word released, but--" He shruggedand motioned Shandor to a seat. "You know how it goes."
Shandor sat down, his face blank, eyeing the Information chiefwoodenly. The room was silent for a moment, a tense, anticipatorysilence. Then Hart said: "The Rocket story was great, Tommy. A realwriting job. You've got the touch, when it comes to a ticklish newsrelease--"
Shandor allowed an expression of distaste to cross his face. He lookedat the chubby man across the desk and felt the distaste deepen andcrystallize. John Hart's face was round, with little lines going up fromthe eyes, an almost grotesque, burlesque-comic face that belied the icypractical nature of the man behind it. A thoroughly distasteful face,Shandor thought. Finally he said, "The story, John. On Ingersoll. Let'shave it, straight out."
Hart shrugged his stocky shoulders, spreading his hands. "Ingersoll'sdead," he said. "That's all there is to it. He's stone-cold dead."
"But he can't be dead!" roared Shandor, his face flushed. "We just can't_afford_ to have him dead--"
Hart looked up wearily. "Look, I didn't kill him. He went home from theWhite House this evening, apparently sound enough, after a long, stiff,nasty conference with the President. Ingersoll wanted to go to Berlinand call a showdown at the International conference there, and he had apolicy brawl with the President, and the President wouldn't let him go,sent an undersecretary instead, and threatened to kick Ingersoll out ofthe cabinet unless he quieted down. Ingersoll got home at 4:30,collapsed at 5:00, and he was dead before the doctor arrived. Cerebralhemorrhage, pretty straightforward. Ingersoll's been killing himself foryears--he knew it, and everyone else in Washington knew it. It was boundto happen sooner or later."
"He was trying to prevent a war," said Shandor dully, "and he was all byhimself. Nobody else wanted to stop it, nobody that mattered, at anyrate. Only the people didn't want war, and who ever listens to them?Ingersoll got the people behind him, so they gave him a couple of NobelPeace Prizes, and made him Secretary of State, and then cut his throatevery time he tried to do anything. No wonder he's dead--"
Hart shrugged again, eloquently indifferent. "So he was a nice guy, hewanted to prevent a war. As far as I'm concerned, he was a pain in theneck, the way he was forever jumping down Information's throat, but he'sdead now, he isn't around any more--" His eyes narrowed sharply. "Theimportant thing, Tommy, is that the people won't like it that he's dead.They trusted him. He's been the people's Golden Boy, their last-ditchhope for peace. If they think their last chance is gone with his death,they're going to be mad. They won't like it, and there'll be hell topay--"
Shandor lit a smoke with trembling fingers, his eyes smouldering. "Sothe people have to be eased out of the picture," he said flatly."They've got to get the story so they won't be so angry--"
Hart nodded, grinning. "They've got to have a real story, Tommy. Big,blown up, what a great guy he was, defender of the peace, greatest, mostinfluential man America has turned out since the half-century--you knowwhat they lap up, the usual garbage, only on a slightly higher plane.They've got to think that he's really saved them, that he's turned overthe reins to other hands just as trustworthy as his--you can give thepresident a big hand there--they've got to think his work is the basisof our present foreign policy--can't you see the implications? It's gotto be spread on with a trowel, laid on skillfully--"
Shandor's face flushed deep red, and he ground the stub of his smoke outviciously. "I'm sick of this stuff, Hart," he exploded. "I'm sick ofyou, and I'm sick of this whole rotten setup, this business of writingreams and reams of lies just to keep things under control. Ingersoll wasa great man, a _really_ great man, and he was _wasted_, thrown away. Heworked to make peace, and he got laughed at. He hasn't done athing--because he couldn't. Everything he has tried has been useless,wasted. _That's_ the truth--why not tell that to the people?"
Hart stared. "Get hold of yourself," he snapped. "You know your job.There's a story to write. The life of David Ingersoll. It has to go downsmooth." His dark eyes shifted to his hands, and back sharply toShandor. "A propagandist has to write it, Tommy--an ace propagandist.You're the only one I know that could do the job."
"Not me," said Shandor flatly, standing up. "Count me out. I'm throughwith this, as of now. Get yourself some other whipping boy. Ingersollwas one man the people could trust. And he was one man I could neverface. I'm not good enough for him to spit on, and I'm not going to sellhim down the river now that he's dead."
With a little sigh John Hart reached into the desk. "That's very odd,"he said softly. "Because Ingersoll left a message for you--"
Shandor snapped about, eyes wide. "Message--?"
The chubby man handed him a small envelope. "Apparently he wrote that along time ago. Told his daughter to send it to Public Information Boardimmediately in event of his death. Read it."
Shandor unfolded the thin paper, and blinked unbelieving:
_In event of my death during the next few months, a certain amount of biographical writing will be inevitable. It is my express wish that this writing, in whatever form it may take, be done by Mr. Thomas L. Shandor, staff writer of the Federal Public Information Board._
_I believe that man alone is qualified to handle this assignment._
_(Signed) David P. Ingersoll Secretary of State, United States of America._
_4 June, 1981_
Shandor read the message a second time, then folded it carefully andplaced it in his pocket, his forehead creased. "I suppose you want thestory to be big," he said dully.
Hart's eyes gleamed a moment of triumph. "As big as you can make it," hesaid eagerly. "Don't spare time or effort, Tommy. You'll be relieved ofall assignments until you have it done--if you'll take it."
"Oh, yes," said Shandor softly. "I'll take it."
* * * * *
He landed the small PIB 'copter on an airstrip in the outskirts ofGeorgetown, haggled with Security officials for a few moments, andgrabbed an old weatherbeaten cab, giving the address of the Ingersollestate as he settled back in the cushions. A small radio was set insidethe door; he snapped it on, fiddled with the dial until he found a PIBnews report. And as he listened he felt his heart sink lower and lower,and the old familiar feeling of dirtiness swept over him, the feeling ofbeing a part in an enormous, overpowering scheme of corruption anddegradation. The Berlin conference was reaching a common meeting ground,the report said, with Russian, Chinese, and American officials makingthe first real progress in the week of talks. Hope rising for an earlyarmistice on the Indian front. Suddenly he hunched forward, blinking insurprise as the announcer continued the broadcast: "The Secretary ofState, David Ingersoll, was stricken with a slight head cold thisevening on the eve of his departure for the Berlin Conference, and wasadvised to postpone the trip temporarily. John Harris Darby, firstundersecretary, was dispatched in his place. Mr. Ingersoll expressedconfidence that Mr. Darby would be able to handle the talks as well ashimself, in view of the optimistic trend in Berlin last night--"
Shandor snapped the radio off viciously, a roar of disgust rising in histhroat, cut off just in time. Lies, lies, lies. Some people _knew_ theywere lies--what could they really think? People like David Ingersoll'swife--
Carefully he reined in his thoughts, channelled them. He had called theIngersoll home the night before, announcing his arrival this morning--
The taxi ground up a gravelled driveway, stopped before an Army jeep atthe iron-grilled gateway. A Security Officer flipped a cigarette ontothe ground, shaking his head. "Can't go in, Secretary's orders."
Shandor stepped from the cab, briefcase under his arm. He showed hiscard, scowled when the officer continued shaking his head. "Orders say_nobody_--"
"Look, blockhead," Shandor grated. "If you want to hang by your toes, Ican put through a special check-line to Washington to confirm myappointment here. I'll also recommend you for the salt mines."
He was admitted to the huge house by a stone-faced butler, who led himthrough a maze of corridors into a huge dining room. Morning sunlightgleamed through a glassed-in wall, and Shandor stopped at the door,almost speechless.
He knew he'd seen the girl
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