The Man

by Irving Wallace

  Not in days had Dilman been so genuinely moved by the friendliness of another human being. His eyes moistened, and he averted his head. “I thank you,” he said, almost inaudibly. “I sincerely appreciate your understanding. I-in fact, I was impressed from the moment I arrived here-by the courtesy, an air of decency, such as I have not seen in four days.”

  Jaskawich’s frank, open face had become intensely serious. “We are another breed here at Cape Kennedy-not everyone, but certainly the men who have finally gone up, and the handful most closely involved with them. We’re trained to be cast closer to heaven and its planets. And when you leave the earth for orbit in space, as I have three times, you can see how small our little mudball of a world is in true godly perspective. When a one-and-a-half-million-pound thrust puts you up there, alone in the Mercury capsule, or with one other in the Gemini capsule, and you swing around the earth for several days, you come to have some spiritual knowledge of what the Maker meant when he packed our patty-cake together, and populated it with living beings, and gave this mudball a semblance of order and its men a modicum of intelligence. Believe me, Mr. President, you lose all petty poisons that corrupt men and spoil life. You lose all that in outer space. You come to understand how lucky man is even to exist, how fortunate he is to survive, and you come to speculate on why he lacks appreciation of his lot, and why he destroys so much of his own pleasure and the enjoyment of those around him with incredible pettiness of mind and action. One period, when I was up there, I thought-I know this will sound odd-but I thought, if only men like Caligula, Attila, Torquemada, Hitler, the jurors of Socrates, the witch burners of Salem, the bombers of Birmingham, the ravagers of reason and decency had been made to don our twenty-pound pressurized space suits and been hurtled into orbit, to look above and look below, and then had fired their retrorockets to descend to earth once more, they would come down like resurrected saints. That’s what can happen, Mr. President. No matter how many or few your failings, when you return from there to here, you are never the same again. You’ve left prejudice, hatred, destructiveness, lying, cheating in the reaches of outer space. You look upon your fellow men with the eyes of eternity, as your equals on the earth, and you want to live and let live. That’s why so many of us here-”

  He stopped in mid-sentence. General Fortney and the Operations Director had walked back to join them again.

  Fortney said to Dilman, “Had enough of this?”

  Dilman smiled. “I find I like it up here. But I guess it’s time to get down to earth.”

  In the elevator he studied General Leo Jaskawich with new interest. During an era already becoming jaded from continuous space exploits and achievements, Jaskawich was a special hero. He was the only astronaut to have been in orbit three times, once alone and then twice in the two-man Gemini capsule for six days. His physical aspect was deceptively average, in no proportion matching his legend. Dilman judged the astronaut to be perhaps five feet ten inches in height, and weighing around 160 pounds. His hair was short-cropped and sunblanched, his eyes quick and kind, his nose the most prominent feature on his swarthy Lithuanian face. He wore his uniform not as a martinet would, but with the confidence of one who had earned it through calculated and accepted risk. Not since Dilman had first met Nat Abrahams, and later The Judge and Tim Flannery, had he so quickly allowed himself to like and trust another being.

  After that, for the remainder of their ground tour about the heart of Cape Kennedy, Dilman was entirely attentive to Leo Jaskawich. Especially in Hangar R, where rested the enormous Apollo spacecraft, with its two outer bays for equipment, that would hold three astronauts and bring them within 40,000 feet of the surface of the moon, did Dilman appreciate Jaskawich’s eloquence and become infected by the astronaut’s enthusiasm over the approaching lunar exploration.

  The last stop before riding out to the beach was the horseshoe-shaped, one-story dormitory where the new astronauts, twelve in number, now training for the next Apollo flight, were supposed to reside while on the base.

  As they examined the neat, furnished rooms, Jaskawich stated, “Ten of them live here, while their families live in Cocoa Beach.”

  Some inconsistency joggled inside Dilman’s head. “Ten live here? I thought you said there were twelve in training.”

  Before Jaskawich could reply, General Fortney brusquely intervened. “A couple of them preferred to stay in the old barracks. It’s the same as this. They’re doing special work that keeps them up later. Let’s move on.”

