of the two, he was potentially the noisier and more troublesome, Peterson decided. He knew the older boy’s type—earnest, talkative, opinionated, and nearly uncrushable.
“Not exactly,” he began, but was interrupted.
“My dad is studying diatoms in the ocean,” the boy said, dismissing Peterson. “It’s very important. I’m going to be a scientist too when I grow up but maybe an astronomer and David’s going to be an astronaut but he’s only five so he doesn’t really know. Would you like to see the model of the solar system I made for our science project?”
“No, no, Bill,” Kiefer answered hastily. “I know it’s very nice but Mr. Peterson doesn’t want to be bothered now. We’re going to have a drink and talk about grown-up things.” He led the way to the living room, followed by Peterson and the two boys. Kiefer would be the sort of parent who called adults “grown-ups,” Peterson thought drily.
“I can talk about grown-up things too,” Bill said indignantly.
“Yes, yes, of course you can. What I meant was, we’re going to talk about things that wouldn’t interest you. What’ll you have to drink? Can I offer you a whisky and soda, wine, tequila …?”
“How do you know they wouldn’t interest me, lots of things interest me,” the child persisted, before Peterson could answer. The situation was saved by a light, firm voice calling from another room. “Boys! Come here at once, please!” The two vanished without argument. Peterson stored for future use the verbal backhand he had been about to deal the older boy.
“I see you have some Pernod there. Could I have a Pernod and tequila, with a dash of lemon, if you please?”
“Jeez, what a mixture. Is it good? I don’t often drink hard liquor myself. Liver, y’know. Sit down, I’m pretty sure we have some lemon juice. My wife will know. Does that drink have a name or did you invent it?” Kiefer was acting erratically again.
“I believe it’s called a macho,” Peterson said wryly.