Preserve and Protect Read online

  There followed another two hours of bitter attack upon the United States, the gist of it being a series of stern warnings that, in the British Ambassador’s words, “No self-respecting nation is going to accept the unilateral attempt to control trade with a government which many members of the United Nations have already recognized as legitimate.” Lafe Smith summed up the adamant position of the United States in his openly angry reply:

  “The time is coming, and possibly very soon, when the United States may have to disregard world opinion and proceed in the vital interests of its own security to take whatever action it deems necessary to end the dangers to world peace in Gorotoland and Panama.”

  Furnishing background to all this, the ubiquitous news-tickers in the corridors and lobbies kept up their clicking, clanging, clattering reports, which did not help the American position:

  MBUELE BOMBED. U.S. ADVANCE SLOWED BY SAVAGE FIGHTING. RED TANKS, JETS, JOIN BATTLE. LABAIYA WELCOMES TRADE WITH ALL NATIONS.

  In all those areas of public opinion and politics in which issues live and have their continuing being long after votes are cast and supposedly “final” decisions rendered, the tide of worried, nervous, uneasy, unfriendly comment continued through the night and into the headlines of the morning of the day on which a President was to be buried.

  ARRIVING NATIONAL COMMITTEE MEMBERS SPLIT BY WAR CRISIS … JASON CONDEMNS EMBARGO THREAT, URGES END TO GOROTO BOMBING … KNOX DEFENDS ADMINISTRATION, SAYS CRITICS OFFER “NO PRACTICAL ALTERNATIVE” … SENATE, HOUSE FOREIGN AFFAIRS HEADS CALL FOR NEGOTIATION, END TO ESCALATION … CROY PREDICTS JASON “INEVITABLE NOW” FOR NOMINATION, MUNSON CLAIMS KNOX “INESCAPABLE CHOICE” … VIOLENCE THREAT SEEN IF GOVERNOR NOT CHOSEN … PRESIDENT REMAINS SILENT ON COMMITTEE PLANS … DEMAND MOUNTS FOR CONVENTION RECALL …

  And in the world of Walter Wonderful, the comments and editorials, the analyses and advisories, were solemn and severe:

  “Even more than before,” The Greatest Publication That Absolutely Ever Was said in its lead editorial, “it is incumbent upon the members of the National Committee now gathering in Washington to take most seriously their grave task of selecting a new Presidential nominee. Coming as it does against a background of escalation in Gorotoland, and what seems to us a most dangerous principle of unilateral embargo of Panama, the choosing of a new nominee may well be one of the gravest events of this century.

  “Not only is the circumstance in which the Committee meets one without historical precedent—for never has a Presidential nominee died before an election—but the general background of events is such as to call forth the prayers of all thoughtful men upon the Committee’s work. Whether it decides to reconvene the convention—the course that seems to us the most straightforward and desirable—or whether its 106 members reserve to themselves this desperately important task, we wish it well.

  “There is one other aspect which gives to its deliberations an awesome, even an ominous cast: the possibility that some supporters of Governor Jason may—if thwarted of their right to have the man they want at the head of the ticket—resort to acts of violence.

  “Such acts, we believe, would be abhorrent. But, given the depth of feeling which has gathered around this remarkable and gifted man, we can see where some might consider them justified.”

  And from Walter himself, concluding his column for the day:

  “Washington waits upon the man who sits silent in the White House—the man who, having fled silently from his California retreat, by silent means, for silent purposes, has come finally, in silence, to his capital.

  “Washington knows what President Abbott will do in foreign affairs, for he has already demonstrated by his actions in recent hours in Gorotoland, Panama and the United Nations, what he will do: more of the same. More of the same dangerous gambling with the peace of the world which characterized the late President Hudson and still characterizes the Hudson-Abbott Secretary of State, Orrin Knox. More of the same use of violence in international affairs which has led, and can only continue to lead, to violence in domestic affairs as well.

