by Allen Drury
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said suavely, “it is my official privilege as it is my personal pleasure to present the Good and Faithful Servant Award to him, and in turn to present him to you: a man who for twenty-five years has written a brilliant column and given his nation brilliant guidance—a man who needs no detailed recounting of his career, for we all know it so well—a man whom we honor, but who even more honors us, by his presence, his writings, and his lifelong symbolizing of the dominant characteristics of present-day American journalism—Walter Dobius.”
(“Izzat all?” the over-celebrator demanded loudly of his wife and guests. “Whakinaspeechizzat?”)
For a moment it seemed that most of the Governor’s audience must be wondering the same thing, for there was a peculiar puzzled little hesitation. Then Bob Leffingwell, a quizzical expression on his face as he caught Senator Munson’s eye, began to applaud with a heavy, insistent beat that instantly started them off. At once the puzzlement was forgotten, the doubts were resolved, sound once again rose and overwhelmed the room. A few whose business it was to wonder continued to puzzle thoughtfully over his carefully noncommittal, curiously cautionary remarks, others when they sobered up tomorrow would wake to puzzlement, but for the moment he was once again sweeping nearly all before him as he stood, bowing and smiling and gesturing to Walter to advance to the lectern and receive his award.
Only Ceil, turning to watch with interest as Walter did so and then placed his papers with a slow dignity exactly in the center of the lectern, could see the tight little lines of anger around his eyes. Walter’s mad and I am glad, she thought irreverently, and I know what will please him: Harley dead and Orrin’s head and little Ted to ease him. Then her husband had gestured her to her feet, and Patsy too, and they were standing with Walter, smiling and waving, while the photographers snapped, the cameras rolled, and the audience cheered, festively at first and then again with the deep animal sound that had greeted and overwhelmed them at the beginning.
“He could be nominated right now!” Justice Davis cried exultantly to the executive director of the Post. “I sure wish he could be, it would save a hell of a lot of headaches!” the director of the Post cried back.
Finally the Jasons sat down, the final susurrus died away. Walter stood alone at last to face his audience.
Of his thoughts at this moment, some in the audience had their conceptions. Helen-Anne thought she knew, and Senator Munson had his own ideas, and Bob Leffingwell was convinced he could place himself inside that monumentally capable, monumentally egotistic mind, and there were others; but none, of course, could know exactly the combination of defiant conviction and cold determination that filled his heart. His attitude might have offended the Jasons, for the award was nothing, he got awards every day, one more accolade for his genius was no more than he expected and no more than his right. But the opportunity to speak at so crucial a point in his nation’s history was everything, an advantage beyond price. Dutifully his colleagues were alert to every word and every nuance. Out to the country in newspapers and magazines, over television and radio his words would fly. Telstar and Early Bird would carry them to as many distant lands and distant minds as ever heard the President’s. The world of Walter Wonderful was geared tonight to the task of seeing to it that Walter’s opinions covered the globe.
Man and occasion were met.
Gravely he began to speak.
“Governor, distinguished guests, ladies and gentlemen: it is with a profound humility that I accept this great honor tonight. Of all those which can be conferred by Americans upon one another, this, I think, is the most satisfying and most rewarding. No one who receives it could be other than deeply pleased. It is both an accolade and a challenge.
“You will understand,” he said, and his tone became heavier and more portentous, the tone that some of his more acid colleagues referred to as “Walter’s advising-God voice,” “that in the context of the circumstances in which we meet tonight, it is as a challenge that I accept it.”
At this there was a stirring and a restlessness in the audience, an eager leaning-forward, an exchange of glances, an anticipatory sucking-in-of-breaths, an excited wave of now-he’s-going-to-let-’em-have-its. And so, without further preliminary, he did.
“This nation tonight is in danger as grave—if not graver—than any it has faced in my lifetime. In the short span of seventy-two hours the Administration in Washington has invaded a small, far-off, defenseless nation; cast two vetoes which have for all practical purposes destroyed the United Nations; and defied the astounded and justifiably enraged opinion of the world.
“It is quite an accomplishment,” he said with a grim little smile that brought a scattering of rather nervous amusement from the audience, “for so short a time in the life of a country.
“It took us decades to build up world respect.
“It has taken us three days to tear it down.
“We have heard,” he said, and a cold contempt came into his voice, “a great deal about honor in these fateful hours. There are various interpretations of this word. My own is based upon the belief that it is honorable to adhere to collective security, honorable to uphold the United Nations, honorable to continue a record of international decency and respect for the opinions of mankind, honorable to refrain from the use of force, particularly in our dealings with smaller countries and particularly where we are not ourselves directly threatened.
“These are what honor means to me. I ask you,” he said, and a challenging demand came into his voice as he raised it for emphasis, “if you agree with my interpretation.”
There was again a little nervous hesitation, and this time it was not Bob Leffingwell who converted it to applause. But somebody did, and after a second it rose and filled the room with a defiant and excited air.
“And so, I think,” he resumed after a suitable pause, “do most honorable and decent Americans.
