A Shade of Difference

by Allen Drury

  “I seem to keep occupied,” Bob Leffingwell said pleasantly. “You, too, I read in the papers.”

  “Always,” the Majority Leader said. “Always. Although I think we’re about to see the end tonight. For a while, anyway.”

  “Really going to adjourn, hm? In spite of my old friend from South Carolina,” Bob Leffingwell said, and, despite the attempt at jocularity, too many old bitternesses from his long-standing feud with Seab Cooley got in the way and his eyes clouded with a reminiscent pain and anger.

  “He can’t win on this,” Senator Munson said, ignoring it. “It’s impossible.”

  “You’ve rounded up the votes, then, in your famously efficient fashion,” Bob Leffingwell said, more relaxed. The Majority Leader shook his head.

  “I don’t really need them. The times are against Seab. He’s got to lose. History says so.”

  “And you think it’s a good thing.”

  “Yes, don’t you?”

  “I do,” Bob Leffingwell said, “but I was wondering if you did.”

  “Yes,” the Majority Leader said shortly. “I do. I can’t say that I think this kind of thing is any help to the welfare of man and his nations, but the cocktail party is Washington’s standard answer to everything, so I guess I’m alone in that.”

  “You’re not,” Bob Leffingwell told him. “I don’t approve of this, myself. I only came because these people have been very loyal to me, over the years, so I thought I should put in an appearance. I agree with you this kind of fawning overemphasis on the Africans is no help. That surprises you.”

  “It does,” the Majority Leader said, taking a hot crab-meat canapé from a passing tray, “You’ve changed.”

  “Oh, no,” Bob Leffingwell said, taking one also. “I’ve been rather—overemphasized—myself, thanks to some of my good friends. I have a lot of ideas that might seem startling. For instance: Just what is the game of that seven-foot calculating machine over there in his pretty robes? And why does someone like Tommy Davis talk to someone like Fred Van Ackerman? Life has many little mysteries.”

  “Of which you are turning out to be one,” Senator Munson said as the crowd swirled around them, louder, noisier, happier, and increasingly relaxed. “What’s Harley going to do next year? And are you going to work for Ted Jason?”

  Bob Leffingwell looked amused.

  “You have the right sequence. If Harley runs for re-election, I shall support him actively. If he doesn’t, I think I shall go with Ted. After all,” he remarked quietly, “I owe Harley a great deal.”

  “Yes, you do.” The Majority Leader gave him a direct, searching glance. “There are some who would be surprised at your capacity for loyalty.”

  “Are you one of them?”

  “No, sir,” Senator Munson said. Bob Leffingwell gave an ironic little nod.

  “Good. I never knew exactly where I stood with you, during that fight.”

  “Nor will you ever know,” the Majority Leader said, “during that fight. Now, too, you may have to guess.”

  Bob Leffingwell returned a direct and searching glance of his own. Then he smiled.

  “I feel better. What do you suppose Tommy and Fred are cooking up?”

  “They weren’t speaking, half an hour ago. Let’s find out …”

  “I think that might be a good idea,” Justice Davis was saying as they approached. “Yes, I think it might.”

  “What’s that, Tommy?” Senator Munson asked. “Fred going to blow up the Capitol or something?”

  “Always laughing,” Senator Van Ackerman said sourly. “Always joking, always happy. Why don’t you run along, Bob? What we’re talking about isn’t any of your business.”

  “The last time you two had something to talk about,” Senator Munson said in a sudden blaze of anger that startled them all, himself included, “a Senator died. I hope the talk isn’t as evil this time.”

  He was aware that his voice had carried more than it should, for around them a little silence fell for a second before people resumed talking in a baffled, half-amused way, as though they were quite sure they couldn’t have heard what they thought they had. Tommy Davis and Fred Van Ackerman were in no doubt, however. The Justice’s face was completely white, the Senator’s flushed with a scowling anger.

  “I didn’t talk to Brig—Brigham,” Tommy Davis said in an agonized whisper. “I never talked to him about—about anything, Bob. I swear I never did. I only talked to you.”

