by Allen Drury
At the Mansion the great glass doors were swung open promptly at eleven-thirty, and out onto the North Portico stepped the outgoing and incoming Presidents of the United States, the one big, solid, plain, outwardly serene, smiling pleasantly into the cameras, the other slightly shorter, trimmer, handsome, distinguished, giving a sudden wave and eager grin that brought a responsive roar from the crowd that stood across the Avenue in Lafayette Park and from all those, and there were many, who carried small portable television sets in the crowds along the route. A vast shout of pleasure and anticipation echoed from White House to Hill; and for the next ten minutes, while the cavalcade rolled slowly out the gate, turned right on Pennsylvania, made the jog down past Treasury and then turned left and proceeded to the Hill, the roar never stopped, but only grew in its wild, ecstatic, animal intensity.
Because there was really, at this moment, nothing left to say, neither of them said anything until just as their cavalcade reached the foot of the Hill and started the gentle climb up. Then the President who had fifteen minutes of office left turned to the President who had—how long? An hour? A year? Four years? Eight?—still ahead, and said with a little smile, “They seem to like you. Don’t let them down.”
“I don’t intend to,” Ted Jason said with a sober yet happy expression. “You have my word on that.”
“May God give you strength to keep it,” the President said.
“I think He will,” the President-elect replied, suddenly completely serious. “I really do think He will.”
Then they were swept up again in the constant roaring, and both turned again to smile and wave as the procession proceeded on up the Hill to the East Front, where they entered the doorway under the arch on the Senate side and proceeded between double rows of police to the great Rotunda. There they spent the remaining few minutes until noon exchanging greetings with leaders of Senate and House, smiling and waving to Cabinet members, members of the Supreme Court and distinguished guests as they made their way through the doors and down to their seats on the steps.
It was noted, by all the eyes whose job it is to note such things and relay them via voice and tube and newsprint to the dazzled world, that the sister and brother-in-law of the outgoing President, those two simple folk who knew with a perfectly genuine relief that in one more day they would be shut of official life forever and back in retirement at their home on Lake Tahoe, were already neatly in place at the right of the platform. It was also noted that members of the family of the President-elect were in place at the left, Patsy and Valuela glittering with Jason family jewels, Selena tousled and determinedly unadorned in a simple thirty-thousand-dollar mink coat, Herbert if anything more rumpled than usual in his elfish disarray.
Comments were also dutifully made upon members of the Congress as they straggled in and took their places on the stands right and left; upon the members of the outgoing Cabinet and the members of the incoming Cabinet; upon the Supreme Court and particularly Mr. Justice Thomas Buckmaster Davis, burbling and bouncing and waving excitedly to friends all over the place; upon the Vice President-elect, entering on a wave of friendly applause with Mrs. Croy; upon the President-elect’s recent opponent, Senator Warren Strickland of Idaho, dignified and friendly; upon the members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, gleaming like four scarabs in all their braid and finery; upon the distinguished relics of past administrations, particularly the eternal Presidential daughter, great hat swooping, famed tongue still acrid, now within hailing distance of her first, but surely not last, centenary; and on all the other less recognizable souls, some there by virtue of long-standing friendship, some there by virtue of campaign contribution, and some just mysteriously there, who always fill in the nooks and crannies of the East Front at all inaugurations.
At approximately 11:50 a.m., the four empty seats next to the seat reserved for the President-elect were filled, and after a moment’s hesitation when the news was relayed to them, another great shout of applause and approval went up from the crowds all along the way. Beth Knox, wearing a pale blue dress, a small blue hat and a white coat with a single purple orchid, came slowly down the steps on the arm of her son, who wore a dark suit and dark blue tie. Behind them came her daughter-in-law, also dressed simply in a peach-colored dress, peach-colored coat and peach-colored hat; and Lucille Hudson, in pale pink dress, pink hat and plain pink coat with a single white orchid.
As they took their seats the shout gradually diminished and for several moments an avidly attentive silence fell. To the cameras, which zoomed in upon them with merciless but understandable attention, it was clear that all were under considerable strain. Beth and Crystal managed small smiles and quick little waves to those immediately around them and to the reporters standing on their benches in the press area just below the platform. Lucille Hudson bowed gravely to both sides and to the front, but did not smile. Hal’s face was somber and remained so, a fact which prompted comment, not charitable, from both NBC and CBS. But when they were all seated, the significance of their presence, its generous and implicit acknowledgment of Edward Jason, suddenly struck the multitudes again, and again there came a deep, relieved, approving roar.
It was then 11:55, and abruptly the clamor fell away and a hushed, expectant silence gripped the city, filled with many things, not least of them the memory of what had happened the last time these people had been gathered together in one place, in August, at the Monument Grounds.