  As he started away with the directors and public relations officers, Dilman held Jaskawich back. “Those other two, who are they? Why are they living separately?”

  For the first time, Jaskawich appeared uneasy. “They are Negroes, sir,” he said.

  “But I thought this place was-”

  “I know, Mr. President,” Jaskawich said sadly. “When I spoke of a new breed of men that had grown out of this program, I meant the ones who had experienced orbital flight or been thoroughly indoctrinated for it. The new trainees are just groundlings, and while they are superior in some respects, they still carry the infection of groundling education and prejudices. Officially, like all military installations since 1951, this is a desegregated base, entirely so. But if two newcomers are made to feel-well-different, and know they’ll have more peace of mind for concentrating on their training if they can remove themselves from social abrasion, they do so, they volunteer. I don’t think our two colored astronauts give a damn. They’re too devoted to the work. That’s all that counts. Eventually, I promise you, the others will be inviting them back to this building.” He hesitated, and then added, “Even when done on a so-called voluntary basis, I didn’t back this segregation. I’m not running the show, but I stepped out of channels long enough to buck a note up to Fortney at the Pentagon. I never had a reply. Maybe Fortney never saw it.”

  “Maybe he did,” said Dilman. “He knows what is going on here.”

  “Dammit, I’m sorry, Mr. President.”

  “You’ve done your best. Now I’ll do mine. You see that I have a memorandum waiting for me at the White House, reminding me to order that all the astronaut trainees on the Cape henceforth, whatever their wish or anyone else’s, live in the same quarters, receive the same food and teaching, without discrimination or favoritism. You can bet I’ll act on it.”

  Jaskawich’s eyes were bright. “You’ll have that memo. Thank you, Mr. President.”

  “To everyone else I may be a groundling, but you and I know, General, I’ve been up there and returned.” Dilman started to go, then had an afterthought and stopped. “Tell me, General Jaskawich, are you permanently assigned to Cape Kennedy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What do you do here?”

  “I’m supposed to teach,” he said, and then he grinned. “I don’t really. There are a hundred men who can handle that better than I can. I’m not a teacher, I’m a doer type. I was supposed to direct the Apollo operation, but that was just publicity. I’m really based here to guide eminent visitors around, like congressmen, especially the ones on appropriation committees, or columnists, who can give us the right public image. I’m reduced to the profession of being an animated monument or showpiece. I make commencement addresses, too. Very good ones, I might add.”

  “Are you going to be sent up again?”

  “I’m afraid not, Mr. President. I’m past my thirty-fourth birthday, and the limit for men going into space is now thirty-five.”

  Dilman took out a cigar and busied himself with it, and then remembered to offer Jaskawich an Upmann. “Allowed to smoke?”

  “Absolutely,” said Jaskawich. “But no, thanks, that cigar is too much for me. Mind if I have one of my own?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Jaskawich took out a slender cheroot and his crested lighter, hastily lit the President’s cigar first and then his own cheroot. He inhaled. “Good,” he said.

  “Tell me,” Dilman said, “do you like Washington?”

 
“I like any place where there’s action and challenge, and I guess that describes Washington.”

  “It certainly does,” said Dilman. He resumed walking, with Jaskawich keeping in stride beside him. “I was thinking,” Dilman went on, “how much we could use-in the Pentagon, maybe even in the White House-the judgment of a person who has been a little closer to heaven than any of us are ever likely to be.” He cast the astronaut a speculative glance. “Think you’d be interested?”

  “Mr. President,” said Jaskawich fervently, “you signal retrofire-and Washington’s where I’ll land.”

  “All right,” said Dilman, “you stand by, and when I-”

  Dilman came to a jarring halt, teetering for a moment, waiting, as he stared straight ahead. He could see Tim Flannery rushing up the dormitory corridor toward him. At once, discerning the upset expression twisted across the press secretary’s usually pleasant countenance, Dilman’s heart began to hammer. Gone were his cheer and high hopes of the past minutes.

  “Mr. President, I wanted to catch you before you went outside,” Flannery said breathlessly. “The reporters and photographers are piling up out there, waiting for you. I had Fortney order guards to hold them in line a few minutes. It’s just happened, Mr. President-goddamit-” The redhead’s freckled face became contorted, and Flannery looked as if he might weep. “The vote in the House, it’s over-” he said brokenly.

