by Allen Drury
Very well, little Walter, he thinks grimly as the buzzer sounds and his secretary reports that she has found America’s statesman-philosopher in the Senate Press Gallery: have another fit, on me. He realizes this mood is unworthy of him, and he knows he is making this call purely for spite, but he cannot help himself. To this extent, at least, they have got to him and pulled him down to their level.
“Good morning, Walter,” he says crisply. “I have something to tell you that you are to keep confidential until after my press conference this afternoon. You can’t use it before anybody else does, but”—his tone becomes dry—“in view of your extreme interest, I wanted you to be one of the first to know.”
“Well, dear,” Lucille says calmly at the cheerful luncheon table set by a window overlooking the South Grounds, the Monument, and the Ellipse, “how has it gone, so far?”
“Very well, I think,” he reports with an equal calmness. “What’s this, some sort of fancy omelet?”
“It’s a recipe Dolly Munson brought back from Italy last fall. Who have you talked to?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he says with a chuckle. She responds with a smile.
“Not particularly, if you don’t want to tell me. You looked a little grim when you came in, that’s all.”
“That was talking to Walter. I’m afraid I’ve really let him annoy me more than I should, over the last few weeks.”
“I hope today you annoyed him.”
It is his turn to smile.
“Yes, I think so. He wasn’t dreadfully surprised, but I think he’d been hoping against hope.”
“And Orrin?”
He frowns.
“I haven’t talked to Orrin yet, I suppose actually I’m a little afraid to.”
“Don’t be. You can always trust Orrin to understand.”
But can you, he asks himself as he returns along the colonnade to his office shortly after getting up at 2 P.M. from the nap he takes conscientiously every day after lunch. Can you trust Orrin to understand, when what you have to say is exactly what Orrin—
Instantly and unbidden a thousand pictures of his volatile Secretary of State leap to mind. He sees him on the Senate floor, his face flushed, his positive, didactic voice raised in impatient anger with some colleague he obviously regards as stupid, his body swinging vigorously about as he thrusts forward an extended arm and jabbing forefinger to make his point ... in private conversations with constituents needing his help, shyly gentle and kind ... in committee hearings, his glasses sliding down on his nose, his keen eyes peering sharply at a recalcitrant witness, his manner growing acrid as he pins down an eel-like evasion or squirming equivocation ... at that strange conference in Bob Munson’s office at the height of the Leffingwell nomination battle when Orrin asked for advice on the fantastic, unbelievable bribe offered by Harley’s predecessor ... at the fateful convention of eight years ago, his contorted face confronting Harley’s on the ramp out to the podium—and his crestfallen face, a classic study, a year ago when Harley had finally disclosed what his intention had been that night … Orrin’s unimpressed responses to the Soviet threats in Geneva, his unwavering support in the crises caused by Terence Ajkaje in South Carolina and the UN six months ago, his unwavering support now ... at parties, at receptions, in corridor conversations, at lunchtime talks over a quick hamburger in the Senate restaurant, at late-afternoon drinks in the Speaker’s office after the legislative day was done ... in Washington, in San Francisco, in Paris, Tokyo, London, Johannesburg, wherever the winds of diplomacy and politics blow him: idealistic, practical, sentimental, tough, iron-firm on issues, sometimes too soft on people, predictable one minute, unpredictable the next; the great ambition, the great ability to accept ambition’s denial—a many-sided man, not entirely understood by his President, who now is about to seek understanding from him.
Yet surely Orrin will grant it, for it is something he can grasp as a logical man; and whatever the sudden gusts of emotion that sometimes conquer his heart and befog his mind, Orrin is always, in the long run, a logical man. Surely that sensitive and perceptive brain, falsely labeled cold by those who hate him, known to be an odd combination of warmth and calculation by those who like him, will respond, as it always has eventually, to the imperatives of the situation.
Surely Orrin the loyal and forgiving servant will be the loyal and forgiving servant again.
Or will he?
It is with real trepidation and a nervous heart that the President lifts the receiver and personally puts through this call.
“Good afternoon,” he says when Orrin comes presently on the line. “How many new disasters are you struggling with today?… Only the old ones? That’s good.…Orrin,” he drops the banter and becomes completely serious as he extends a courtesy he has not extended to anyone else this day, “would you be free to come over here at three? There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
He knows, as he hangs up and stares out upon the pleasant springtime lawns, that Orrin knows; and it is with a rather helpless expression and a sad little sigh for all the things in this world that cause men to do what they feel they must, that he turns back to his desk and takes up more of the endless items of public business that will occupy him until the door opens at three and the Secretary of State is ushered
***
Chapter 2
Of all the damned places to hold a news conference,” the Chicago Daily News remarked with some asperity, “this East Room of the White House always strikes me as the worst. I feel like a flea on a plate with someone about to scratch me.”
“Harley would love to,” the New York World Journal Tribune told him from the row behind. “Damn, these chairs are uncomfortable.”
“This is the Punishment Room,” the Baltimore Sun remarked, looking around at their inconveniently close-packed, chattering ranks as they waited for the President to arrive. “He has us in here when he’s going to give us a lecture. When we’ve been good, he lets us be comfortable in the New State Department Auditorium.”
“Haven’t we been good?” the New York Times inquired. “I thought we had.”
“I don’t think he likes what we’ve been saying about him lately,” the Washington Post suggested. “Harley is a man who loves to be loved, you know.”
