by Allen Drury
“I never thought,” he said wryly, “that I would find an ally in Beth Knox or she in me. But, yes, they have. They’ve been threatening many of us in the media for quite a while, now. Well back in the campaign, as a matter of fact.”
“But why didn’t you tell us?” she demanded. “Why didn’t somebody—”
“Because he wouldn’t speak out,” he said with a dry bitterness. “And we wanted him to win. And we thought if we complained about his most violent supporters it would hurt his chances. And so we muttered a bit but generally kept quiet.”
“And compromised your own integrity,” she said levelly, and as levelly he answered with what she knew was the most honest word she had ever heard from Walter Dobius:
“Yes.”
They were silent for a moment, studying one another. Presently he resumed in a calm and pragmatic voice.
“I am not defending this and I am not proud of it. By the same token, I am not going to waste your time or mine beating my breast about it. It happened and here we are. The question is, where do we go now?”
“You can’t join the IDF, of course. But maybe you can work in parallel ways.”
“Some of my friends and I have been discussing it,” he said. “You didn’t find the editorials about your venture so very severe this morning, did you?”
She smiled.
“Not at all what I expected. I even detected a certain—what might almost be called tolerance—in certain famous institutions. Not approval, of course, but tolerance.”
“Nobody quite feels we can approve just yet,” he said slowly. “But it may come, and very shortly, if things don’t change.” He paused and studied her for a moment “Beth—can I use this information you’ve just given me, in my column?”
She hesitated for a second, a worried frown crossing her face.
“Not directly,” she said slowly. “Not by name. If you want to say that influential organizers of the IDF are being threatened with violence by supporters of the President—”
“We don’t know that for sure,” he said quickly and with equal quickness she gave him an ironic glance.
“Now don’t tell me you’re going to hide, Walter. I thought we were in the same boat.”
He blinked. Then he nodded with a conceding little smile.
“Will you allow me to say ‘there is good reason to believe that these intimidations come from certain forces supporting the President?’” he inquired. “For the moment that is? I can get stronger as I go along.”
She smiled.
“I’m beginning to rather like you, Walter. I never thought I would.”
It was his turn to be ironic.
“Spoken like a true Knox.” Then his face became grim. “I am worried for our country, Beth. Desperately.”
“So am I,” she said, and decided to tell him her other news. “I am seeing him at three, you know.”
He looked startled but immediately practical.
“Tell him—” he began, and then shrugged with a wry little smile. “I don’t have to tell you what to tell him. Tell him everything there is to tell. Tell him to move.”
“Will you tell him too?” she asked. “And will the Times and the Post and the networks and all the rest? He won’t unless you all begin clamoring for it, too. There’s got to be a great public outcry.”
“Which, if it is to be effective with him,” Walter Dobius pointed out, “cannot be too closely associated with IDF or mobs in Lafayette Square. It has to be respectable.”
“You’re telling me Bill Abbott and my son and Cullee Hamilton and I and the millions who look to us are not respectable?” she demanded with some asperity. “We’re not mobs in Lafayette Square, Walter. But I can tell you this: unless we who are respectable can make our weight felt, and unless we can have the effective, even if not open, support of people like you in the media, then the mobs in Lafayette Square will take over and it will be mob against mob. And then the country really will be gone. This isn’t a semantic game we’re playing, this time. It may be the end of America.”
“I know that, Beth!” he said sharply. “I know that! Why do you think I’m going out on a limb in my column day after day, even though they’ve been hanging around ‘Salubria’—even though those vicious non-entities Van Ackerman, Shelby and Kleinfert came here four months ago and threatened to burn it down if I didn’t go along with Ted Jason? Threatened to burn it down!” he repeated, his face contorted with a naked anguish of which she had never believed him capable. “‘Salubria!’ Burn it down! Burn it down!” He paused and struggled to regain his composure. “No,” he said finally. “Events are forcing us all together, Beth. We’re going the same road. We’ve got to.”
“And we’ve got to now,” she said. “I have this terrible feeling that he’s sleepwalking. The Russians aren’t pulling back a bit—Van Ackerman is pushing his bill on the Hill right this minute—everything’s moving against us—and nothing is being done.”
“You would think,” he said slowly, “that if the Russians felt they had to make any concessions, they would do at least one thing, make at least one gesture. Let the prisoners go, perhaps, or abandon the attempts to blockade Alaska, or something—just one thing. They’re acting completely arrogant, as though we’re absolutely helpless and they don’t have to do a thing.”
“Maybe they’re right,” she said quietly. “Maybe they found him so weak that they feel they can do anything they want—or nothing. It’s terrifying.”
“And then, with that as an excuse, in comes the bill in Congress to impose the first steps of a virtual dictatorship upon us. Everything suddenly doesn’t make sense anymore.” He shook his head grimly. “It is terrifying.”
“You and your friends had better write fast, Walter. There may not be much more time.”
“There may not,” he agreed gravely, “though it seems utterly insane to sit here at the fulcrum of the American Republic and acknowledge the possibility. Are you under sufficient protection?”
“I think so. Are you?”
He shook his head.
“Not really. The local sheriff would try but it wouldn’t be very effective, I’m afraid.”