  Senator Van Ackerman gave an impatient shake of his head.

  “And what did you do about it, Mr. Nobility?” he said in a savage voice, held low. “I don’t recall that your part was so noble, except to censure me. Maybe that was noble.”

  With a great effort, Senator Munson kept his voice down, too; and over the great weariness that suddenly filled it he injected a quiet but implacable warning.

  “I don’t intend for you to bully Seab tonight, Fred. I just want you to understand that.”

  “What more can you do to me?” Fred Van Ackerman asked bitterly. “I’ve been censured; now what? You can’t expel me if I insist that the rules be enforced. And they will be. I promise you that … Now I’m going back. Don’t let him scare you, Tommy. He talks, but it doesn’t matter.”

  “I’d go too,” the Justice said in a bleakly unhappy voice, “except I’m supposed to be a guest of honor.” He shook his head in a dazed way. “Honor,” he repeated, as if to himself. “Honor.”

  “I think I really must run along, too,” Bob Leffingwell said quietly. “It was good to see you, Senator. Tommy, take care.”

  The Justice did not reply, and after a moment they turned away and left him. Several guests were approaching, and in a second he would be swept up again in their arch and woozy chatter; another second or two after that and he would be chattering away again himself, bright and cheery on the surface, whatever lay beneath.

  “Anyway,” Senator Munson said, “at least now I know it hit him.”

  Bob Leffingwell gave a harsh laugh, bleak and without amusement.

  “Who didn’t it hit?”

  At the door they found their host from the Post and his towering star of the evening. The M’Bulu, serenity outwardly restored, looked down benignly, as they approached in the growing stream of departing guests.

  “So delightful you could come, Senator. Now back to your duties, eh?”

  “I’m afraid so. But it has been lovely. Simply lovely.”

  “I may see you later. I think I may come up and watch.”

  “I’m sure that would be very helpful,” the Majority Leader said. The M’Bulu uttered his merry laugh, giving Bob Munson a slow look from half-closed, heavy-lidded eyes agleam with a sardonic mockery. “That is all I desire, really. To be helpful.”

  Senator Munson shrugged.

  “Come up if you like,” he said, though his calculations of the adverse effect of this upon the Hamilton Resolution belied the casual disinterest he displayed. “It’s a free country.”

  “How true,” Terry said cordially. “How true!”

  Downstairs at the Fourteenth Street entrance to the National Press Building the Majority Leader said good-by to Bob Leffingwell.

  “Don’t you want to come up and watch, too? It might be interesting, to see old friends tangle with—old friends.”

  “No, thanks,” Bob Leffingwell said. “I’m staying out of the mainstream for a while. I’ll come back next year, when we choose a President. And besides—what good does it do to add more unhappiness to unhappiness?”

  “I’d like to agree and follow your example,” the Majority Leader said, “but my job doesn’t permit it. Good luck.”

  “To you, too,” Bob Leffingwell said, and they shook hands with a warmth they had not shown to one another in many months.

  Ahead of him as his chauffeur maneuvered the limousine right onto F Street, right again on Twelfth down to Pennsylvania, and then left along Pennsylvania to the Hill, he could see the Capitol looming white and serene against the eveni
ng sky.

  The light that burns above the great dome when either house of Congress meets at night cast its beckoning signal to the beautiful city. The hour was half after seven and the night of the Hamilton Resolution was yet young.

  7

  In the chamber, there had occurred one of those breaks that come in a long debate when consensus is reached by many stomachs that it is time to be replenished. On the floor only a handful of Senators, all from the South, remained in respectful attendance upon Blair Sykes of Texas as he made his speech against the resolution. Downstairs in the Senators’ private dining room every table was full and the talk was vigorous and lively. What the state of animation of all these distinguished people would be at 3 or 4 a.m. might be another matter, but for the moment everyone seemed to be in fine shape—not least the Secretary of State, who, after pausing to greet many old friends and former colleagues along the way, had finally reached a table in the comer and settled in with the junior Senator from Iowa and the Congressman from California to consume a club steak, salad, and coffee.

  “How’s it going?” he demanded, attacking the steak with energy and dispatch. “Seab given up yet?”

