The Last Theorem - Arthur Charles Clarke [152]
Lips pursed in concern, Myra reread the saddening words. Surash himself had called to tell them that he would have to have another procedure, but he had made it sound like the approximate equivalent of a tonsillectomy. This text sounded a good deal more serious. She sighed and turned to the next one—
And scowled. This one was addressed to Ranjit personally. It came from Orion Bledsoe, and what it said was, “This is to remind you of the obligations under the Uniform Military Service Act of 2014 of the American citizen Natasha de Soyza Subramanian. She may report to any U.S. army installation for the purpose of evaluation. This must be done within the next eight days or penalties will be incurred.”
It was too late to catch Natasha to tell her about this new proposal for her life’s career. Ranjit, however, was within shouting range, and when Myra had got him off the phone and handed him the message, he said, “Huh!” And then, to clarify his meaning, “Hell!”
So now the Subramanian family had a new and totally unexpected set of worries. It had never occurred to either Ranjit or Myra that the geographic fact of their daughter’s birth on American soil had ever given America any right to commandeer her services. There was one clear step to be taken, and they took it.
When Ranjit urgently sought help from Gamini Bandara, his old friend put him on hold for a moment, and then, with apologies, for a much longer period.
When he came back, though, he sounded less worried. “Ranjit?” he said. “You’re still there. Good. Well, I’ve spoken to my father and he’s already on the phone with his legal people. He wants you to come down here.” He paused for a moment, and when he went on, he sounded almost embarrassed. “The problem is that slimeball Bledsoe. We need to talk about him, Ranj. Dad’ll send a plane for you. Bring Myra. And Natasha. And, oh, hell, Robert, for that matter. We’ll be waiting.”
The plane that arrived for them that evening wasn’t anywhere nearly as big as the one that had rescued Ranjit from rendition. It had only one stewardess, and she was nowhere near as pretty as the others, but it did have something unexpected, though. It had an old friend, standing in the doorway to welcome them. Myra looked at him twice, and then broke into a smile. “Dr. De Saram, what a nice surprise!”
Nigel De Saram, the man who had once been Ranjit’s lawyer, now President Bandara’s secretary of state, submitted to a hug, and then waved everyone to the seats that surrounded a long table. “We’ll talk on the way,” he said, strapping himself in. While the plane was racing down the takeoff strip, he read the text Myra had brought for him, and by the time they were approaching cruising altitude, he was ready. He turned to Natasha. “I believe what must be done is clear; I accessed all the U.S. law and court decisions that bear on this matter while I was on the way down. The first thing for you to do is renounce American citizenship; the papers should be drawn up by my office by the time we arrive. It would be better if you’d done it years ago, of course,” he added. “My fault for not making sure you did.”
“Then that’s all we have to do to settle this?” Ranjit asked incredulously. If the mightiest power on Earth was trying to put his daughter into its uniform, he was not prepared to take chances.
The old lawyer looked shocked. “Of course not! It just means the whole matter gets fought out in the American courts. But that will take years, and—I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention—there’s a presidential election coming up in America. It looks like the present administration isn’t likely to win. I’m hoping the next one won’t have quite the same policies. Meanwhile, you should stay out of America,