  “Washington does not know, however, what President Abbott will do with regard to the choice of a nominee to head his party’s ticket in November. Washington knows that the choice will do one of two things: if it be Secretary Knox, it will send the nation further down the road of escalation, power politics, unilateral violations of the peace of the world. If it be Governor Jason, it will return America to the course of negotiation, responsibility, collective safety and peace.

  “Washington waits upon the silent man in the White House, while the fate of this and future generations hangs in the balance, and while all around us the dark visage and fearful aspect of Violence Unchained threatens the Republic should the wrong decision be made.”

  But from the White House, as the world howled on and many of the President’s countrymen sought to bend the future to their purposes according to their lights, there came no word. The press secretary would say only that the Chief Executive was preparing for the funeral tomorrow, and for the diplomatic reception he would give afterward at the State Department. He would have, the secretary said, no further word of any kind this night.

  7

  Nor did he see, really, why he should have, as another day began, this time far from Tahoe and a relatively calm atmosphere that he never expected to know again as long as he held this office. He had reached the mansion Monday afternoon, and his hours since had been absorbed in such an onslaught of pressures, crises and decisions that he had hardly had a moment to stop and think. As soon as the helicopter had deposited him on the lawn, he had been met by secretaries, Cabinet officers, old friends from the Hill, each bringing good wishes and encouragement inextricably entwined with his own particular problem. All the problems, it seemed, demanded immediate attention. The President had found that somehow he was supposed to solve them all and at the same time sit down and familiarize himself with the latest news from the battlefronts; send suitable tributes to the funerals today of Air Force One’s other victims; brief himself on the most recent developments in the missile race; the status of the American landing-station on the moon which had been established at the time of the Leffingwell nomination and had been growing rapidly in area and manpower ever since; the condition of the national economy; the diplomatic picture all over the world; the progress of negotiations in the shipping and railway disputes; the latest plan for urban renewal; the latest plan for fighting crime; the bill to establish twenty new national park, forest and seaside areas; the alternative programs for either expanding the Peace Corps or finally doing away with it altogether; the progress of the revised foreign aid program; the proposal that the Administration subsidize the so-called “M.M.” or “Modi-Missile,” the modified passenger missile with which the airlines hoped to replace all their old-fashioned supersonic jets by the turn of the century; the need for new constructions on the Tennessee, the Hudson, the Missouri, the Potomac, the Colorado and the Columbia rivers to serve the almost solid T.R.A.’s (“Triple R Areas”—Residence, Retail and Recreation) which now stretched out in all directions from those principal waterways; whether to increase the antimissile defense line; the latest “personnel problem” in the State Department, which was the same old problem with only a new group of more or less famous faces to differentiate it from the last “personnel problem” in the State Department; the latest intelligence reports on the Communist Chinese drive toward Indonesia and the white nations beyond; and finally, Harley’s death, the call of the National Committee, the planning of the funeral and all its attendant ceremonies and events, not the least of them being the problem posed by Patsy Labaiya who, true to her intention, had livened things up a bit by announcing a reception for the National Committee to be held the day after.

  Somehow he had managed to go through all this without losing his temper, with a reasonable serenity, and with a smile for almost everyone. The only time he had not smiled had been when Mr. Justice Thomas Buckmaster Davis, that busy littl
e soul who bustled about the edge of events neglecting his Supreme Court duties in favor of putting two fingers into every political pie, had insisted on seeing him last night. Their conversation had taken place after the American veto at the UN, and Tommy Davis’ concern had been about equally divided between chagrin at this shocking new example of Administration intransigence and his ill-concealed glee that the worldwide reaction would help Ted Jason. In fact, after a sufficient amount of burbling, in his determined, fussy way, he had finally come out with the flat statement,

  “Now, you know, Mr. President, that Ted stands to gain by this. He just can’t escape it. You know that!”

  “I do?” the President had inquired with an ominous quiet that would have served as warning to his colleagues on the Hill.

  “Of course you do!” Tommy exclaimed triumphantly. “You know you do!”