  “I don’t think so,” Lafe Smith said. “He had a bite to eat a while back, and now he’s lying down in the Majority cloakroom taking a little nap. But he’s still on guard duty.”

  “Hasn’t sued for peace to you, has he?” Orrin asked Cullee, and the Congressman smiled.

  “No more offers. I expect our talk this afternoon finished that.”

  “Yes.” The Secretary frowned. “Well, you understand Bob and I had to make the attempt. I’m sorry he misunderstood, but it probably wouldn’t have made any difference.”

  “I don’t think so,” Cullee said. “If he did misunderstand,” he added with a sudden glance at the Secretary; but the Secretary let it pass. “Do you think he’ll really filibuster?”

  “I wish not, but I’m afraid so. What do you hear around the floor?”

  “I hear it’s still okay,” Lafe said.

  “That was a good speech you made on the UN,” the Secretary told him. “I’ve just been in the official reporters’ room reading over the transcript of the debate so far. I think you said some necessary things.”

  “Thanks. I get awfully fed up sometimes, up there, but—” He shrugged. “What else is there? Except the final disaster?”

  “If only enough of its members can believe that,” Orrin Knox said, “maybe we can pull it through in spite of itself. And the world with it … How’s Hal?” he added abruptly. “Got any report yet?”

  The junior Senator from Iowa gave a guilty little start, which was not lost upon the Secretary, but covered it calmly.

  “What?” he asked with an innocence that did not fool Orrin.

  “He’s in the hospital, isn’t he? I can’t reach him by phone.”

  “What makes you think that?” Lafe asked cautiously. His old friend and colleague gave him a knowing glance.

  “He isn’t here, and I can’t reach him there. What’s it all about?”

  “He went in for a checkup, as I think you suggested. Or I did. Anyway, he’ll be out tomorrow, I expect, and back on the job.”

  “You don’t sound so sure.”

  “He’ll make it,” Lafe said, though he knew he was using “it” in the narrowest sense of the General Assembly debate. At least, he added to himself, I hope to God he’ll make it; he’ll die if he doesn’t. Then the incongruity of that struck him, and he looked down hastily at his dessert and took an earnest bite.

  “Well—” the Secretary said doubtfully. “No monkey business now, damn it. I don’t care about the delegation, we can manage that, but I am seriously worried about his health. It would be just like him to do something quixotic.”

  “He has a very idealistic desire to serve,” Lafe said. “Why don’t you let him?”

  Orrin Knox studied him shrewdly for a moment.

  “Is it as bad as that?”

  “Why don’t you let him?” Lafe repeated, his expression yielding nothing.

  “I’ll be there,” Cullee said. “I can help.”

  “So you can,” Lafe said gratefully. “We’ll manage, Orrin. Stop fussing like an old hen. It isn’t as bad as you think.”

  “It’s worse than I think,” Orrin said. His colleague shrugged.

  “So you say. Leave it alone.”

  “But—”

  “Leave it alone, I said.”

  “Well,” the Secretary said after a moment, “obviously I have no choice.”

  “I expect we should go back up to the floor,” Cullee said. “I don’t want to rush you, but—”

  “Right,” the Secretary said. “We don’t want to miss the President Pro Tem. Or the M’Bulu of Mbuele. Or the First Lady. Or the Secretary of State. Or any other of these famous people here tonight.”

  And so, finally, the long night began in earnest. In the crowded chamber, with Family, Public, and Diplomatic Galleries filled to capacity and murmurous with interest, with the Press, Radio-TV, and Periodical Galleries jammed with watching newsmen and women alert and eager to send the word, and on the floor almost all Senators present and many standees from the House lined along the walls, George Carroll Townsend of Maryland completed a brief but heated condemnation of the Hamilton Resolution and sat down.