“You could always come in town and stay at the Metropolitan Club.”
“And leave my home?” he asked sharply. “Never.”
“No more can any of us leave,” she said, her eyes widening in thought, “anywhere in America. We have to stay right where we are and fight it out.”
“I doubt if many would want to do anything else,” he said, “though I pray it may not come to fighting.”
“Or other terrors,” she said. “There are other terrors, besides fighting.”
“Well,” he said, “we mustn’t be so gloomy. Everything isn’t lost yet. I’ve got a column to write—you’ve got an organization to lead—you’re seeing the President at three.” He gave an ironic chuckle, sounding more himself. “Beth Knox at the bridge. Maybe you can save us all.”
“It won’t be for lack of trying,” she promised with the return of a reasonable humor.
“I should think not,” he said with a smile. “Tell me about it afterwards, if you think you can.”
“Will you be home? I’ll call you tonight.”
“I’ll be on the Hill. I’m going in as soon as I finish my column for tomorrow. I want to sit in on this debate.”
“I may be there myself. If I don’t see you, I’ll call in the morning.”
“Good. Thank you very much, Beth. Many old alignments are changing. I think it not too bad that we wind up together.”
“Nor I, Walter,” she said. “Be careful.”
“You too,” he said gravely. “You too.”
How ironic it was, she reflected as his pompous, determined visage faded from the screen, that she and Walter Dobius should find themselves in tacit alliance: how typical of this chaotic moment in the country’s history. The powerful columnist who had bitterly disliked and bitterly opposed her husband for so many years, the rigid and
intolerant liberal who had so savagely denounced everything Orrin Knox stood for, the molder of public opinion who had always done his best to mold it in the leftward direction—suddenly an ally. And one, she admitted honestly, that she was very glad to have. With him would come many influential members of the media, perhaps not in open alliance but in many effective corollary ways that would help to bring a strangely paralyzed President to life again and return the country, if they were lucky, to self-respect and courage and a new start in the face of its enemies.
She listened for a moment at the foot of the stairs, heard Crystal gently snoring. She must wake her soon, for they both wanted to listen for a while to the televised debate on the Help America bill before Beth went to keep her appointment at the White House.
As she turned back to the kitchen to start water boiling to make tea for the two of them, she heard the sound of a car, tires in the driveway. She glanced out to see a police car pulling in. Three young officers got out and started up the walk. She ran the water quickly, put the teakettle on. Then she went to the door in answer to their ring, and let them in.
“You jes’ give ’em hell, now,” the Speaker had told him, scarcely fifteen minutes ago when he stopped by the ornate old office across the corridor from the floor. “You jes’ let ’em have it, and I’ll be right there backin’ you up, because we sure as shootin’ got to help the greatest President this country’s ever had. Yes, sir!”
“Mr. Speaker,” he had said, a little hesitantly, because there was one little nagging worry on his mind and he wanted reassurance before he went forth to make his grand debut upon the national scene.
“Yes, son?” Jawbone responded with the kindly, fatherly air he had begun to adopt toward many of his colleagues, particularly this young smart-as-a-whip crew that had sailed in on Ted Jason’s coattails. “What is it, son?”
“Well, sir,” said Representative Bronson Bernard of New York—“Bronnie” to his constituents, his family and his friends—“well, sir, it’s this: are you sure the President really wants our bill? Is he really behind it? I’d hate to go out on a limb for him and then find out he wasn’t with us. Has he told you he wants it?”
“Well, sir!” Jawbone exclaimed. “Well, now! What on earth makes you think that?”
“Have you talked to him, sir?” Bronnie Bernard persisted politely. “Has he told you so?”
“Well, now,” Jawbone confessed with his ingratiating, puppy-dog smile, “I wouldn’t say I’ve exactly talked to him, you know. Don’t believe much of anybody has, as a matter of fact, since he got back from Moscow. He’s been mighty busy since then, you know, mighty busy—”
“Doing what?” Bronnie Bernard inquired, fixing the Speaker with a gimlet gaze both innocent and implacable.
“Well!” Jawbone said, taken aback. “Well, doing what, yes, doing what!”
“Yes,” Bronnie Bernard agreed pleasantly, “doing what?”
“Studyin’!” Jawbone said. “Workin’! Plannin’ strategy to get us outa this! That’s what! Can’t be bothered with no little ole bitty Congressman, now—like either one of us, here!” he added hastily, as Representative Bernard’s eyes narrowed, not so pleasantly. “Like you or me, both! That man’s got high strategy on his mind, Congressman! Yes, sir, high strategy! He just hasn’t had time to consult with you or me. But I know he wants this bill, now, I know he’s just got to have it, to keep the country calm and u—nited behind him in this great crisis! Why!” he exclaimed with a sudden calculated indignation that did have its effect on Bronnie Bernard, who after all was only twenty-six even if he had won a seat in Congress against all predictions, “Are you telling me that you, a brand-new member here, are going to set yourself up to challenge the President of the U—nited States and maybe betray him, when he is countin’ on you to be one of his best young lieutenants in the years to come? You goin’ to be-tray your President, Congressman Bernard, the first time he turns to you for help? That what you tellin’ your Speaker, now?”