  “Now, how the hell,” the President asked, spreading his hands flat out on the desk before him and staring at his ubiquitous visitor with all the impatience of Mr. Speaker at his most imperial, “would I know that? I have a country to run. Tommy, I can’t be chasing around after little old messy politics all the time.”

  “Bill!” Tommy exclaimed. “Now, Mr. President, my dear boy—”

  “I’m only about five years younger than you are, Tommy,” the President interrupted. “Some ‘boy!’ I’m not one of your little legislative scholarship fellows who sits at Mr. Justice Davis’ feet and thinks all wisdom flows from there. I know it’s just political athlete’s foot.”

  “Mr. President,” Tommy Davis said indignantly, “now that is hitting below the belt. You are perfectly aware that I only participate in these programs because these fine young people from all over the country ask specifically to talk to me. I don’t volunteer myself, Bill, you know I’ve never been one to do that. They always ask to see Mr. Justice Davis. Far more of them, I might add,” he remarked with a somewhat waspish satisfaction, “than ask to see some of my distinguished brethren on the Bench. They know who can give them accurate information on what’s going on in Washington, Bill. They’re not fools!”

  “And then they go back home with Washington As Seen By Tommy Davis clutched to their breasts and live in its light forever after. My God!” the President said, slapping one hand on the desk. “It’s a wonder America survives!”

  “Well, she won’t survive, I can tell you that,” Justice Davis said sharply, “if Orrin Knox gets that nomination and becomes President.”

  “Sound pretty positive there, Tommy boy,” the President remarked. “What makes you so certain? For that matter, what makes you so certain Orrin’s going to have a chance at it? Or Ted either, for that matter?”

  “Now, surely you don’t mean—” Tommy began. His dismay became almost quivering, “Surely you can’t mean—!”

  “Why not?” the President inquired blandly. “I’m not doing so badly, Tommy. Maybe I like it here.”

  “But—”

  “After all, it’s a nice job. It grows on you. Might be I’ll just stick around for a while, Tommy, and take that nomination myself. How would that be?”

  “I think you will find,” Justice Davis said, recovering with some effort, but recovering rapidly, “that it will not be as simple as you think, Bill. Even you will find difficulty in overcoming the great public demand which has centered for many months—and centers still—upon Governor Jason.”

  “Think it still does, eh? Well, I’m not so sure, Tommy. After that performance at the convention, and condoning all this violence, and all—”

  “He issued a statement repudiating it!” Tommy Davis declared indignantly. “He just issued another, after the riot Sunday night. What do you want him to do, for heaven’s sake, Bill?”

  “It’s one thing to issue statements,” the President remarked. “This is a very statement-issuing town. It’s another, how a man acts. Now, you take Ted Jason, it seems to me I’ve never seen a more perfect example of trying to maintain with your mouth that your feet aren’t going where they’re headed.”

  “He’s a great public servant, doing the best he can in a difficult situation—”

  “Tommy,” the President said, holding up a hand. “I’m a great public servant, doing the best I can in a difficult situation. But when I say something, I mean it. That’s the difference between the two of us, Tommy, and it doesn’t take McCullough versus Tippecanoe to decide that.”

  “Marbury versus Madison,” Justice Davis corrected automatically. “The thing is, Mr. President, you have to realize the difficult position that Ted is in vis-à-vis all these radical violent elements in the country—”

  “I realize the position we’re all in,” the President said. “It’s damned frightening. We’ve got to put them down before they put us down. What’s your governor doing to help?”

  “My governor, as you call him,” Tommy said with dignity, “is trying to offer a constructive alternative to a foreign policy which seems to many sincere Americans to be leading us straight to the destruction of the world.”

  “And these sincere Americans will destroy America if they don’t get their way,” the President said. “Yes.” He sat back and surveyed his visitor with a disgusted air. “They’re a pack of children. Mean, nasty, evil little children, who will pull the house down if they don’t get their way. I despise them!” He slapped his hand down hard again upon the desk. “And I despise anyone who can’t see that by rationalizing their violence and calling it a genuine protest against policy he’s doing their work for them and endangering—really endangering, Tommy, face it—the very life of his country.”