  Curiously, Dilman suffered no pang of fear, and no hurt. He said quietly, not as a question, as a flat statement of fact, “I’ve been impeached.”

  “Yes-goddamit, it’s terrible-I don’t know what-”

  Dilman’s hand touched Flannery’s shoulder. “Easy, Tim. Details are unimportant, but-was it close?”

  “The vote was 287 for impeachment, 161 against it.”

  Dilman nodded. “I see. The voice of the people.”

  “The voice of bigotry!” Jaskawich exclaimed fiercely.

  Dilman licked his lips, and was embarrassed by his uncontrollable Adam’s apple. “Well,” he said, with a slight shrug. His eyes moved from Jaskawich to Flannery. “What next, Tim?”

  “According to the radio, an announcement just came from the Senate Office Building-no wonder they call it SOB-it came from Senator Hankins. He said the Senate will be convened as a High Court, and be ready to try you a week from now. Mr. President, about those newshounds yelping outside the door-”

  Dilman’s knuckles crept to his forehead. He felt dizzy and displaced. “I-I can’t see them yet, Tim. Get me out of it.”

  “What can I do?” Flannery said wretchedly. “They’re fifty feet deep outside the front door and even in back. There’s no-”

  Jaskawich clutched Dilman’s arm. “I can help you. There’s a fire exit at the side of this building-no one’ll know-we can slip out of there-give you a two-or three-minute jump on them before-”

  Immediately Jaskawich started off, with the President and press secretary following him.

  Five minutes later, dusty and panting, Dilman reached the Cadillac limousine behind Jaskawich and Flannery, as the surprised Secret Service agents and Cape security guards closed in from either side.

  Quickly Dilman shook hands with Jaskawich. “Thanks for everything, General. Too bad, but I don’t expect I’ll have the authority, very soon, to send for you. You’d have liked Washington.”

  “I don’t like it now,” said Jaskawich angrily. “That’s why maybe I’ll show up whether you send for me or not. You’ve still got a big chance-”

  “I don’t know,” said Dilman. “I just don’t know.”

  As Dilman settled heavily into the back seat, then made room for Flannery, he could observe, through the curving surface of the car’s bubble top, the herd of reporters and photographers on the run in the distance, hurrying to assault him again.

  “Patrick Air Force Base,” Dilman ordered the chauffeur, as two Secret Service agents slammed into the limousine. Up ahead, the motorcycles were forming a protective wedge. The Cadillac moved, wheeled right, and pointed toward the exit gate.

  “Mr. President, I was just thinking,” Flannery began earnestly, “when you make your last speech in St. Louis tomorrow, you’ll have a chance to answer the impeachment. The minute we get to St. Louis tonight, we can sit down and revise-”

  Dilman had been immersed in thought. While the car sped through the gate, leaving the Cape Kennedy missile site, he suddenly said, “Tim, there’s going to be no St. Louis. No St. Louis. Do me a favor, do you mind?” His limp hand indicated the radiotelephone beside Flannery. “Ring the airport for me, and notify the crew we’re changing our flight plans. Have them get clearance to take me straight to Sioux City, Iowa. Then locate Noyes in Washington and have him cancel the St. Louis speech, the whole visit. Tell him to make any excuse. Tell him I’m sick. I am sick.” He alleviated the press secretary’s instant concern with the faintest smile. “Not the way you think, Tim.”

  Dilman pointed to the mobile telephone unit again. “Book me into a Sioux City hotel for overnight. No engagements, not that anyone except the reporters would want to see me. I’ve got no patronage to hand out now. I’m nothing more than a politician under criminal indictment, and that’s like being a typhoid carrier. I think we’ll have our privacy in Sioux City.”

  Flannery had heard this out with unconcealed anguish. “Mr. President, please reconsider the St. Louis speech. You’ve still-”

  “No. I need time to think, and I know what must be done first. After you’ve finished the other calls, get The Judge for me. He lives outside Sioux City somewhere-”

  “Fairview Farm.”