  At once there was a commotion among the press. By leaning over the gallery rail and looking down, they could see that B. Gossett Cook of Virginia, in the Chair, had no other name on the list of speakers lying before him on the desk. For a moment he looked rather blankly at the Majority Leader, who in turn looked about quickly (as, above, the New York Post urged, “Put it to a vote while the old fool is out of the room! Put it to a vote!”). Then, not finding the one he sought, Bob Munson rose to his feet and, after a hasty admonition to Stanley Danta, began to address the Chair. Senator Danta walked quickly up the aisle to the cloakroom, disappearing through its swinging glass doors as the whispering increased across the big brown room.

  “Mr. President,” Senator Munson said slowly. “Am I to understand that no further Senators wish to speak on the pending resolution prior to the vote?”

  “The Chair,” Gossett Cook said with a little smile, “perforce has to labor under that impression, he will say to the distinguished Majority Leader, in the absence of some indication to the contrary.”

  “Then I am to understand,” Senator Munson repeated slowly, “that there is no one at all in this distinguished body who feels moved to—”

  “Mr. President,” Fred Van Ackerman said loudly, jumping to his feet. “Mr. President, I have something to say. Mr. President! Mr. President!”

  “The Senator will address the Chair in proper order,” Gossett Cook said with an asperity sudden and startling, for he was normally the most soft-spoken of men. “Does the Senator wish to ask the Majority Leader to yield? If so, let him ask.”

  “Mr. President,” Senator Van Ackerman said with an elaborately insolent air, “will the distinguished Majority Leader yield to me?”

  “For a question,” Senator Munson tossed over his shoulder, continuing to look at the Chair.

  “Very well, for a question. How much longer is the Senate going to stall around waiting for a senile old—”

  “Mr. President!” the Majority Leader said angrily.

  “Waiting for the Senator from South Carolina,” Senator Van Ackerman amended smoothly as the galleries gasped. “I ask the Majority Leader if the final adjournment of this long and difficult session of Congress is going to be delayed just in order that Senator Cooley, who should be here right this minute if he wants to speak, may be sheltered and protected by the Majority Leader and this Senate?”

  “The Senator from Wyoming,” Senator Munson said, “will never live to see the day when he has friends who care enough for him to shelter and protect him. That is his misfortune. The senior Senator from South Carolina has, and I make no apologies to the Senate for it. If anyone else is impatient because Senato
r Cooley has stepped off the floor momentarily and I am securing time for him to return so that he may speak his piece as fully and completely as he desires in this matter, let him join the Senator from Wyoming. I’ll wait.”

  He turned and leaned against his desk, his back to the Chair, his eyes moving slowly, face by face, over the Senate. No one rose, no one moved. He turned back.

  “Very well. Now, Mr. President—”

  “Mr. President!” Fred Van Ackerman said. “If the Majority Leader is through with that old stunt, will he tell me why he feels it necessary to delay the work of this Senate? The Senator from South Carolina spoke earlier today. He’s had his say on this. We know where he stands.” An ugly rhythm came into his voice. “The Majority Leader isn’t in any doubt, is he? The Majority Leader isn’t puzzled about it, is he? The Majority Leader doesn’t expect any surprises from the Senator from South Carolina, does he?”

  “Mr. President,” Bob Munson said, turning his back deliberately, “I shall not yield further to the Senator from Wyoming.”

  “You can’t shut me up!” Fred Van Ackerman cried, his voice suddenly scaling upward in the snarling, unhealthy anger his colleagues knew only too well. “You can’t shut me up, I will say to the Majority Leader! You censured me, but you can’t take away my right as a United States Senator to say what I please! I will tell that to the Majority Leader; you can’t take away my right to speak—”

  “No more, I will say to the distinguished Senator from Wyoming,” interrupted a familiar voice, and the Senate and galleries got a little release of tension as they turned and smiled to see the President Pro Tempore coming down the aisle, “and distinction, Mr. President, takes many forms—no more than he has a right to take away mine …

  “Mr. President,” he said, moving to his desk as Bob Munson sat down, “my apologies to the Senate for delaying this moment, and my thanks to it for not going on and passing me by. Thanks also to the Majority Leader for sending the Senator from Connecticut to wake me up. I was taking a little snooze, Mr. President, I will say candidly to my colleagues. I recommend it. It refreshes one for the tasks ahead.”