  “There,” Justice Davis said archly. “There, my dear boy, you may get an argument.”

  “Yes,” the President said. “Well. In any event, Tommy, it may all be academic, because, as I say, I may take that nomination myself.”

  “You can’t win it,” Justice Davis said flatly, and returned the President’s challenging look with defiant head held high, bright little eyes snapping in his keen little face.

  “Want to bet?” the President asked softly.

  “I don’t bet,” Tommy said, “but I think you would lose it, all the same.”

  And possibly, the President thought after his visitor had gone bustling away, Tommy Davis was right, although he wasn’t about to admit it to him, or even to himself, really. At the moment he did not have the slightest intention of running, but one never knew. At least he had achieved what he wanted with the threat of it: Tommy had announced defiantly that, late as it was, he was going to telephone his bosom buddy, the general director of the Post, “and I think you may find very lively opposition developing, Bill.” “That’s fine,” the President said calmly. “I like a good fight.” The more smoke he could throw up, at the moment, the better for the purposes he had in mind.

  He had sat for a moment longer at his desk in the upstairs study, and then rose, as so many of his predecessors had before him, and walked out onto the balcony to stare across at the Washington Monument rising immaculate and perfect against the suffocating night. It had been another day in the nineties, no breeze stirred, the heat still lay heavy on Washington. He thought of many things and many men, and sighed. There was never peace in this house. Never.

  Why, then, did so many want it, and why did even he, who had come to it unexpectedly and without desire, find himself perilously close to wanting it too?

  Now, after a reasonably sound sleep, he had awakened to a day that seemed everywhere, and particularly in this sad house, unusually hushed and still. Everything was muted, there was little of the subdued but insistent stir and movement that he had already, in two short days in residence, come to recognize as characteristic of the White House as day began. His sister and brother-in-law in the next bedroom talked in quiet murmurs as they went about getting up. The knock of the valet on his door was startlingly loud. When the maid came with the breakfast trolley, the clink of silver on china and ice on glass seemed shattering. They ate on the balcony, and in the open air the hu
sh over the city seemed as deep and complete as the silence in the house.

  “Well,” he said finally, pushing back from the table, “if you’ll excuse me, I have an errand to perform.”

  “Give her our love,” his sister said, and he nodded.

  “I’ll be in my office, after. They want us to be downstairs at the door promptly at eleven-fifteen.”

  “Yes,” his sister said.

  Quietly he left the balcony, quietly he went along the corridor to the other wing, smiling briefly but not speaking to the two solemn-faced maids he met along the way, and the two Marines who stood at attention by the stairs. Outside the door he paused for a moment to talk to the Navy nurse who had taken up vigil when Beth Knox and Dolly Munson had finally gone home yesterday morning. Then he knocked gently, heard her soft voice bid him enter. This was what the pomp and circumstance came to, when all was said and done: a sad widow, looking at him with sad eyes.

  “Lucille, my dear,” he said gravely, bending down to kiss her on the cheek. “How are you today?”

  “Not—too bad, Bill,” she said, with a little effort, but managing. “I think I’m almost ready.” She gave him a fleeting, self-deprecating smile. “I’ve been ready since six a.m., actually.” She raised a hand that trembled noticeably and brushed her hair back above her right eye. “Now, isn’t that foolish of me?”

  “No,” he said quietly. “It is not. May I sit down?”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” she said hastily. “What will you think of me? Sit over there by the window and I’ll join you in a minute. The doctor says I’m to finish at least half my cereal, but”—and again the fleeting, sad little smile—“it isn’t easy.”

  “I think he’s right,” he said, sitting on one of the sofas that faced each other across a rich ruby Aubusson. “It’s going to be a difficult day.”

  At this comment, perhaps too blunt and unvarnished, but characteristic, she looked genuinely amused for a second.

  “Dear Bill,” she said. “Dear old Mr. Speaker!” Then the animation faded, the sadness rushed back. “I wonder,” she said quietly, “if I’ll get through it.”