by Allen Drury
“That didn’t stop him in New Hampshire,” Orrin couldn’t resist pointing out.
The President, for him, looked quite pugnacious.
“And he got soundly licked, and you too, didn’t you?”
Orrin grinned and nodded.
“I still wouldn’t put it past him to try.... Tell me,” he said, changing the subject as he saw the thought beginning to sink into the President’s mind, easygoing and good-natured on most things but, like all Presidents’ minds, touchy and self-defensive when it came to the protection of his own position, “are there any last-minute instructions you want me to give Cullee and Lafe at the UN before tomorrow’s Security Council session? I’m planning to call them around nine tonight at the Waldorf. They’re attending a party Selena Jason Castleberry’s giving for Prince Obifumatta and the People’s Free Republic of Gorotoland.”
“Oh, dear,” the President said with a relieved, humorous expression, diverted from perhaps being forced into a political decision that might cause hurt to someone if it arrived too soon, “oh, my! So Selena’s stepping in, is she? If it isn’t the Jasons we have to worry about, it’s their cousins and their uncles and their aunts.”
“Selena’s doing her bit,” Orrin said. “I understand half the UN and half of New York are there.”
“Except His Royal Highness Prince Terry the M’Bulu of Mbuele,” the President said with a grim little smile.
“Terry is finding out what it means to be the darling of a certain segment of America,” the Secretary said. “It means you’re a darling today and damned tomorrow.”
“It couldn’t happen to a more deserving fellow,” the President said, remembering the high and mighty way Terry had acted on his visit six months ago which had stirred up so much trouble, and recalling also the talk he and Orrin had held with him in this very room, in the midst of it. “But,” he added as other implications came to mind, “still not a pleasant matter for us.”
“No, indeed,” the Secretary said. “He is the legitimate government, and we can’t let the Communists get in there. So there we are.”
“Give Cullee and Lafe my best,” the President said. “They know what I have in mind, if necessary.”
“They know,” Orrin said thoughtfully. “It would be a sensation, right enough. And not on a very major issue. But—” he shrugged. “It’s all major. There aren’t any minor issues these days. The world turns on every one, for all we know, so we have to proceed on that basis, since the Communists force us to.” He sighed. “I’ll call you if the boys have anything startlingly new to report.”
“I doubt if they will. Personally, I’m going to bed early. I’d suggest you do the same.”
“I’ll try,” Orrin said. He was unable to resist a parting shot. “I hope you have a good talk with Ted, whenever it happens, and manage to impress him with the gravities as well as the honors of the office.”
“I look forward to it,” the President said with what, for him, was a surprisingly mischievous little smile. “I may not make you squirm, Orrin, but I think it would be rather fun with Ted.”
“Yes,” the Secretary said dryly. “If what you’ve just done was not make me squirm, then I really feel sorry for Ted. And causing me to feel that, I might add, is quite an achievement.”
The President laughed.
“My love to Beth.”
“Always,” the Secretary said.
It was with an odd mixture of amusement, anger, frustration, and hopelessness that Orrin sat back against the cushions as the driver of his official department limousine guided it slowly over the hushed and slippery streets toward Spring Valley. Very few cars were out, there was only the occasional sound of chains slapping against fenders or the soft susurrus of snow tires creeping cautiously by in the ghostly avenues to break the white silence that held the city. It was one of those curiously deserted and exposed moments in Washington when the past for some reason seems very close, when the figures of complicated Tom Jefferson in his study, or Andy Jackson on a horse, or Abe Lincoln stalking thoughtfully along with his cape pulled tight against the cold, come easily to mind; in which it seems that anything—or everything—might happen.
