The speech had begun more than four months before Logan Styles's ascent into the heavens.

On Wednesday, the second of June, his limousine entered Falcon stadium and circled the playing field twice. He stood erect in the back, stretched to his full five-nine height to wave high at the audience. The wind caressed a weather-beaten face of more than sixty years age, and teased at short gray hair. Light glinted from his glasses, and he basked in the warmth of both the applause and the sun. The audience was cheerful. On a sunny Colorado morning unusually free of smog, these people had reason to be happy: their sons and daughters, friends and lovers, were graduating.

From the speaker's platform in the center of the playing field, Logan surveyed his surroundings. Nine hundred and sixty-three cadets of the graduating class of the United States Air Force Academy sat resplendent before him in crisp blue and white parade uniforms trimmed with yellow sashes. Their metal folding chairs were arrayed in precision formation, rank and file, across the grass. Centered behind them in the stands was a large, living blue rectangle -- the remaining undergraduates of the cadet wing -- and surrounding that jostling blue mass were parents, relatives, and friends of the graduates.

A double layer of high-strength plastic -- "bullet-proof glass" -- ran around the perimeter of the large speaker's platform upon which Logan stood. Between him and the graduates were a few dozen burly, silver helmeted military policemen standing in a row at parade rest. Between the graduates and the stands stood two hundred Crowd Control Agents evenly spaced in rows facing the audience, each cradling (almost demurely) the ugly little machine pistol that was the hallmark of the Agency. A fleet of ambulances clustered around a large medical field tent in a far corner of the field. Five gunship helicopters whup-whupped discreetly outside the perimeter of Falcon stadium over the heads of three thousand soldiers bussed in from Fort Carson during the early hours before daylight. Three four-ship formations of F-27 fighters with Sidewinders and "hot" twenty millimeter guns orbited a few miles away.

"I feel very safe here." Logan addressed the audience in Falcon Stadium in a humorous tone, gesturing toward the phalanx of Crowd Control Agents. "Very warm and snug. How about you?"

The question was rhetorical, so he was surprised when the cadet wing -- graduates and all -- responded with a startlingly coordinated "Yes Sir!" He beamed as laughter rippled through the audience.

A man strolled nonchalantly along the sidelines, coming in from the periphery of Logan's vision.

"Members of the graduating class; Ladies and Gentlemen --", the speech had begun. No mention of "Distinguished Guests". John Davies, in his press-secretarial mother hen mode, had called attention to the omission during the rehearsal the previous night. "If I thought they were distinguished, I'd say so," Logan had replied. "The bastards should consider it a privilege being lumped in with the Ladies and Gentlemen."

One of the "undistinguished" guests seated in a short row of chairs on the platform behind him was General Grant "Gunny" Gunderson. Perfect military name, Logan thought. Upright, red-blooded name. Stodgy, conservative, rigid, unyielding. Perfect for the Chief of Staff of the Armed Forces. "He's way too political," Logan had told John. "Wants my job. We're gonna have a run-in real soon, and he's gonna lose."

Representative Arnold "Hap" Stansfield, of Colorado, was there. Speaker of the House Stansfield. Next-in-line-of-succession-to-the-President-after-the-Vice-President Stansfield. Another perfect name, Logan thought. Fine, upstanding, dignified, respectable, high-priced, sold to the highest bidder. "He's strong on the military, John, because that's where the money is. He'd sell his soul for the right price, then take an option to buy it back if he thought he could make a profit."

In Logan's mind the least undistinguished guest was the Secretary of Defense. Arthur Eastman hadn't been his first choice; not even second or third, but he had been on the list. He was in the other party, and the nomination had sealed a political deal -- a horse-swap.

They think they know what I'll say, thought Logan. They're gonna be surprised. And unhappy.

John had tried to talk him out of the speech.

"We got to make this thing fly, John," Logan had responded in a reasoned, folksy southern accent. "Got to soar like an eagle, not poop like a pigeon. We can't afford to have it start off as second page news."

"Jesus Christ! You nearly got blown away just two days ago," John had answered. "You nearly became the third president this decade to be assassinated. That's the front page news! That puts this speech on the back page of the sports section for at least another week. Let's wait a few days until things calm down a little."

A body crunching concussion and a vision of red mist had played quickly through Logan's mind. Then he'd frowned, and his language had shifted from the southern drawl to knife-edged precision: "Let me make myself clear, Junior. This has to go tomorrow, and it has to go good. It's the right event, the right audience. We won't get this setting again. And besides, we've kept a lid on the program so long, I don't know why it hasn't hemorrhaged and bled to death already."

