by Allen Drury
“Mr. President,” Senator Munson said, an expression of deep disgust on his face, “if the Senator from Wyoming is through blackguarding his betters—
(“My, my, Bobby’s mad,” Lloyd Cavanaugh of Rhode Island chuckled to Grady Lincoln of Massachusetts. “Damned little Wyoming varmint,” Grady snapped. “I hope Bob murders him.”)
“—if he is through,” Senator Munson said, “with his kind and decent and generous and honorable remarks, I should like to take up with the Senator from Arkansas, who still has the floor, his original point—the only pertinent point, I think—concerning the action of this government in bypassing the United Nations and in exercising its right of veto in the Security Council to fend off any hasty and ill-advised United Nations action until our own action for peace has been completed.”
(“That kind of smooth talk isn’t going to deflect those two,” Gossett Cook of Virginia predicted dryly to Ed Parrish of Nevada. “Me, either,” Ed replied. “I’m not happy.”)
Nor did it appear, as afternoon wore into evening, lights came on in Washington, and over the Capitol the great beam that indicates a night session sent its message to the city, that very many of them were.
In the House Jawbone concluded, Cullee gave a brief rebuttal, many others spoke, the debate centered more and more upon three things: U.S. defiance of the UN, the fear of general war, the constantly repeated theme of the alleged ambitions of the President and Secretary of State. A substitute resolution was offered by fifty-seven members, principally from New York and the Midwest, condemning the American action and calling on the President to withdraw United States forces from Gorotoland at once: it was defeated 231-163. An amendment was offered to declare the sense of the Congress that the United States should keep its forces in place but immediately cease all hostilities and resubmit the issue to the General Assembly: it was defeated 220-215.
Finally the Speaker came into the well of the House and read the riot act about supporting the President, upholding the United States, politics ending at the water’s edge and, in conclusion (using the tone of gentle menace that had long ago brought him the name, “Boss Bill”) the fact that in the House “memories are not short, and while loyalty is gladly rewarded, disloyalty deserves—and receives—no charity.” That did it, and at 7:48 P.M. the resolution endorsing the Administration’s position in Gorotoland passed the House.
Even so, it was only by a vote of 214-206. Disgruntled, embittered, uneasy, and upset, the House went home, most of its members not sure whether their country was right or wrong and not sure whether or not they had done the right thing—a mood in which the House often leaves the Capitol after a session, but one this time lent an extra bitterness and uncertainty by the steadily rising condemnations from around the world and from the voters back home to whom many members felt they owed their first and overriding obligation.
In the Senate, debate was still droning on. Arly Richardson had made his final appeal of the day for the Richardson Principle, Fred Van Ackerman had spewed out his last gobbet nof hate for the time being, the argument was settling into the duller regions occupied by such as Walter Calloway of Utah, Taylor Ryan of New York, and Hugh B. Root of New Mexico. Surveying the now half-empty chamber as the dinner hour arrived. Bob Munson consulted across the aisle with Warren Strickland and then announced that it was his present intention to hold the Senate in session until midnight if necessary to pass the resolution. Arly and Fred both protested, and Fred threatened to filibuster. Senator Munson shrugged and repeated that, as of that moment, it was his present intention to go on until midnight if necessary. He exchanged a casual glance with Warren Strickland, Warren returned a barely perceptible nod, and they went off to dinner, leaving Powell Hanson in the chair and Taylor Ryan droning on into the night in opposition to the President, knowing that the Senate might very well still be there talking at 8 A.M. tomorrow.