Or nothing, the Secretary of State told himself wryly. Apparently, as far as the President was concerned, nothing. It had been a good many months since he had seen Harley Hudson so irresolute. This was almost the old Harley, the one who had been a timorous and worried Vice President until the sudden death of his vigorous predecessor had plunged him abruptly into the center of the world’s events. After that, Harley had not been irresolute—until now. The irresolution was understandable enough to other men of power. The President had power and he didn’t want to give it up: felt, morally, that he should; felt, intellectually, that he could not; knew, actually, that it was entirely up to him and that no one could force him one way or the other; and so was caught on the points of conscience and duty and dilemma in a way that probably made it quite literally impossible for him at this moment to do anything. He had said he wanted a sign, Orrin remembered wryly, while the car skidded slightly at 23rd and Massachusetts Avenue as it swung around Sheridan Circle, and then steadied itself and crept carefully up Embassy Row. Well, Orrin had tried to give him one—it couldn’t have been any clearer if he had walked up and down Pennsylvania Avenue outside the White House gates carrying a sign that said FOR GOD’S SAKE GIVE SOMEBODY ELSE A CHANCE. But the President, he knew, had to move in his own good time, though every day, seemingly, made it more difficult for him to move in the direction Orrin and Ted Jason wanted him to.
Actually there was every evidence that he wanted to run again. He had permitted his name to go into the New Hampshire primary and had soundly trounced both Orrin and Ted, each of whom had maintained that their backers had acted without their permission. Of course the President had maintained the same thing, and undoubtedly each of the three had been convinced that his own desire to remain aloof had been quite genuine. Nonetheless, there they all were in the contest, and the President had won by a landslide. Then he had again permitted his name to go into the Wisconsin primary—this time, by dint of vehement insistence and threats of all sorts of dire reprisals against their overeager lieutenants, both Orrin and Ted had managed to stay out and give him a clear field—and again he had won by a landslide.
Meanwhile at his press conferences he had played a game of half-answer and jocular sidestep worthy of his predecessor at his peak. Nobody had pinned him down yet, though many skilled people had tried. And always, for the record, he had firmly and without equivocation reiterated the statement he had made to the Senate the day after his succession a year ago: he would not be a candidate for re-election.
With this combination of noble purpose on the one hand and political flirtation on the other, he had successfully kept the matter in his own hands, and had, as Orrin told him, paralyzed the two potential contenders who were so anxious to succeed him. The Secretary of State, who was certainly not one to be let alone by Walter Dobius and his world in such a personally embarrassing situation, found himself subjected to a constant barrage of questioning whenever he exposed himself to the press, be it at formal press conference or in one of those hurried running interrogatories that always accompany the arrival and departure of a Secretary of State before the committees of the Congress.
This was an old game, and both he and his questioners played it with a certain humor; but the constant necessity to deny his own ambitions and maintain with a straight face that he saw no evidence of the President’s would sometimes bring him home to the rambling house in Spring Valley in little mood for jovial chitchat. This put an extra burden on Beth, but fortunately her long experience as an old campaigner’s wife usually came to the rescue in time.
The more he thought about it now, as the limousine crossed Wisconsin Avenue, passed Ward Circle, and made the final run into Spring Valley, the less patient and less tolerant he felt about the President. Harley was obviously about to be confronted by a major démarche on the p
art of the Jasons in this speech by Walter Dobius, a dramatic rallying behind Ted of all the psychological and actual forces Walter could command. The President could still act, but apparently he was unable to see that his area of action would inevitably be restricted to some degree as soon as all of Walter’s friends and supporters came out on Saturday with their columns and editorials, their news reports and their special television and radio playbacks that would, the Secretary knew, flood the country over the weekend. A massive barrage of public opinion, a heavy psychological climate, would immediately be formed in the wake of Walter’s speech. The longer the President waited the more difficult it would be for him to escape its oppressive and hampering confines.