The man wore a white -- no -- a cream colored suit, and he ambled slowly along the sidelines between the Crowd Control Agents and the stands.

"Members of the graduating class; Ladies and Gentlemen --" the speech had begun. Logan told a lawyer joke, related a personal anecdote about his granddaughter, and made a whimsically philosophical observation about the mating rituals of oysters.

"Since I told a lawyer joke, to be fair I ought to tell one about engineers." Logan winked. "But I respect them too much." The audience groaned in collective good humor.

"I used to be an engineer a long time ago," he spoke toward the graduates. "You folks know a little about engineering, don't you?"

"Yes Sir!" the cadets responded.

Logan smiled broadly. "There's that echo again. Let's just twiddle with it. Do you guys -- and girls -- know something about engineering?"

"Yes Sir!"

"I thought I heard that. This is fun. Let's see now -- Don't you folks think I ought to double your pay?"

"Yes Sir!"

"I thought so again. Say, wait a minute. That's three yesses in a row. Now you-all aren't 'yes' men are you?"

"No Sir!"

"I thought not. Excellent. Well I'm going to see if I can't replace that bunch of wimps in Congress with you." He turned and smiled toward Stansfield on the platform behind him, then returned to the graduates. "I can see you don't piddle around when it comes to decisions."

Logan bantered with the graduates for another minute to the amusement of the audience, and then it was time to approach the subject.

Space! That's the subject, Logan thought. Renewal of the American spirit, new reason to be proud.

Logan sipped thoughtfully at his water.

"The future is all we have to look forward to," he said, with angelic innocence and twinkling eye.

It took a few seconds for the audience to respond with laughter.

"I only meant that half in jest," Logan smiled. "The future is very important to us, but right now our future looks dim because we're in a depression."

The light mood of the crowd began to evaporate at that moment, decaying over the next several minutes into a restive, almost surly attentiveness.

"It's no fun being in a depression. People can't work, they don't get enough to eat, their families suffer mightily. Some call this World Depression Two. Second time this century -- two World Wars, two World Depressions."

Terrorism was rampant. The country was fragmenting into a hundred diverse interests with hard, sharp borders. In this penultimate year of the Twentieth century, the country was dying, coming apart at the joints for lack of commonweal and common interest, and it was Logan's job to hold it together. No! More than hold it together -- to make it whole, to give it life again, to restore its soul.

Some knew how to hold it together. Some knew how to restore its soul. As America's enemies multiplied both at home and abroad (so it was said earnestly in the corridors of the Pentagon and echoed loudly in the hearing rooms of Congress), so had the military budget soared again to meet the threat after years of decline.

"I will not allow the military establishment to define the goals of this nation," Logan began, belligerently. A murmur filled the stadium. ("That's a hostile place to be making that kind of statement," John had warned.) "We are in danger of abandoning our future to an unrelieved obsession with force of arms." The murmur swelled. "It is not the function of the military to define the goals of this nation," Logan repeated defiantly, beating cadence against the podium with the edge of his open palm. "It is the function of the military to serve!"

He had their full attention.

But it was a negative attention. He had to make it positive.

Logan began. Gradually he unfolded the plan that had grown quietly, secretly over the past year, shared and shaped by a carefully selected group of friends and advisors.

There were two Nobel prize winners, several leaders from Congress from both parties (Stansfield was not among them), half-a-dozen luminaries of academia, a smattering of Secretaries (Eastman was not among them), a down-to-earth business leader whose imagination roamed the universe, two four-star generals (Gunderson was not among them), and a handful of the obligatory economists.

No more, or the leaks would be prodigious!

They all shared an idea. They had infected Logan with this meme, this vision of the future of the country in space ...

... or had it been the other way around, had he infected them?

Either way, they were sold: There must be a technological revolution, led by the quest for a new frontier. There must be a common, overarching goal that unites the country, and that goal would be the investment of America's future in space. In transportation to and from it. In manufacturing, in communications, in research and the sciences, in infrastructure, in ...

America, with its technological advantage, would sail and dominate the ocean of the future.

And now Logan sold his dream to the public for the first time, ignoring the cloud of undistinguishability brooding in the short row of seats behind him. He modulated his words with love and care, massaging and caressing the listeners with gentle hand and sweet reason. He cajoled, he inspired, he motivated. Here was his element. Here was the Convincer, the Advocate, a man who could sell a double-breasted suit to a door-to-door salesman. He was a fisherman with a great fish on the hook, and he played the line with care, hauling in and letting out, a serious story here, a joke there, hauling in again, and he brought the mood of the audience up from darkness, and it was good -- the audience swayed towards and away and towards again, and suddenly they were WITH him.

