by Allen Drury
He was forthright enough to admit to himself that finding good in what many would consider evil might be all an elaborate rationalization, and yet if it was, both he and society profited from it, so what matter the label that was put upon it? Men, he had observed, believed about themselves what they had to believe to keep going; and matched against the general motley he did not think his method for coming to terms with himself was any worse than anyone else’s. At least he felt that it was a positive reaction to something that otherwise could have been a constant drag upon his life, and so he did not quibble over the thought processes that permitted it. He had managed to emerge whole: he was grateful that it should be so, and wise enough not to question it.
Not, however, that anything changed the fact born in him that beneath the solid, easygoing, and likeable exterior there lived what was basically a highly independent and lone-wolf character: if anything, the years had strengthened the tendency to that. The self-reliance he had shown so early, the ability to smile and keep his counsel and go his own way had been steadily strengthened, in school, in war, in politics. One of those people, found so often in high official position, whose outward cordiality, responsiveness, and warmth persuade that they are giving much more of themselves than they actually are, he continued to remain essentially alone. He moved slowly and carefully, seeking few men’s advice, usually withholding his own, weighing all the facts before taking action, acting decisively on his own independent conclusions, and considering himself answerable to practically nothing but his own conscience and the state of Utah. There was always that area of unreachability remaining inside where he worked things out in his own mind and formed his own judgments without much regard to those of others; it was this, though she did not realize it fully, that Mabel was up against in a more personal context. Fortunately, because his mind was astute and very well informed, this habit of independence usually brought him out on the right side of things in most cases, however much it might sometimes bother those who valued his support and sought to win it. Even to Orrin and Lafe he would on occasion show a frustratingly obdurate aloofness, sometimes on subjects on which they thought they were entitled as his two closest friends in the Senate to know his thinking. If he wished to let them have it, he did, and if he didn’t, he didn’t. Both had exploded at him at times for this, but he had only remained good-natured and uncommunicative, not telling them until he got good and ready.
It was this trait, perhaps, which more than any other accounted for his action last night when he had decided entirely on his own initiative to reopen the Leffingwell hearings. He might have consulted with Orrin, if Orrin had been available, but most probably he wouldn’t have. He might, if he were someone else, explain his reasons to the subcommittee, the Majority Leader, and the press during the day today; but he was pretty sure he wouldn’t. He had made the decision which seemed most valid to him, to make an announcement keeping the hearings alive if they should be needed, and then to refuse comment until he had been given an opportunity to talk to the man who had appointed Bob Leffingwell and find out what he intended to do. It might be that the whole thing could be ironed out in private conference, that the nomination could be withdrawn—the step he now felt imperative and the only one he would accept without an open fight—and another sent in before the truth could get out; and then in all probability it never would. Then it might all be smoothed over, with some embarrassment for the President, true, and with great disappointment and public reproach for the nominee; but that was politics, and politics, as Brigham Anderson had noted in seven years could sometimes be a most cruel and heartless business. Those who entered it took upon themselves always the possibility that it might someday turn without pity upon them. This the President knew; this the nominee knew; and so did he.
So he had made his decision alone shortly after midnight, not knowing what had prompted James Morton’s call, for the man did not tell him, knowing only that it had come to him as chairman of the subcommittee bearing a responsibility to the Senate, the country, and his own integrity to do something about it. Given the character he had, he could have taken no other course. As he was, so he acted; a human tendency that in the average run of things produces nothing very drastic, even though in this case, time, place, and circumstance again combined against him to see to it that it did.
And even so, the sun was bright, the winds were warm, and spring was here. And even so, despite his recurring somber mood and despite the steadily-widening ramifications of the Leffingwell matter in the wake of his decision, he was glad to be alive and confident he could easily handle whatever, in this golden season, the future might divulge.
***
Chapter 3
“What in the hell is going on up there?” the voice at the other end of the line demanded, and the Majority Leader could tell its owner was not in much mood for nonsense this morning. He decided to be equally vigorous.
“I’m damned if I know,” he said crisply. “What does it look like?”
“Haven’t you talked to him?” the President asked sharply, and Senator Munson let his voice become deliberately unhurried.
“No, I haven’t,” he said thoughtfully. “I’ve been thinking possibly he might get in touch with me, but he hasn’t yet.”
“This is a hell of a note,” the President observed.
“It has its embarrassing aspects,” Bob Munson agreed politely.
“Maybe I should call him myself,” the President suggested.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” the Senator said firmly. “No, I don’t think so at all. Have you ever gotten to know him very well?”
“Not particularly,” the President said. “You know how it is in this job, everything gets formalized and everybody stands on ceremony; a few formal meetings, conferences, and so on are about all you get to see of anybody who doesn’t work here. I gather it’s a rather independent personality.”