“Now, Madame Chairman, Governor (and he gave this word a slight but unmistakable emphasis that sent a delicious little thrill through many in his audience), distinguished guests, what are we confronted with tonight?
“I say to you we are confronted with nothing less than the end of American influence in the world and the end of world civilization as we know it.
“I say to you we are confronted with the desperate need to find a man who can lead us out of this situation and back to sanity, without which we and the world would perish.
(“You tell ’em, pal!” Fred Van Ackerman said loudly to LeGage Shelby, who nodded solemnly, and somewhere someone yelled, “Yeaay!” A wild surge of applause and excitement rolled up from the glittering tables.)
“I say to you,” Walter Dobius said, abruptly grave, abruptly solemn, “that without such a man I do not, in all honesty, see hope for us in the months and years ahead.”
He paused and reached down for a glass of water, which Patsy placed quickly in his hand. From it he drank and then, with a curious little motion that brought renewed excited stirrings from his audience, lifted it, in what almost seemed to be a toast, in the general direction of Governor Jason before he passed it gravely back to her.
“Of the errors of judgment and misjudgment which have brought us to this pass,” he went on slowly, “of the misguided misleaders who have presided in state (there was a startled, knowing laugh, but he ignored it), over this abrupt destruction of America’s historic role of peacekeeper in the world, I see no reason to talk tonight. We all know who they are: we all know how sadly they have betrayed their solemn mission to protect and preserve the United States. Their contemporaries abhor them, history will judge them. Let us tonight regard them with sorrow, pity, and horror, but do not let the contemplation of their fearful errors divert us from keeping our eyes squarely upon the future and squarely upon what must be done to save it for us and for mankind.
“Particularly,” he said with a calm yet heavy emphasis, “do not let them divert us from our great task of finding the one to lead us safely from
this perilous situation.
“What,” he asked quietly, and a sudden renewed tension and silence settled upon the room, “should be the qualifications of such a man?
“Firstly, it seems to me, he should be one deeply and sincerely dedicated to human decency, human integrity, and human honor—and when I say honor,” he said with a dry little smile, “I mean true honor, not speechifying honor.
(“By damn, he’s telling ’em!” Senator Van Ackerman said with a grin to ’Gage Shelby.)
“He should be one who believes in America’s historic role of moderator and mediator in the world.
“He should be one who honors America’s commitments to the United Nations and to collective security.
“He should be one who will always negotiate honorably first, and only as a last resort—the very last resort—turn to force for the solution of any international problem.
“He should be one who truly believes in a liberal and progressive policy for this nation in all her affairs, domestic as well as foreign.
“He should be one who has had the opportunity to serve either as the head of some great private enterprise, such as the management of a corporate empire—or as the head of some great public enterprise, such as the leadership of a major State of the Union—or preferably”—and the next word brought a roar of approval as Ted Jason tried to look interested yet unconcerned and found the feat almost beyond his abilities—“both.
“He should be one whom his countrymen know and love and trust.
“He should be one who makes up his own mind, on his own judgments, without turning to incompetent and ill-starred advisers who tell him, ‘Cry war!’ when his nation and the world beg for peace.
“Does America,” he asked, and again that tense, devouring silence seized the room, “have such a man? I believe it does.
(“Tell us, Waller boy!” the extra-drunk one cried out in the silence and there was a burst of laughter, but tense, nervous. Walter picked it up at once.)
“Do I need to tell you?” he asked, and Bob Munson murmured to Dolly, “Well, that’s saved him from naming names. I wondered how he was going to handle it.” And once again he and Bob Leffingwell bowed gravely to each other and winked.
“Do I need to tell you?” Walter demanded and the audience roared,
“No!”
“Do I need to point him out?”
“No!”
“Is there anyone here who has any question who he is?”
“NO!”
“Get behind him, then!” Walter cried as the sound began to build ever more frantically against his words. “Work for him, then!”—the sound grew—“Nominate him!”—there was a roar of endorsement—“Elect him!”—and the sound burst at last into its full animal rapacity, frantic, insistent, all-devouring. First one and then another and then, swiftly, all, were on their feet, shouting, applauding, pounding on tables, pounding on each other, laughing, crying, uttering incoherent sounds. If Governor Jason had moved at that moment the event would have passed beyond sanity into some other realm; but that realm, he knew, must be saved for the convention, if ever. He did not dare move now. Very carefully he sat as though frozen and so did Ceil, fixed smiles on their faces, prisoners already though they still hoped against hope they might somehow yet be able to stay free.
Presently, when it had gone on long enough (“Ten minutes, thirteen seconds, I make it,” CBS said to NBC. “Fifteen seconds, mine says,” NBC amended.) Walter raised his hand for silence. Finally, reluctantly, it was granted.
“My friends,” he said gravely, “I shall say no more tonight. The crisis grows, the need is urgent, the way is clear. Let all who love America rally to the cause.
“Destiny—and,” he added with a heavy emphasis—“honor—require no less.”