And the man in the cream suit wandered slowly up the sidelines.

How long has he been there? Logan wondered, suddenly realizing that he had unconsciously tracked this individual throughout the speech. The stranger sauntered past the agents, hands clasped comfortably behind his back, a lock of dark blond hair dangling down his forehead.

"It is the function of the military to serve this country, and you shall serve, "Logan said, pointing toward the graduates. "You shall help your country to sail upon a new sea."

He laid out his plans, the nostrum for an ailing, soulless nation. Space was the recipe that would lift the American spirit, and these cadets, fledgling Lieutenants, would play a part. "Half of your ranks," he announced, " -- half of you and your colleagues at West Point and Annapolis -- will be allowed and encouraged to exchange your military obligation for service in a new department of government which will be devoted to the preeminence of America in space. You will help to form its lifeblood of youthful ideas and attitudes."

This stirred a commotion which intensified when Logan added, "The new Department of Space and Technological Development will require an immediate massive infusion of competence and talent. I propose to supply an additional part of those resources by allowing ten percent of all military personnel across the board to volunteer for service in that department."

There. The nugget was out. A battle, which Logan knew would be the political fight of his life, was soon to be joined. Meanwhile, the relatives and friends of the graduates nodded in sympathetic understanding; he had them on his side. The jostling blue rectangle of undergraduates jostled ever more enthusiastically, and the graduates buzzed among themselves. Almost unnoticed, however, was the dark-bellied cloud of disapproval billowing from the seats behind Logan.

Why don't they challenge him? The stranger walked closely along the rows of agents, he even stopped to adjust the lapel of one of them (tug up, tug left, smooth), yet they seemed not to notice, continuing the scan, scan, scanning of the crowd above without ever sensing the anomaly amongst them. The stranger walked through their ranks to stand insouciantly behind the chairs of the last row of graduates, cocking an inscrutable -- no, an impish face up toward Logan.

There were two vital codicils to add to the main announcement, but Logan worked around the edges for a few minutes until he sensed the time was right.

"To sail implies a destination. Where are we going in this new ocean? What is the destination that gives meaning to the voyage?" He smiled and lapsed into his folksy drawl. "In plain words, where's the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?"

And then he told them. Against the advice of advisors, against the wisdom of wise men, against the votes of those who counseled, "Wait a little. Too much, too soon, too far." He told them of exploration and settlement because he was himself an explorer and adventurer at origin, the Viking's blood running through his veins.

"I announce today a project to keep us focused on the future. Project Down Payment will establish a manned outpost on the planet Mars as a prelude to an eventual permanent colony there. I intend, with the help of Congress, to set the machinery in motion to get us there within my lifetime."

And then he added:

"To demonstrate my absolute commitment to our future in space, I'm going to take a little trip this fall, and I hope you-all will come down to see me off. This October I will depart from Florida aboard the Space Shuttle Kennedy. Just as there was a first president to travel by airplane, I will be your first president to visit space."

Logan looked toward the stranger again. The man was gone.

"You didn't notice him, John? He was strutting around down there like a goddamned majorette."

"No. Probably one of the agents."

Air whispered along the outer skin of Logan's office as Air Force One made gentle turns, picking its easterly way between towering thunderheads blossoming in a line above Kansas City. He sipped a Martini at his desk and read the press clippings that Lois Sattari, his secretary, had brought along.

"They liked it," he chuckled, snapping one of the clippings with his finger. "Most of 'em."

"It was a good speech," John said. "Nobody could have done it better."

Logan smiled slyly at Lois. "Did any of the ladies weep?" he joked. "You know it's serious when the ladies get emotional."

"Well, I felt a little like weeping," Lois followed his lead.

He reached across and patted the young woman's hand. "That bad, huh?"

"Oh, no, I didn't mean ..."

"That's all right, Lovey." The laughter came out of his throat like gravel. "Somebody my age, I'm grateful to make the ladies cry for any reason at all, especially when they're pretty as you."

Logan dropped the clippings carelessly on his desk and leaned back in his chair. "Speaking of the ladies, John, have you gotten any reaction from your mother? She hasn't been too happy about the program all along."

"Well --" John hesitated. "She was on the phone about an hour ago. Wants to talk to you right away."

"Put her off just a couple of days, would you, John, and while you're at it, see if you can't soften her up? Run a little interference for me."

"Yes sir," John grinned, "but don't expect too much."