by Allen Drury
“And where does that leave the rest of us?” Lord Maudulayne inquired with some asperity, “assuming your gloomy scenario is correct? If the linchpin is really gone, what of us?”
“Adapt or die,” Raoul Barre said with a sort of bleak indifference. “I do not think this is pleasant or nice, you understand. But it may be advisable.”
“Not for India,” Krishna Khaleel said stoutly. “India has her own road to follow, I will say, gentlemen, her own responsibility to world peace. India will not adapt to anything that does not further world peace.”
“Except as it affects Pakistan and Kashmir, K.K.,” Lord Maudulayne could not resist. “Always excepting those.”
“I am speaking in terms of centuries,” the Indian Ambassador said with dignity, “not of passing episodes in which India is right.”
“Yes,” Lord Maudulayne said. “But the issue at the moment is not whether or not India is right, but whether, if the American counterweight is gone, anything can stop a Russian conquest of us all. What, really, will stand between? I think there is no doubt of the answer: nothing. Nothing at all.”
“India,” Krishna Khaleel said blandly, “is not afraid. India has been India for a very long time, I think, and she will continue to be, for a very long time on. We do not think the Russians can conquer us. We have absorbed and ejected conquerors before, after all, Claude.”
“Yes,” Lord Maudulayne agreed with equal blandness, “when they were willing to go. You may not find this the case with our friends in Moscow.”
“We are not afraid,” the Indian Ambassador repeated firmly.
“We are,” the French Ambassador said, “but we do not see, at the moment, what can be done about it as long as our American friends will not stand firm. That is our problem, and it frightens us more than the Russians do. They are besotted with the word ‘peace,’ the Americans. They do not realize that in all of human history peace has never really existed: there has only been an occasional uneasy absence of war. The fact does not fit comfortably with the clichés of the President and his people. To acknowledge it is too difficult and too demanding. Clichés are more comfortable. Americans want comfort above all things. Ergo,” he said again with a shrug, “ergo, history proceeds.”
“Toward what?” Lord Maudulayne inquired somberly, more to himself than to them.
“The New Day,” Raoul Barre responded with a sardonic distaste. “For us all …” He paused and looked with interest down the long room to the entry. “There is a spokesman of the Old Day.” He raised an arm and waved. Lafe Smith nodded, waved back and started toward them through the hands suddenly outthrust to grasp his.
“One would almost think they were glad to see me,” he said as he reached them, “if one didn’t know better. Claude—K.K.—Raoul—how are you? Nothing changes at the UN, I see. Except the American delegation.”
“You aren’t still on it, are you, old boy?” Lord Maudulayne inquired delicately. “I mean—I don’t know what President Jason may have in mind, but—”
“He doesn’t have me in mind, that’s for sure,” Lafe said, pulling up a chair. “No, the staff stays about the same, and most of the delegation. The principal changes are those announced at the White House this morning. Cullee and I are out, permanently, and the Vice President and Georgie Wattersill are in, for this special session. He was decent enough to call and explain to both of us before the news was released. Nothing personal, he said, and I believe him: just the need for spokesmen who were completely in accord with what he is trying to do.”
“Which is what?” Raoul Barre inquired dryly. “Relegate the United States overnight to a second-class power?”
Lafe made a grimace of disgust and frustration.
“I wouldn’t know quite how to describe it.”
“Well,” Krishna Khaleel said stoutly, “I would. I think it is the most noble, the most generous, the most statesmanlike and humanly decent policy any President of the United States has tried to follow, at least in my time in Washington and at the UN. To us he seems a spirit of true nobility and grandeur. We think, if you will forgive me, dear Lafe, that he is infinitely better, from the world’s standpoint, than the last two Presidents. That is our opinion. I know yours differs.”
“Fundamentally,” Lafe said with a moody scowl. “But, then,” he said, more lightly, “don’t you and I always disagree on things, K.K.? It’s endemic.”
“What really happened in Congress yesterday?” Raoul asked. “Was it genuine support for President Jason, a personal rebellion against President Abbott, a protest of youthful members, a general malaise—?”
Lafe shrugged.
“Very simple and exactly what it seemed. His landslide overawed them, a great many of them owe their election to it, and, let’s face it, a great many of them sincerely and genuinely believe in what he is trying to do. You and Claude and I may think he’s relegating the United States to a second-rate power so fast it makes the head swim but a lot of people still don’t see it that way. Even with things as they are. My God!” he exclaimed with a sudden savage despair that turned the heads of two Israelis, four Papuans and the Ambassador of the Maldives, sitting nearby. “At this moment those bastards are raking in American prisoners, choking off Alaska, taking up war stations everywhere around the globe and demanding that Ted Jason crawl to Moscow. And there he sits issuing pious statements and indulging futile hopes. And a majority of the Congress and the country still supports him 100 per cent. It’s unbelievable … or it would be,” he concluded somberly, “if three decades of constantly being torn down and weakened by our own people hadn’t laid the groundwork for it. That’s where they’ve caught us. A lot of awfully shrewd minds have been doing their work for them for an awfully long time. Now it’s paying off.”