And he sat down. And again the room roared. And again the Governor and his lady sat frozen while Helen-Anne’s protestations were lost in the tumult. Senator Munson and Bob Leffingwell exchanged their last quizzical glance, Fred Van Ackerman and LeGage Shelby grinned excitedly at one another, and Ambassadors, government officials, Walter’s colleagues, and all, found themselves swept along in the wild, consuming tide.
And then presently the audience began to break up, many beginning to shove their way toward the head table to shake hands with the Governor, so that soon there was an enormous push and crush at the front of the room. Responding now, as he knew he must, he and Ceil leaned forward, reached down, shook hand after eager hand thrust up to them from the happy, exuberant, emotionally and alcoholically excited mob below. In the stir and shove of it, few noticed when the Governor straightened up and tilted his head back and to one side to listen to the words of a Secret Service man who had approached from behind the platform and laid a calm, insistent hand upon his arm.
"Yes, what is it?” he asked, still waving and smiling to cover the interruption.
“The President wants you to come to the White House right away,” the Secret Service man murmured. “We have a car downstairs.”
“Right,” Ted said, and with one last wave at the crowd, which uttered a disappointed groan as it realized he was leaving, he whispered the news to Ceil and Patsy. “Oh, dear,” Patsy said with a stricken look. “You don’t suppose it’s”—“I wouldn’t be surprised,” her brother said tersely. “I'll see you two at the house.” Then in a flash he was hurried out and away by the Secret Service man and a colleague who seemed to materialize from the wall.
“What was that?” Walter demanded harshly of Ceil and Patsy, but neither would tell him.
In some puzzlement and confusion but still aglow with the excitement of the anointing of a candidate whom most of them devoutly believed in, the audience dispersed into little eagerly gossiping groups and moved slowly out. In the jostle Helen-Anne happened to come alongside Cullee Hamilton. He paused and offered her his arm.
“What did you think of that?” she demanded as they resumed their slow progress through the crowd. He shrugged. “About what we expected, wasn’t it?” “How are you going to stop him?” she asked. He looked down at her with the quick, knowledgeable glance of political Washington. “Only one man can, I think,” he said, nodding in the general direction of Pennsylvania Avenue. “And that, only by telling him flatly. No.”
But if the Governor of California had any idea that this was what awaited him at a White House outwardly hushed and deserted but inwardly quivering with tension, he was soon disabused. His was not the only limousine to drive straight to the Diplomatic Entrance on the south side of the White House. Orrin was just alighting from one when Ted arrived, two of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the Secretary of Defense were getting out of another, the Under Secretary of State for Latin American Affairs descended from yet another. Babble greeted him as he entered the beautiful old house that has seen so much of a nation’s hopes and agony. He had time only to exchange a few quick greetings with others as baffled as himself, only time to realize suddenly that, whatever it was, the President was seeing to it that he was committed from the start, only time to realize once again with a surprised, ironic little smile that it was wise not to underestimate Harley, when the White House usher appeared at the head of the stairs and said gravely, “Gentlemen, the President will see you now.”
And then he and all of them knew what it was that had brought them there, and knew also that, quite possibly, it really did not matter in the long run what such as Walter Dobius said or did not say, since what would happen now really lay in the hearts and minds of a very few men.
Across the room the Governor of California met without flinching the steady eyes of the Secretary of State, knowing, as he could see Orrin did, that in the last analysis probably only three of these really counted; and knowing also that in all probability their future and that of their country had been decided by the events of the last three furious days and this ominous night; and that things were frozen now into a pattern that could not be broken by any of them.
Now they must move forward as history
dictated, no longer—though each of them thought defiantly in his heart that he, at least, would somehow remain so—free agents to do as they would.
***
Book Two
The President’s Book
***
Chapter 1
The handling by Walter’s world of the state funeral of the American dead from Gorotoland, and the simultaneous story out of Panama that Felix Labaiya had finally moved to seize the country and the Canal, was, of its kind, a classic.
In some calmer century there might have been time for the student to observe, during the memorial ceremonies at the Capitol which held the attention of the nation and the world for forty-eight somber hours, how respectfully the dead were treated and yet how suavely, in what hushed and fitting tones, the blame for their brutal demise was somehow removed from those who had killed them and placed upon the President of the United States … how tenderly and with what dignified sorrow the cameras dwelt upon the faces of the bereaved, and yet with what loving attention they somehow seemed to keep coming back again and again to the gravely handsome visage of the Governor of California, so that he frequently appeared to be the only mourner present … how meticulously and with what careful attention most of the dignitaries were noted, yet how casually and almost absent-mindedly the President and the Secretary of State were passed over in fleeting glimpses and casual comments, so that the viewer or reader could almost be excused if he somehow had the hazy impression that they really weren’t there at all … and how profoundly, with what deep sorrow, but with what shrewd and subtle slantings under the shroud, the various “teams,” the various “roundups,” the various discussion groups composed of Our Correspondent From Here, Our Reporter From There, and Frankly Unctuous the Anchor Man From The Home Office In New York, were able to link Gorotoland and Panama, and in the hush of benediction use them both to beat the Administration over the head.