“That’s hardly the word,” Bob Munson said. “He’s the original Cat That Walks Alone. But a hell of a nice guy, for all that. We’re pretty well sold on Brig up here, as you know, so maybe you’d just better let us handle it our own way.”
“Fred Van Ackerman isn’t sold on him,” the President said slowly, and the Majority Leader snorted.
“Fred isn’t sold on anybody but Fred,” he said shortly, “so don’t get any illusions on that score. However, it’s just as I told you, he’s on your side for this trip, so let’s don’t be too impolite about him.”
The President replied with a short and ancient Anglo-Saxon word that made his listener chuckle.
“Is this call being monitored?” he asked, and the President laughed.
“Better not be,” he said, “the churches would be after me like lightning....Well. To get back to our problem. What do you intend to do about it?”
“I intend to let him work it out in his own way without too much prodding from me,” Bob Munson said. “I’d suggest you do likewise. It’s the only way to handle him.”
“It puts me on one hell of a spot, you know,” the President said soberly. “There’s an awful lot riding on this nomination.”
“Oh, I know.” Senator Munson said. “Don’t think I’m unaware of it. I have a certain investment in it myself, don’t forget.”
“You should have let it come to a vote yesterday and it would all have been over with,” the President said. The Majority Leader laughed, rather humorlessly.
“Do you know what would have happened if I had?” he inquired. “I’ll tell you. If that nomination had been put to a vote yesterday afternoon it would have lost by four votes.”
“You mean that lecture on the ancient rights and duties of the Senate wasn’t just a spontaneous tribute?” the President asked dryly. “I thought you meant it.”
“There’s more than one reason for making a speech,” Bob Munson said. “Of course I meant it. I meant every word of it. You downtown types just don’t understand what the old place means to us who love it. Or what it means to the country, for t
hat matter. But the speech also had its purpose. Most things I do have a purpose.”
“Yes, Bobby,” the President said. “Don’t get on your high horse.”
“Sometimes principles and purpose coincide,” the Senator remarked. “You ought to know.”
“It’s helped me a thousand times,” the President agreed amicably. “So you haven’t got the votes yet, eh?”
“No, sir,” the Majority Leader said. “Your little boy isn’t out of the woods yet even if he was able to tag the opposition’s witness with a bad case of mental heebie-jeebies.”
“And now Brig thinks he knows something we don’t know,” the President said thoughtfully. “I wonder what it is?”
“Why don’t you call in your man and ask him?” Senator Munson suggested bluntly. “Have you talked to him?”
“No,” the President admitted.
“Don’t you think you should?” Bob Munson demanded.
“I’m like you,” the President said. “I’m waiting for him to call me.”
“Isn’t it a little more important than that?” Senator Munson inquired. “After all, this is a Secretary of State.”
“Maybe we’re both being too coy,” the President said.
“I’m not,” the Majority Leader said. “I know my man. Do you?”
“Well,” the President said thoughtfully, and stopped. “I think so,” he said, and stopped again. “Yes, I think so,” he went on firmly after a moment, “on the basis of everything I have ever seen of him or know of him. I notice they didn’t lay a glove on him up there. They gave him quite a grilling and he came through it with flying colors and his cause intact. What more do you want?”
“Is that all you want?” Senator Munson asked, and again there was a pause on the line. Then the President spoke firmly.
“What are we working ourselves into, anyway?” he demanded. “Just because one of your stubborn little charges gets a bee in his bonnet, we’re letting it give us the shakes. The hearing brought up and answered all the charges, the record is clear; he already had the press with him and now I think he’s got most of the country as well. He’s come out of it in fine shape, and I really don’t see what the problem is. Do you?”
“All I know,” Bob Munson observed quietly, “is that Brig doesn’t go off half-cocked. If he thinks he knows something, chances are he does know something. That’s what’s got me worried.”
“Yes,” the President said, and suddenly his tone hardened. “What will it take to buy him off?”
The Majority Leader gave an impatient exclamation.
“He can’t be bought,” he said. The President snorted.
“Everybody can be bought,” he said shortly. Senator Munson laughed without humor.
“The hell you say,” he remarked dryly. “Brig can’t. Orrin can’t. Seab can’t. I can’t Oh, I can name you quite a few who can’t. Think of something else.”
“Are you with me or against me on this?” the President demanded sharply. “Which is it?”
“That depends,” Bob Munson said deliberately. “What are you offering?” Then he went on in a more comfortable tone.
“I’m with you,” he said. “The record reads all right, on the whole. I think he did a good job of handling himself, nothing really damaging is in there. Of course I’m with you. This’ll work out, don’t worry. I expect after he’s had time to think about it for an hour or two Brig will call and tell me what it’s all about. And then we’ll talk it over and I’ll smooth him down and we’ll figure out some graceful way for him to cancel his announcement and the subcommittee can go ahead and vote tomorrow, and everything will be right back where it was and no real harm done.”