As for his own position, the Secretary decided as the car drew up at his door and he bade the driver good night with wishes for a safe journey back downtown, it inevitably would have to be just what he had told Beth earlier in the day. He would have to announce his own candidacy, whether the President liked it or not, and he would have to plunge immediately into his campaign. He had a reasonably good organization in most of the states, party leaders who had supported him twice before in his unsuccessful tries for the nomination and had given active indication they would again. He had a modest amount of money and a few substantially moneyed backers. He had his name and his record. He had Beth. He had himself. He was not afraid of the future, but as he stamped the snow from his boots and removed them, then hung his coat in the hall closet and went along to the comfortable living room where he knew she would be reading in front of the fire, he could have wished that it were arriving a little more on his terms.
“Well,” she said, closing the book (New Myths and Old Realities, by one of Walter’s more outspoken competitors in the great seesaw of American opinion) and looking up with a smile, “how did it go?”
“He wants to run, but he wants someone to tell him to.”
“And did you?”
The Secretary made a quizzical sound. “I certainly did.”
“And is he?”
He shook his head in an impatient way.
“Oh, of course not. It will have to be done over and over, and all the while he’ll be inching closer and closer. Suddenly one day he’ll find himself in it.” He frowned. “Meanwhile, Walter will have made his speech and Ted will be running and I will be running. It will all end up in a very embarrassing tangle. But that’s what happens when you have conscience in the White House. The White House always wins, but conscience has to have its day.”
“I’m sure he has other motives than just ego,” Beth said, and the Secretary nodded quickly.
“Oh, certainly. I’m not denying Harley’s integrity or good heart. But—it puts me on the spot, right enough.”
“All right, then,” she said briskly, “when do we hit the road?” He gave her a humorously grateful smile and immediately looked more relaxed.
“Hank,” he said, “I think you’re more bloodthirsty about this than I am. When do you want to hit the road?”
“It would be a little premature before Walter’s speech, wouldn’t it? He called, by the way. He wants you to call him.”
“Oh?” Orrin Knox said. A definite interest came into his tone. “Where is he, Leesburg?”
“Out there in the snow,” Beth said with a smile, “spinning his little webs. Probably just putting the finishing touches on his speech for Ted. Why don’t you interrupt him?”
“Oh, I will,” her husband said. “I will. I just wonder what prompts this sudden contact, that’s all.”
“Go find out,” she suggested. “He won’t bite.”
He chuckled.
“Maybe I’ll bite him.”
She smiled.
“I’m sure. But try to find out what’s on his mind, at least.”
For the first few moments of their conversation, however, this remained a mystery to the Secretary. For his part, Walter Dobius was not in any hurry to enlighten. An intriguing thought had hit him in the midst of his writing, he had taken up the telephone and acted upon it at once. Beth Knox had been surprised and puzzled and had not made any attempt to sound particularly pleased, though he knew she must be at this show of interest from one whom the Knoxes, he was sure, regarded as an enemy. It pleased him to play the part of unsuspected friend now, particularly in the cause of so shrewd a jest. He had not believed Beth when she said the Secretary was out. He could imagine their fear of him, their puzzled concern, their worried discussion, their pleased conclusion that he must be leaning toward Orrin and so, finally, the Secretary’s decision to call back. It all lent an extra edge of confidence to his voice, the unctuously kindly and patronizing note that was, though he did not know it, among his most infuriating characteristics to those who were not quite as overawed by Walter Wonderful as Walter Wonderful sometimes supposed.
At first, however, the Secretary managed to conceal this. His own tone was politely interested and quite correct.
“It’s always good to hear from you, Walter. How’s the snow out your way? Pretty heavy?”
“About six or seven inches, I’d say. I’ll have a devil of a time getting in to catch my plane to New York tomorrow.”
“Oh, are you going?”
“Yes. I was planning to go up to the UN to see Prince Terry and his cousin—”
“Not together, I hope,” Orrin interrupted. Walter uttered a cordial, knowing little laugh.
“Hardly. Also, Vasily Tashikov called and invited me to lunch, and so all in all—I really hope I can get up there. It should be very interesting.”