  “Yes, that’s right. Tell him I’d like to drive out and have breakfast with him tomorrow morning, ham and eggs and a little talk, the two of us, an ex-President and one about to join his club, and nobody else. Tell him I won’t need much of his time, maybe an hour, before I head back to Washington.”

  For quiet seconds Douglass Dilman listlessly watched the business section, the stores and offices and nightclubs of Cocoa Beach, flash by. Then, still staring outside the window, he said, “Funny how, the moment everything collapsed around me ten minutes ago, my mind went back to my father. Funny, because I never really knew my old man, except from some pictures and what my mother used to tell me. He died when I was just a child. My mind went to him, I guess, because I felt like a helpless kid they’re after, and I wanted someone old enough and strong enough to stand in front of me, between them and me. But then, I knew I had no father. So I had to adopt one, someone who was tough and sure and unafraid, someone who was-was old enough for me to respect and talk to. So automatically, in my head, I kind of adopted The Judge. Crazy, because he hardly knows me and I hardly know him either. But he’s as irascible and durable as an Assyrian goat. You know, Tim, my first morning as President he called me from his farm, and after he finished lecturing me, he said, ‘Young fellow, you listen and remember, if you ever need my advice or a helping hand, both of which are untaxable and both of which we got plenty of, you come out here and visit the Missus and me, and we’ll have a good farm breakfast and set you straight.’ That’s what he said, Tim.”

  Dilman turned away from the window and met Flannery’s eyes. “I’d have no way of knowing, but I guess that’s the way a father would talk… Now, what in the devil’s keeping you, Tim? We haven’t got all day. Get on the phone there and start making those long-distance calls, charged to the White House, while I can still spend the government’s money.”

  It was a luminous, pure, autumn-crisp Iowa morning.

  Overhead, the disc of sun was too fresh to the new day to have yet warmed the air or the soil, so that the air still livened the flesh and entered the lungs with the bracing coolness of a natural spring, and the patches of grass and springy earth underfoot were damp with the night dew. There was a strange, tangy, life-giving smell all around, a mingling of rural odors of livestock and poultry, of corn and wheat, of red barn paint and crackling skillet.

  They made their way back from their h
ike, in step, without haste, strolling leisurely, the President of the United States and the ex-President of the United States, both holding to their own ruminations as they crossed the barnyard toward the sprawling gray-and-red farm house.

  The Judge held his gnarled Irish shillelagh aloft, to greet the arriving farmhand clad in patched blue overalls, and then he brandished the walking stick at an indignant rooster. “Guess you’ve got yourself an appetite at last, eh, young man?” he said to Dilman.

  “Yes, Judge, I’m about ready.”

  Dilman had been too impatient for a hike when it had begun, and had gone along only out of courtesy to his aged host. Now he was grateful for the tonic of the walk, and his respect for the ex-President’s instinctive folk wisdom was reinforced.

  Upon his arrival at Fairview Farm, ten miles outside Sioux City, Dilman had been abashed by The Judge’s unceremonious welcome as they shook hands on the wooden porch.

  The Judge had snorted, expectorated, and rasped out, “So, they crucified you up on the Hill yesterday, eh, my friend? Hell and tarnations, I’ve known them for muddleheads and blockheads half my life, and firsthand, but I sure didn’t expect them to take leave of their senses, insulting our office of President, making our Party into a white demagogue’s party, slapping the Negro vote in the face. Couldn’t have done better if they wore white hoods when they indicted you, the blasted fools.”

  “I’m glad we’re of one mind,” Dilman had said, his hand still gripped in The Judge’s hand, as they remained in sight of Flannery, the Secret Service agents, the state police.

  The Judge had let go of the handshake. “Young man, I hold a strictly zoological view of our legislative branch. Taken as a whole, Congress reminds me of nothing more than a dinosaur-the Stegosaurus, to be specific-a giant body with a peewee head and a collective brain the size of a walnut. Taken individually, the members are either dodoes or dingoes-understand?-the dodo bird pretending to be a bird, yet unable to fly, and heading for extinction because of self-importance, pretension, unadaptability-the dingo dog of Australia, half domestic pet, faithful and serving, other half wild beast, roving in packs and killing sheep. Congress!” He had glared off. “Who in the hell is invading our serenity?”