“Oh, come, Lafe!” Krishna Khaleel said with a sudden uncharacteristic asperity. “Surely you are not going to give us that old chestnut about Communist conspiracy, again!”
“Oh, no,” Lafe said. “There’s been some all right, but basically it’s a lot simpler than that, K.K. Basically it’s been a conspiracy of intellectual bias, arrogance and stupidity conducted by a bunch of closed minds who think they’re so superior that they can tell everybody else what’s good for them. It has not been good for them, in my estimation. It has brought us to where we are now, which is one hell of a place to be.”
“Possibly something can be worked out here,” the Indian Ambassador suggested. “I do not think it is entirely gloomy, not by any means. I believe the Russians will be willing to compromise now that they know the United States is not going to indulge in any warlike gestures.”
“Now they know the United States is not going to indulge in warlike gestures!” Lafe began with a frustrated loudness, but then abandoned it abruptly with a wondering shake of the head. “K.K., you’re unbelievable.”
“But I have much company,” the Indian Ambassador pointed out with some smugness. “Much, much company.”
“Yes,” Lafe agreed, “and you’ll all have to live with what’s left after we’re gone.”
“After you’re gone!” K.K. echoed with a tinkling laugh. “Dear Lafe, how dramatic. The United States is not going anywhere but right where it is. How absurd to think otherwise!”
“Some do,” Lord Maudulayne observed with a certain bleakness.
“They have so little faith in mankind’s goodness,” Krishna Khaleel said comfortably. “So little faith!”
“Yes,” Lord Maudulayne agreed dryly. He turned to Lafe with an ironic wink. “What brings you here today, anyway? Sentiment, old times’ sake, spying on the new delegation—?”
“I think my country should have some mourners who understand her terminal condition,” Lafe said dourly. Then he shifted in his chair and smiled in a more relaxed way. “No, seriously, I’m on my way up the Hudson to Oak Lawn to get Jimmy Fry and bring him down to Washington. It seemed only natural to stop in for a bit.”
“How is he?” Raoul Barre asked with the sympathy they all f
elt for the plight of the son of the late U.S. delegate, Senator Harold Fry of West Virginia. The boy was locked in some mental world of his own that no one yet had been able to unlock.
“The same,” Lafe said, his eyes unhappy as he thought of the legacy Hal had entrusted to him just before his death—the handsome youth, pleasant and smiling and so far unreachable. “The doctors think that getting him down to Washington and having him closer to me will be a help.”
“The doctors think or you think?” Claude Maudulayne inquired, and Lafe responded with a little smile.
“I think and then the doctors think. Also, Mabel thinks so too. She agrees, and since she’s willing—well, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t go ahead, since they don’t think it could possibly do any harm and might conceivably do some good.”
“How is Mabel?” Krishna Khaleel inquired. “Is she coming back to Washington, then?”
“I told her during the campaign,” Lafe said, “that after I had won re-election, which I did, that I was going to buy a nice house, which I have, and that then I was going to bring her and Pidge to Washington and marry her. Which,” he said, smiling again, “I am.”
“Alas, what a loss to womankind!” Raoul Barre exclaimed. “They will miss you, Lafe, everywhere.”
“Yes,” Lafe said. “Well. They can miss, as far as I’m concerned. I’ve had it. I’ve got more important things to do, now—namely, Mabel, Pidge and Jimmy.”
“He says it as though he means it,” the Indian Ambassador observed with a smile. “I believe our Lafe is about to become thoroughly domesticated.”
“And not a minute too soon, I gather,” Lord Maudulayne said.
“Not,” Lafe said with a sudden gravity that indicated that the UN’s chasseur formidable had finally exhausted all the possibilities of his restless hunt and concluded with complete finality that there was nothing to it, “a minute too soon.… Say!” His expression changed abruptly, he gestured down the room, they all swung to gaze at the entrance where there was a sudden stir, a sudden hurrying forward, a noise and a babble. “Don’t I see the outriders of the New Day, come to claim the triumph of justice and sweet reason?”
“How exciting!” exclaimed Krishna Khaleel. “We must go and greet them!” And leading the way, he pushed forward vigorously through the rapidly growing throng of delegates until he stood face to face with the new Vice President and Attorney General of the United States.
At first, overwhelmed by a flurry of handshakes, back thumps, arm grabs and general frenzied welcome from their fellow delegates, Roger P. Croy and George Henry Wattersill did not observe Senator Smith, standing quietly behind K.K. with the British and French ambassadors. When they did, their expressions for a moment were classics of surprise, chagrin and disapproval. Lafe studied them with a quizzical, deliberately annoying smile; and then he too stepped forward with an enthusiastic expression that exactly parodied all the white, black, brown, yellow, in-between faces around them, and held out his hand to Roger Croy.
“Mr. Vice President!” he said, while the babble stopped abruptly and everyone craned to hear. “Congratulations, and welcome to the United Nations! How much you can accomplish for our country—assuming, that is,” he added dryly, “that we still share it.”
For a moment he was rewarded with that rare sight, Roger P. Croy nonplussed. But, as always, it did not take the Vice President long to recover.
“I hope so,” he said coolly, “but of course, if not, I daresay the Jason Administration can survive it.”