“And if it doesn’t work out that way?” the President asked quietly. “If there is something, and he won’t drop it? What then?”
“Then if it’s something valid, I assume you’ll withdraw the nomination,” Bob Munson said. The President gave an impatient exclamation in his turn.
“You know better than that, Bob Munson,” he said. “You know much better than that. Barring a morals conviction or a murder rap or membership in the Communist Party, I’m committed to this man. The United States, in effect, is committed to this man, because I am the United States, in foreign policy. You’ve been here long enough to know what that kind of commitment means. If it comes to a showdown between my commitment and Brigham Anderson, something’s going to give.” Again his tone hardened and there came into it an iron the Majority Leader had rarely heard. “And it isn’t going to be me,” he concluded quietly.
“Suppose we all just calm down,” Senator Munson suggested. “I don’t even know what’s on Brig’s mind, yet. You’re right, we’re letting ourselves get too worked up about it. It can’t be as serious as all that.”
“If he can’t be bought,” the President said slowly, as though he hadn’t been listening, “what can we use to threaten him?”
“Are you kidding?” Senator Munson asked sharply.
“I am not,” the President said matter-of-factly. “I’m asking you as a practical proposition what we can use to threaten him with.”
The Majority Leader started to reply in anger and then changed his mind.
“Nothing,” he said pleasantly. “I can’t think of a thing.” And anticipating the President’s rejoinder, he added quickly, so that their words came out together:
“There’s always something.”
“Well, there is,” the President said quietly. “There always is. Somewhere, sometime, someplace, everybody has done something. All you have to do is find it.”
This time it was the Majority Leader who paused, and when he spoke it was in a coldly withdrawn tone.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t play quite that rough.”
At this the President sighed, and when he replied it was in a voice that suddenly sounded infinitely weary.
“Are you faced with the problem of leading this nation in an unending conflict with the Russians?” he asked. “Is it your charge, day in and day out, night in and night out, to be concerned always with the fear that if you don’t do just the right thing they’ll destroy the country that has entrusted you with all its hopes and all its future? Such a great country, Bob, meaning so well and hoping so much and trying so hard to do the right thing and being nibbled to death by friends and enemies alike, and you realize that if you fail—not somebody else, but you—that it may be lost forever—do you have any concept of what that means? Do you understand at all the lengths to which that can drive you sometimes?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. President,” the Majority Leader said gravely.
“So am I,” the President said in the same tired voice. “Talk to Brig and see what you can work out. I won’t hurt him, even if I could. But try to make him see it a little bit from my standpoint, will you? Try to make him understand what’s at stake here. If he’s really stumbled onto something about Leffingwell that will really, honestly, genuinely damage the country, then of course I’ll withdraw him and get somebody else. But if this is just some idealistic nonsense or something that isn’t very important, I won’t budge.”
“I’ll do my best,” Bob Munson promised. “I only hope your idea of what is and isn’t important coincides with his.”
“Well,” the President said, “my first duty is the country.”
“So is ours,” Senator Munson said. “Maybe you forget that.”
“You see?” the President said, his tone suddenly becoming much lighter. “You did mean that speech after all, you old sentimentalist. You think that stuffy old Senate is the only thing that keeps America from going to pot, don’t you?”
“It helps,” the Majority Leader said in a relieved voice, and the President laughed.
“It’s a good thing I wasn’t at the Constitutional Convention,” he said. “Knowing what I know now, the Senate would never have gotten in.”
Bob Munson chuckled.
“We sometimes think we could get along without the President, too
,” he said, “but I expect they knew what they were doing. It all seems to have hung together pretty well over the years. Am I still seeing you after the White House Correspondents’ banquet tonight?”
“Oh, certainly,” the President said. “I’m counting on it. I want you to come back to the house for a drink and a good talk. In fact, why don’t you bring Brig? Assuming we’re all friends again by tonight?”
“I’m sure we will be,” Senator Munson said, “as soon as I can talk to him. Yes, I will.”
“As a matter of fact,” the President added casually, “bring Fred too. I feel I should study that specimen a little more thoroughly, too.”
“Not together,” Bob Munson said promptly.
“It’s a real feud, is it?” the President asked with a chuckle. “Fred really means it?”
“More on his part than Brig’s,” Senator Munson said. “I don’t think Brig quite knows what to make of it. There’s some kind of jealousy there, I think; maybe Brig’s got the respect and position in the Senate that Fred would like to have. And never will have, I might add.”
“Well, all right,” the President said in the same casual tone. “Some other time.”