Outside in the great world the clamor continued to mount. HUDSON-KNOX GOROTOLAND RE-ELECTION PLOT CHARGED IN CONGRESS, the most frequently used headline had it … HOUSE NARROWLY PASSES GOROTO RESOLUTION. TOP LEADERS REVOLT. SENATE FACES POSSIBLE FILIBUSTER ... NATIONS STEP UP ATTACK ON U.S. POLICIES … PRAVDA URGES “SOCALIST UNITY” TO MEET U.S. THREAT … PEKING OFFERS NEW GOROTO VOLUNTEERS … BRITISH CABINET IN EMERGENCY SESSION … FRENCH SEEK “MIDDLE FORCE” TO HALT EAST-WEST CLASH IN AFRICA … POLITICOS WAIT WORD FROM GOVERNOR JASON.
And much smaller, down toward the bottom of page 1 or, in many cases, on page 3 or 4: BODIES OF SLAIN AMERICANS START FOR HOME.
The evening television programs were equally balanced and informative, filled with disapproving dissertations on the motives of the President and Secretary of State, heavy with analysis of the awful things being done by Washington to world peace and an innocent and dreadfully wronged UN. With a lifted eyebrow here, a skeptical smile there, a chuckle, a frown, a knowing tone of voice, a bland omission, a gracefully damaging turn of phrase, all the lesser Walters went at it with a will. Somberly they sketched a world in collapse as the result of the vetoes, smoothly they shifted the blame from America’s enemies to America’s President, suavely they telescoped the Administration’s arguments and gave extra time to the opposition’s. Then with a portentous sadness they bade the viewers good night, having spent a brisk thirty minutes blackguarding their country, encouraging its enemies, and doing all they could to undermine its citizens’ confidence.
Already it was becoming a little difficult for many people to remember just exactly what had started it all. There just seemed to have been something bad, some monstrous attack on the UN, humanity, and the peace of the world, for which Harley Hudson and Orrin Knox were irretrievably, awfully, unforgivably to blame. The voices that were to be heard defending them were rarely given a chance to be heard above a whisper, the editorials in the quite sizable number of newspapers around the country that were beginning to swing back to an understanding of the President’s reasoning after the initial shock, were mentioned with a heavy sarcasm if at all:
“During the day the Administration won support from such prominent publications as the Valdosta, Georgia Bulletin. Somehow it did not seem sufficient to stem the criticism sweeping in an almost unanimous tide across the nation’s major press.”
That was certainly true enough.
At the White House the President received a call from Senator Munson, checking in from the dinner party at the Stricklands’ to wonder wistfully again if perhaps the President shouldn’t go on the air right away. But he was told pleasantly and calmly that the President intended to hold to his original plan and wait until the resolution passed the Senate. Anyway, the President said, baffling the Majority Leader considerably, Lucille had an idea he wanted to explore before he spoke; he’d call about it tomorrow morning. Puzzled but perforce silenced, Bob Munson hung up.
At “Salubria” in Leesburg, Walter went over his speech once more, between phone calls, and did some further editing and rewriting. In Spring Valley the Knoxes discussed the situation, and in Dumbarton Oaks, Patsy, too, was on the telephone. But in Sacramento, still, the insistent were not satisfied and the impatient were not appeased.
“Sweetie,” Patsy said, “you MUST speak out. The world is waiting for you. Won’t you PLEASE say something before it’s too late?”
“Pat,” her brother said, using the nickname and tone she knew from childhood meant: shut up, “will you calm down? I know perfectly well what I’m doing and I’m going to do it my own way. O.K.?”
“All r—ight,” she said doubtfully, “but I still don’t think you know the feeling that’s developed.”
“Of course I know the feeling,” he said impatiently. “It’s screaming at me from every headline, radio, and television screen. My papers out here are as rabid to get me committed as any back there. Walter is calling me every hour on the hour, urging me to do something and promising dire things if I don’t.” He chuckled. “University faculties and students from San Diego to the Oregon line are threatening to march on Sacramento. I
know the feeling. Where,” he added abruptly, “is Bob Leffingwell?”
“In town.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Waiting to see.”
“Very smart of him,” the Governor said dryly. “That’s what I’m doing.”
“You can’t do it FOREVER,” his sister said.
“Watch me.”