There was an approving titter from the delegates nearest, and the whispered report went shushing back through the room on a little wave of laughter. The Vice President looked satisfied, Lafe impassive.
“I think we should try to continue to keep our unity,” he said, “because there are many here who would be delighted to see the country split apart.”
“Speak to your friends, Senator,” Roger Croy suggested blandly. “Ours are quite united behind us.”
“And intend to stay that way, too,” George Wattersill remarked stoutly.
Lafe nodded gravely.
“Well, good. I’m glad. I wish you success with your endeavors here, where you will find you are not surrounded by friends of the United States.”
“Lafe!” Krishna Khaleel said indignantly. “I must object to that. I must indeed object most vociferously to that! That is your impression of the United Nations because you were here for two administrations that defied world opinion. The distinguished Vice President and his colleague are here for an Administration that heeds world opinion, that respects world opinion, that supports world opinion and in return is supported by it. That is the difference, Lafe! That is why the United States has nothing to fear here today! That is why the United States is among friends today! That is why all will go well for the United States here today! Is it not so, my friends and fellow delegates?” he demanded, turning to search the full circle of surrounding faces, his eyes appealing, his hands outstretched. “Is it not so?”
With spontaneous cries and friendly applause they endorsed his remarks. Triumphantly he turned back to Lafe.
“You see?” he asked happily. “What has America to fear?”
“It is in that spirit,” said Roger P. Croy with a gracious warmth that dismissed skeptical Senator Smith, “that we come here today.”
“You see?” K.K. cried happily, while all around the delegates applauded vigorously with an eager, kindly approval. “You see?”
Wafted gently in on the wave of such generous and sincere support, the Vice President and the Attorney General took their seats at the green baize circle of the Security Council at approximately ten fifteen. For a few minutes, while other members strolled in casually, while delegation staffs bustled about busily with their papers, and while the crowded galleries (here, as in Washington, filled with a solid and well-prepared representation from NAWAC’s sturdy ranks) ogled and exclaimed at famous names and familiar faces, the new American delegates received the full attention of the media, whose insistent members wanted to know specifically what the United States intended to do in this most serious and fateful moment.
To all inquiries Roger Croy and George Wattersill returned bland smiles and unrevealing answers, except to say repeatedly that they had confidence in the fairness of the United Nations, trust in the good faith of the Soviet Union and a profound conviction that “the collective intelligence of mankind,” as the Vice President put it, would see their country safely through. It was not until Australia, this month’s Council president, gaveled the meeting to order at ten forty-five that their pleasant expressions and air of insistent optimism began to disappear, to be succeeded by a growing, and to many delegates somewhat comic, dismay, as they underwent a crash course in what the world nowadays was really all about.
When Australia’s gavel fell, the Vice President smiled cheerfully at the Attorney General and prepared, in a comfortable and rather stately fashion, to raise a hand for recognition. Unfortunately there was no time for such a courtly gesture. The gavel’s crack and the Soviet Ambassador’s raucous shout for recognition were simultaneous; and after hesitating for a moment while the Americans looked at one another in obvious confusion as to what they should do, Australia reluctantly bowed to another angry shout from across the circle and said, “The delegate of the Soviet Union,” in a disapproving but helpless voice.
“Mr. President of the Council,” Nikolai Zworkyan said, as dark and dour as all his predecessors on the Council including Vasily Tashikov, speaking with a tumbling rush that was obviously intended to batter down all opposition, “Mr. President, the government of the U.S.S.R. rejects utterly and out of hand any attempt by the imperialist capitalist warmongers of the vicious United States regime to justify their actions against world peace in Gorotoland, Panama and the contiguous waters of the Soviet Union. The government of the U.S.S.R., being confronted with aggressive and inexcusable acts on the part of the imperialist capitalist warmongers of the United States in these ar
eas, has taken appropriate action on behalf of the United Nations and in the best interests of all peace-loving peoples of the world to halt these inexcusable acts.
“The government of the U.S.S.R. demands that the Security Council approve this resolution, which I send to the President of the Council with a request that it be read to the Council by the Secretary-General.”
“Well,” Australia said uncertainly as one of the Soviet delegation staff stepped briskly around the circle to hand him the resolution, “well, I—this is rather irregular procedure, to have the resolution read without prior submission to the Council. But if no other delegation—”
His voice waited tentatively and, “Why don’t the Americans do something?” Claude Maudulayne demanded in a fierce whisper of no one in particular. But it appeared that Roger P. Croy and George Henry Wattersill were too new at the game and too filled with innocent dreams of fair play and good will to know what to do.
“I demand that it be read, Mr. President!” Nikolai Zworkyan snapped with a contemptuous look in their direction.
“Very well,” Australia said obediently. “The Secretary-General will read.”
And obediently the Secretary-General, that stately, tired old man from Nigeria, did so in his beautiful, grave voice, his solemn manner and deeply impressive tones serving for a moment or two to camouflage and lend respectability to the sheer terrifying insolence of it—terrifying and insolent to the minds of the remaining friends of the United States, that is, if only right and fitting to the minds of her many enemies.