“Yes, I suppose,” the Secretary said, thinking, I’ll be damned if I’ll invite you to fly up with me, no matter how you hint. “Are you going to cover the debate in the Security Council, too?”
“What’s going to happen in that debate, Orrin? Is there anything I should be looking for?”
Aware that his slightest change of tone was being listened to by an expert, the Secretary deliberately made his voice as noncommittal as possible.
“The usual thing, I suppose. A lot of words—some more mud-slinging at us—a postponement without a vote—a gradual frittering away later in the General Assembly.”
“Is that what you expect?” Walter asked in some surprise. “I’ve been hearing over in your department that there may be something much more dramatic than that in the wind.”
“Drama’s relative,” Orrin said, sounding as bored as possible. “But I imagine your talks with Terry and his cousin, and your lunch with Tashikov, will more than compensate for any official dullness. You seem to be rather partial to Terry’s cousin these days, I notice.”
“I regard Prince Obi as a remarkable young man,” Walter Dobius said.
“So are they both.”
“Yes, but Prince Obi, I think, rather more than Prince Terry. Particularly now that he seems to have a really genuine popular uprising behind him.”
“Oh, Walter, stop being ridiculous,” the Secretary said, provoked to annoyance despite his plans by this dutiful parroting of the line Walter himself had done so much to create in his columns and speeches. “You know that little freebooter has nothing behind him but Soviet and Chinese Communist money. He’s depending on mercenaries, Walter. I thought you established the principle in the Congo that nobody should like mercenaries.”
“I fail to see that the situations have anything in common,” Walter said stiffly. Orrin snorted.
“You don’t? Well, look hard. The resemblances are there.”
“Are they?” Walter demanded. “A vigorous and democratic young leader—an oppressed people—a spontaneous rebellion breaking out against centuries of oligarchical rule—”
“You said exactly the same thing six months ago about Terry. Now, didn’t you?”
“I thought at that time he deserved them,” Walter Dobius said sharply. “Now I do not believe he does.”
The Secretary grunted.
“Walter, have you ever been to Africa?”
“I was invited to speak a year ago to
the Conference of Unaligned Nations in Accra, as you know perfectly well.”
“Yes, I remember,” the Secretary said. “You gave the United States quite a kicking around, as I recall. They were very pleased. Tell me, do you ever have a good word to say for your own country?”
“Now, that isn’t fair,” Walter said, a real anger in his voice. “That simply isn’t fair. You know perfectly well that I—”
The Secretary gave an impatient sigh.
“I know, I know. It wasn’t fair, and I apologize. We seem to be arguing again. What did you want to talk to me about?”
“I wanted to ask you and Beth to come to lunch on Thursday. But I suppose we would only argue more.”
“Undoubtedly,” Orrin said, allowing a little more humor to come into his tone, “but I imagine Beth and I can make it. I’ve been wanting to have a real talk with you for some time. When do you want us?”
“Noon, I think,” Walter said, quite calm and correct again, the anger beginning to subside as he reflected who he was talking to, after all: just Orrin Knox. “If that suits your schedule.”
“I’ll make it fit,” the Secretary said.
“Very well, then. In the meantime, I assume I’ll see you at the UN tomorrow?”
“I think I’m probably going up,” Orrin said. “But it’s not entirely definite yet. I’m going to put in a call to Lafe and Cullee in a few minutes and see what they advise.” He remembered Walter’s luncheon date with Tashikov and decided abruptly that Walter might be a bridge between the two worlds, at that, if the situation in the Security Council got bad enough. “Where will you be staying?”
“I’ll be at the Waldorf-Astoria, but only overnight. I have to go on to Cleveland to make a speech on Wednesday.”
“We may have a lot to talk about at lunch Thursday. Beth will be pleased.”
“I, too,” Walter said, the pomposity returning, the conversation back on his own ground again, Orrin, difficult as he was, once more in the implicit role of supplicant, as they both understood. “I have some important decisions to make soon. I want to discuss things with you before I make them.”