“You’ll have to say something tomorrow at Walter’s luncheon. You’ll just have to. It would make it such an exciting meal!”
“It’s an exciting age,” Governor Jason said, "But don’t let it get you down. Meet me at the airport at eleven tomorrow, will you? And don’t tell the press I’m coming in.”
“Of course I will. You don’t think they won’t know it anyway, do you?”
“O.K.,” he said indifferently. “By the way, what’s your damned husband up to?”
“I really don’t know,” she said thoughtfully. “I haven’t heard a word from him since he went down there.”
“That would be all I’d need to make my position perfect,” he said sardonically.
“It would give you something else to be mysterious about,” she couldn’t resist. He laughed.
“Who needs it?”
In this he was undoubtedly right, for in Spring Valley his silence was a major topic as it was at many another dinner table around town on this evening of national uncertainty, international outcry, and rising political pressures. Helen-Anne had been invited, and now the Secretary, his lady, and their acid-tongued friend were sitting in front of the fire having coffee and liqueur.
“You realize,” Orrin said with a smile, “that you’re probably damning yourself forever, being in such awful company at a time like this. I’m one of the two men who’s destroying America, the UN, the world, and—so I gather from Walter’s columns—the whole damned universe. I admire your courage.”
“I admire yours,” Helen-Anne said. “How do you stand it?”
“It isn’t easy,” Beth admitted. “Somebody left a homemade bomb near the back door last night.”
“No!” Helen-Anne exclaimed, genuinely shocked. “Did you call the police?”
“No,” the Secretary said, “though I did get in one of the department security men to take care of it. It turned out to be a dud. Anyway, I don’t want to stir up a lot of trouble. The atmosphere is tense enough as it is. Just suppose what it would be like if I had a couple of cops put on the house. We’d never hear the end of it.”
“I don’t want to hear the end of you,” Helen-Anne said grimly. “I don’t think you should be a damned fool, Orrin. The country needs you.”
“Talk to your ex,” Orrin said with an equal grimness. “He and his friends are creating this climate. They may have a lot to answer for.”
“I’ve told him so. He knows how I feel. Of course he thinks you and the President created it.”
“Whoever created it,” Beth said with some impatience, “when you’re dead you’re dead. Personally, I think we ought to have guards.”
“I’m with you,” Helen-Anne said. “There’s such a thing as being courageous and such a thing as asking for it.”
“I’m not going to do it,” Orrin said flatly. “Think of the reaction in the country and around the world! It would transform this whole thing into something that’s terribly serious.”
Helen-Anne snorted.
“Oh, lover, stop being silly. Transform it into something serious, he says. What in hell do you consider it right now? Stop being disingenuous and phony, Orrin.”
Beth chuckled.
“Amen! Let him have it, girl.”
“Well, it’s ridiculous. You get those guards on this house right away, Orrin, and stop acting like a noble damned fool. And don’t go into crowds, and watch when you get out of cars, and for heaven’s sake be careful. Some people in this fight are playing for keeps, particularly with a potential President.”
Orrin grunted.
“Huh! Not very potential right now.”
“Potential enough for me. It’s no fun being press officer to a corpse.”
“Why, Helen-Anne,” he said with a mock astonishment, though she could tell he was genuinely pleased. “I didn’t know you cared.”
“We weren’t sure you could do it, you know,” Beth said. “When you talked to me the other night, you were uncertain whether—”
“Oh, yes, I can swing it. The dear old Star is agreeable, though slightly convinced I’m crazy, but they’ll give me leave if I want it and so will the syndicate. All that’s necessary is for you to persuade Harley not to run. And that, my friend,” she said with a quizzical smile, “I do not think you are going to be able to do. So it’s all academic, anyway.”
Orrin looked amused.
“You know, I think you’re right? I do believe you are. How about being Harley’s press secretary?”