The memory was in Ted Jason’s face, too, and in that of his predecessor, as they came through the great bronze doors and started down the steps to the podium; and for just a second, as the cameras faithfully found these most important figures of the day, the silence held. Then it broke in a steady, rolling thunder of welcoming shouts, screams, applause, ecstasy that overwhelmed and consumed the world.
It continued as they moved slowly down the steps, their first somber expressions quickly dissolving in the necessity to nod, smile, beam, wave to, or shake hands with, those they passed along the way. By the time they reached the level of the podium and separated, the President to take his seat alongside his sister, the President-elect to take his next to Beth Knox, the roar was still rolling but beginning to die away. Presently it was gone and again the quivering hush settled over all.
It lifted for brief applause when Roger P. Croy was sworn in as Vice President. Swiftly and respectfully he resumed his seat and turned to look, as did they all, with a profound and almost hungry expectancy at his running mate.
For one further moment the world hung suspended in a watchful, waiting silence. Then the Chief Justice rose and moved solemnly to the podium from one side, Edward Montoya Jason rose and moved solemnly to the podium from the other. The Chief Justice opened the ancient Spanish Bible that had come to California more than a hundred years ago with Don Carlos Alvarado Montoya. The President-elect placed his left hand upon it, raised his right and so became, in the brief, traditional, moving catechism, the President.
As he concluded with the pledge to preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States, repeating it gravely after the Chief Justice, the great roar rose again—swelled—thundered—died presently away. Again the quivering silence fell. Into it the President began quietly to speak.
“My countrymen,” he said, his voice booming out across the plaza, the city, the nation, the world, “we are met on a day of import for America and her friends. On this day, America leaves the ancient battlegrounds of futile war and turns, we hope for all time, to the hopeful and productive uplands of fertile peace.”
(“Nice work if you can get it,” murmured the Chicago Tribune to Women’s Wear Daily, and, “I sense the flowery rhetoric of the Vice President,” W.W.D. murmured back. But from the eager multitudes there came a deep, believing shout.)
“I do not say to you,” the President continued solemnly, “that this will be an easy or a quickly accomplished task. But I do say to you that it must be done.”
Again the approving shout.
“I p
ledge to you all the resources of my being, and all the resources of the government of the United States, to get it done. Not two years from now—not one year from now—not one month or one day or one hour from now—but now.”
(“Yes?” Senator Munson murmured dryly behind his hand to Senator Danta, and Stanley Danta, possibly too hasty in his amusement, replied, “Watch my miracle, kids!”)
“My countrymen,” the President said as the third great shout subsided, “one thing I would make clear to you, and to all our friends and all our enemies—for alas, we do have some. And that is that this Administration brings hope, not a sword. This Administration brings optimism, not despair. This Administration brings vision, not blindness. This Administration brings an eager and affirmative welcome to the future, not a desperate and self-defeating clinging to the past.
“It does so because it is my conviction—as the votes of so many millions of you have shown that it is yours—that we cannot longer continue to live in a world dominated by fears of aggression and expansion. We cannot endure further in the shadow of imperialism and hate. Neither we nor any other land can survive much longer in a world society racing faster and faster toward final self-destruction.
“The world must stop its folly and return to sanity.
“The madness must end.
“All nations, and particularly those three or four that are greatest, must realize that those peoples that have the most to lose from war have also the most to gain from peace. It is to them that the world looks for leadership. Upon them falls the obligation. Upon them—and perhaps most heavily of all—upon us.
“It is in that knowledge, and in that spirit, that I address you today.”
He paused to take a sip of water. Quickly the cameras panned across the ex-President, the Knoxes, Lucille Hudson, the Jasons. All were solemn and intent. Hastily the cameras raced back to the President.
“I address you in that spirit because I have received, as you all know, a most encouraging indication of cooperation and support from the distinguished Chairman of the Council of Ministers of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Let me refresh your memories. (“And Tashikov’s,” Lafe Smith whispered to Cullee Hamilton, who nodded with a somber look.)
“These are the concluding words of the message he addressed to me on the eve of the election. I quote from Chairman Tashikov:
“‘This is what I hope:
“‘I hope we will sit down somewhere and discuss our differences with trust and confidence as old friends should.
“‘I hope we will agree to abandon hatred and suspicion as a basis for our policies.
“‘I hope we will, with ruthless speed, dismantle and destroy all arms except those needed strictly for self-defense.
“‘I hope we will withdraw from all useless militaristic-imperialist interventionist adventures.
“‘I hope we will bring to our two nations and the world a new era of calm and lasting peace in which our two great peoples can work together in harmony and brotherhood for the betterment of all mankind.
“‘This is what I hope, Mr. President. And this is what I know can be achieved.… ’
“And the Chairman concluded:
“‘We look with hope to your Presidency, my friend. You will find us ready for a new start. Let us achieve it together!’