“No, sir,” Bronnie Bernard said hastily. “I’m not going to betray him, I just want to be sure he—”
“You be sure, boy!” Jawbone cried. “You jes’ bet your bottom dollar you be sure! Now you get on out there and give ’em hell, like I tole you! You jes’ give ’em hell and don’t look back! The President’s watchin’ you, Bronnie! He knows what you’re doin’ is right, jes’ like you know what you’re doin’ is right! Isn’t that right, now?”
“I believe we do need legislation to curb disruptive outbreaks against the public interest,” Representative Bernard said carefully. “I believe it is imperative that the President be free of radical public pressures while he formulates and administers his policies for peace. I believe—”
“Well, then!” Jawbone cried triumphantly. “You jes’ believe and you keep right on believin’, and before you know it we’ll have passed this bill of yours and you’ll be a great man, Congressman Bernard! A great man, and you’ll get your reward for it, too! This Administration won’t forget you, Congressman! You’ll find we take care of our own in this Administration!”
“That,” said Bronnie Bernard with an instantaneous icy disapproval, “is exactly the type of old politics most of us new members have come here determined to wipe out. You cannot bribe me, Mr. Speaker. I do what I do because it is right, and my reward is a conscience satisfied and at rest. You would not understand that in your generation but I suggest to you that it is the key to understanding mine. We do what is right because it is right. Try to grasp that fact, Mr. Speaker. It will make your duties here much simpler and more agreeable if you do.”
And turning on his heel with a fine indignation, he strode out, narrowly missing collision with the newsmen who were beginning to straggle in for the Speaker’s usual precession press briefing.
“Well,” Jawbone called weakly after his sternly departing back, “you give ’em hell now, you hear? You give ’em hell!”
Which of course was exactly what he intended to do, Bronnie Bernard told himself with a still seething disgust as he took his seat toward the rear of the chamber. And he didn’t need that dithering old Southern reactionary fool who unfortunately happened to be Speaker to tell him about it, either. He would like to have direct assurance of the President’s support, but he was prepared to move forward anyway, because he knew as well as Swarthman did that the President really did want the bill. He wanted it, Bronnie knew, because he needed it; and concerning the fact that he needed it, Bronnie had no doubt. He had a conviction about this that was visceral because it was generational. Bronnie was a very bright product of a very determined educational process, and it was inevitable that he should therefore be the perfect instrument for what some called the Help America bill and others called the dictatorship bill.
In the mind of Bronson Bernard certain basic tenets had been implanted by his teachers at every stage from grammar school through college, and nothing was ever going to shake them. The United States of America was no damned good. Its ideals were a mockery. Its history was a fraud. Its purposes were corrupt. Its achievements were empty. Its hopes were a sham, and its dreams were a lie. Whatever good might have come from it here and there over the years—and that was precious little—had been entirely inadvertent and accidental. It was sinister, hypocritical, imperialistic, racist, worthless and cruel. It was a mess, and if it happened to provide one with a substantial amount of material comfort and an amazing amount of personal freedom, that was entirely aside from its true nature and a dividend you shouldn’t question but should just make the most of while you did your best to tear the country down.
So believed Bronnie Bernard and so believed many millions of his generation who had spent their adolescent years passing through American schools, reading American newspapers and magazines, watching American television and listening to American radio, absorbing with rapt and respectful attention the savage attacks and denigrations of American intellectual and cultural leaders. The end result had been to make of Bronnie and his like
exactly what they were: human time bombs perfectly trained and programmed to go off, in due course, in every area where a nation must look to find its endurance and its strength.
Now in increasing numbers they were taking their places in the educational apparatus, moving into the law, being appointed to the courts, taking over medicine and public health, acquiring more and more control of the media and the arts, rising to ever more influential positions in the economy, being elected to city councils, school boards, state legislatures, Congress. The Jason landslide had been a turning point in more ways than one, for it had finally brought Bronnie and his generation close to full control of both houses of Congress. Given the number of wavering elders who still remained—those who had always been dreadfully self-conscious about doing anything that could possibly be labeled “illiberal” or “reactionary” by a relentless media and a vindictive intellectual community, those who could always be scared into line by a raucous hoot of “conservative!”—and Bronnie and his newly elected colleagues just about had it made.
And in all of this, of course, there was no “conspiracy,” no “cabal,” no “organized infiltration”—at least on their part. They were quite genuine, quite idealistic, quite honorable on their own terms and quite sincere. They were simply the raw material for the Fred Van Ackermans to use, the conditioned, willing, eager stooges of the manipulators who knew exactly where they were going and exactly how they were going to get there.
They were absolutely innocent, absolutely earnest, absolutely righteous and absolutely terrifying. They knew, because they had never been allowed to know anything else, that they were the children of a rotten country that had to be changed no matter what the change might do to liberty or to human beings. They were without objectivity, compassion, the power to analyze or any points of historical or moral reference because objectivity had been destroyed, compassion had been withheld, the power to analyze had been turned upside down, and history and the concept of moral reference had been deliberately and scornfully dismissed.