“He’s already got one and we fight like cats and dogs. No, I’ll stay where I am and help through the column unless you’re the nominee. At least,” she added automatically in political Washington’s favorite phrase, for few in the capital burn any bridges they can retain, “that is my present intention.…Tell me,” she said abruptly. “How are things going over there in Gorotoland, really?”
The Secretary frowned.
“Not good. You saw the evening headlines. It’s deceptively simple terrain, plains in one part and hills and highland plateaus in the other—but it isn’t as simple as it looks. Short of gunning down the entire population, which Walter thinks we’re bloody-minded enough to do, but aren’t, it’s a matter of slow, steady slogging. Which means delays—and that means boys dying and families being broken and all the other murderous appurtenances of our age—and that means more chance every day for Walter and his friends to say, ‘We told you so.’” He sighed. “It’s going to be a tough fight and a long one.”
“Will we negotiate?”
Orrin shrugged.
“When they’re ready. Which they won’t be until we get out. Which we won’t do until they’ll negotiate. So there we are.”
“You paint a cheerful picture.”
“I’ve got a cheerful picture,” Beth said lightly, producing it from an envelope on the coffee table beside her. “Take a look at Hal and Crystal Danta Knox, five months pregnant.”
“She looks darling,” Helen-Anne agreed. “So does he. But then, of course, they always were darling kids.” She sighed, too. “God, how time rushes in this age. It seems like a million years ago that I went to their wedding at the Cathedral. How’s Hal getting along?”
“Fine,” his father said. “He’s in a law firm in Pekin, Illinois. He may run for the legislature next year.”
“Repetitions, repetitions,” Helen-Anne said with a smile. “Can’t you Knoxes ever do anything but guzzle off the public payroll?”
“It seems to be an ingrained habit,” Orrin said, “How about some more B and B?”
“No, thanks, love, I really must run. I thought I might go up to the Senate and see what’s going on. They’re into a filibuster, aren’t they?”
“Van Ackerman is,” the Secretary said. He smiled. “I think the rest of his support has dropped by the wayside by this time. Bob Munson called about an hour ago to tell me he’d bought off Arly Richardson and terrified Tom August, so that takes care of them. A lot of Senators are very uneasy but they’re going along, sometime tomorrow when Fred gets tired out.”
“I hope it kills him, after what he did to Seab Cooley,” Helen-Anne said coldly, thinking of what the Senate had come to regard as Fred’s murder-by-filibuster of South Carolina’s gallant old senior Senator.
“He’s a lot younger,” Orrin said. “It won’t kill him, the way it did Seab. And also, he’s on the popular side, this time—just as he was then, actually. I think Fred is out, this evening, to make himself the spokesman for all the dissident groups in the country and then swing them behind Ted Jason, if he can. He may succeed, too,” he added grimly. “He’s not dumb.”
And with this jud
gment, though they hated his guts, most of the colleagues of the junior Senator from Wyoming were in agreement as he talked on toward midnight, while above him the galleries, emptied during dinner, filled up again with an attentive and sometimes applauding audience. He spoke from a bitter, and apparently absolutely righteous, conviction, twisting the knife in the Administration with attack after slashing attack. Inside he was telling himself with a savage satisfaction that this time he had the pious bastards on the run. Not only the Committee on Making Further Officers for a Russian Truce (COMFORT) was behind him, but around 9 P.M. he had been called from the floor to take a call from LeGage Shelby of DEFY in New York. Defenders of Equality for You, Gage said, was wholeheartedly in favor of any attempt to stop the resolution, and its national executive was even then planning to join demonstrations in key cities tomorrow. Nor was that all. Shortly before Fred had taken over the floor from Arly Richardson at eleven-sixteen he had been called out again.
This time the call came from Dallas.
“This is Rufus Kleinfert,” the voice said in its oddly accented tones, traces of York County Pennsylvania Dutch still lingering after forty years in Texas oil. “I am Knight Kommander of the Konference on Efforts to Encourage Patriotism.” He paused and added carefully, “K-E-E-P—”