“Those of you who were listening on that night will remember my brief, yet I think all-important, answer—and again I quote:
“I say to the Chairman of the Council of Ministers—Let us begin!’”
At this familiar collection of statements, which had drummed upon his countrymen from thousands of billboards, newspaper advertisements and radio and television spots during and after the campaign, the eager, approving roar again went up. While it was gradually dying away, the cameras had time to notice, and the commentators had time to voice their excited speculations, that the President had taken from his breast pocket several sheets of paper, unfolded them carefully and placed them over the body of his prepared text on the lectern. When he resumed speaking it was with a deeper note of solemnity, mixed with an underlying excitement that communicated itself instantly to his listeners.
A silence even deeper, more profound, more expectant than that before, enclosed the world.
The ex-President and many of his friends, off camera, noticeably braced themselves.
“My countrymen,” the President said gravely, “what I now undertake to do is not, I grant you, the usual procedure. The usual procedure might be for me to wait until I am established in the Oval Office—to wait until later today, or tomorrow, or next day or next week to do what I am about to do.
“That would be the usual procedure.
“But these are not usual times.
“These are times that demand action, and action now.
“Accordingly, by virtue of the authority vested in me as Commander in Chief—”
(The ex-President’s face was a study, and so were Senator Munson’s, Robert Leffingwell’s, Hal Knox’s and many another’s. But the cameras had no time for anyone in all the world but the man who was speaking into the deathly silence that hung upon his words.)
“—I am directing the appropriate officers of the government to carry out immediately the following orders.”
He paused for an almost imperceptible moment, took a deep breath and went on, voice filled with emotion but firm.
“To end immediately all aid, economic and otherwise, to the reactionary and undemocratic government of Gorotoland headed by Terence Ajkaje.”
A wild, delighted shout responded, and in far-off Gorotoland, watching the little screen, a gaunt and glittering figure dropped head in hands in a gesture of sudden abysmal despair.
“To withdraw immediately all American military personnel presently stationed within the areas of Gorotoland claimed by the aforesaid government of Terence Ajkaje.”
The shout doubled—tripled—redoubled—retripled; and behind him the ex-President uttered, though no one heard him in the uproar, a heavy sigh.
“To cancel immediately the present ineffective and, in my judgment, inexcusable blockade of the People’s Republic of Panama.”
There were no voices left, no breath, to express the ecstasy. But somehow sound emerged, triumphantly drowning out the world. And in the drawing room of “La Suerte,” far to the southwest, the trim and dapper figure of his brother-in-law leaped to his feet with a sudden triumphant shout.
“To withdraw immediately all American military personnel now stationed on the territory of Panama, in the sides above it and on the seas adjacent.”
And again the sound—“The Sound” as Walter Dobius and his friends would think of it later, something they would always associate with Ted Jason and this marvelous, fantastic day when all their hopes at last, after so many long, reactionary years, appeared to be coming true.
The President paused, took another sip of water, waited for The Sound to subside. He looked excited, triumphant, happy. The response was proving him right. Man and Moment were truly met.
“Nor, my friends,” he said, in a quieter, more conversational tone, “is this all. These are but the peripheral actions to turn this nation toward peace. More fundamental things remain, going to the heart of America’s posture in, and toward, the world.
“Therefore in the pursuit of peace and in the sincere belief that the following actions, taken together with those just announced, will provide the basis for an immediate international conference, or series of conferences, which will be able to deal at last with the substance and reality of a genuine world settlement, I am further ordering:
“An immediate suspension, to continue for a period of sixty days, of all U-2 and satellite surveillance of the Soviet Union and its associated states.”
(This time the ex-President turned with an expression of genuine alarm to seek the eyes of Senator Munson in the tier above; and this time, to the audible chuckles of many in the media, the cameras caught the gesture and carried it to the world.)
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“An immediate withdrawal, for a period of sixty days, of all American air and naval forces, including submarine forces, from Mediterranean and Atlantic waters to their respective home bases.”
The Sound was astounded beyond itself into realms of noise normally unknown to man. The confident voice continued.
“An immediate withdrawal, for a period of sixty days, of all American air and naval forces, including submarine forces, from the Indian and Pacific oceans to their respective home bases.”
The Sound, helplessly ecstatic, but still trying, surged again.
“And, finally, an immediate study, starting tomorrow morning, by the Secretary of Defense and his appropriate aides, looking toward reduction of the Army of the United States by not less than one million men, and a comparable reduction in the personnel and planes of the Air Force and the personnel and ships of the Navy; the purpose being to restore the military forces of the United States to what they were originally intended to be—defense forces, in a world where men may live at peace with one another, freed from the fear of war.”