“Oh, is that his trouble?” asked The Greatest Publication That Absolutely Ever Was. “I thought he reveled in opposition.”
The AP snorted.
“Harley? That man has to be popular. He’s so thin-skinned he wants the babies to kiss him.”
“I don’t think many are nowadays,” the Los Angeles Times remarked.
“How could they,” asked the San Francisco Chronicle, “with a policy like he’s got? At the rate Harley’s wars are going, they’ll still be running when the babies are ready for the draft.”
“I hear we lost six more Marines in Panama today,” the Philadelphia Inquirer said.
“And two more bombers collided in Gorotoland,” the Newark News contributed.
“And that’s ‘an affirmative policy looking toward conclusion of hostilities’?” the Denver Post asked. “God, it’s wonderful.”
“I think it’s time for Dobius to give him another blast,” the New York Herald Tribune said. “Does anybody see him?”
“Yes, he’s here,” the New York Times said. “See, over there on the right with Henry Wilson.”
“Tittle and Tattle,” the Chicago Tribune remarked with an acid chuckle. “As a matter of fact,” he added more seriously, studying their famous colleague across the room, “Walter doesn’t look very happy today, does he? I wonder what’s on his mind.”
“Walter never looks happy,” the Christian Science Monitor commented. “He just looks profound.”
“What the hell are we here for anyway?” the Baltimore Sun inquired impatiently. “What’s Fearless Peerless have to say? Does anybody know?”
“Maybe we’re going to withdraw from Gorotoland and Panama,” The Greatest Publication That Abso
lutely Ever Was suggested dryly.
“Maybe we’re going to withdraw from the earth,” the Washington Evening Star suggested, even more dryly.
“Whoops, boys and girls, on your feet!” the Chicago Sun-Times admonished. “Here comes Democracy’s Noblest Symbol.”
“Is it ‘Hail to the Chief’ I hear,” the New York Post murmured as they obediently stood up and the gossipy babble of three hundred voices died away, “or is it ‘Goofus’?”
“Please be seated,” the President said pleasantly, smiling out upon them as they surveyed him with varying degrees of amiable and not-so-amiable attention. “It has been several weeks since I met with you, and I thought perhaps you might have a few questions. I also have a small announcement to make, but I expect it will keep until you’re finished. Ray?” he said, singling out the UPI from the seven correspondents who were instantly on their feet.
“Mr. President,” UPI said, “have you received any indication from the rebels in Gorotoland or the Labaiya Government in Panama that either would be willing to negotiate a settlement?”
“No,” the President said, “we haven’t. As you know, there have been efforts made by the British Government, using the good offices of the Government of Kenya and the Government of Malawi, to bring about some informal meeting with the rebel leaders in Gorotoland, but so far these overtures have been repulsed.”
“Would this government be willing to enter such discussions, Mr. President?” the Baltimore Sun inquired.
“Not as long as the rebellion continues, no,” the President said. “We didn’t go in there to sanctify a rebellion, if you will recall.”
“Then you want unconditional surrender from Prince Obifumatta,” the New York Times said. The President shook his head, a little impatiently.
“We want pacification of the country and re-establishment of the legitimate government of Prince Terry. Surely that’s been clear enough, right along.”
“Then what grounds are there for negotiation, Mr. President?” the New York World Journal Tribune inquired.
“Who wants them, aside from you fellows?” the President retorted with an asperity so unusual that there was a murmur of comment over the room.
“But, Mr. President,” the Christian Science Monitor said hesitantly, “if we insist on unconditional surrender, in effect, of the rebels in Gorotoland, then isn’t that simply going to encourage them to go on fighting? What would they have to gain if they stopped?”
“An end to bloodshed,” the President said promptly. “A peaceful situation in their country. Safe passage, which the United States is prepared to guarantee and enforce, for rebel leaders out of the country to asylum in some friendly nation of their choice. Not too cold a one, I hope, after that hot African climate.…But you see, what they’re after isn’t a peaceful conclusion. They don’t give two hoots about the condition of their country. What they and their friends are after is a power center in central Africa. That’s why they aren’t going to negotiate on any terms except our complete withdrawal.”
“And that’s why we aren’t going to negotiate,” the Washington Post suggested, “on any terms except …” his voice drawled ironically away.
“Do you think we should?” the President demanded. “Of the two alternatives, which do you and your paper prefer?”
(“Well, well,” the Philadelphia Inquirer murmured to the Los Angeles Times. “Fearless Peerless is getting nasty.”
“Must be that thin skin again,” the L. A. Times agreed with a laugh.)
“I’m just asking the questions, Mr. President,” the Post said after a moment. “My editors didn’t send me here to answer them.”
“I know what they sent you here for,” the President said tartly, telling himself he mustn’t give in to this uncharacteristic temper, smug and superior and infuriating though his questioner was deliberately trying to be. “As a matter of fact,” he said more calmly, easing the tension which had abruptly risen in his audience at his challenging tone, “the original question asked about negotiations in both Gorotoland and Panama. The situation is on the same footing in both places. We do not recognize the rebels in Gorotoland nor will we negotiate with them until they end their rebellion. We do not recognize the rebel junta in Panama—we certainly don’t recognize what you call ‘the Labaiya Government,’ Ray, we prefer to call it the P.P.L.M. as Felix—Señor Labaiya—does. And we certainly won’t negotiate with them until their rebellion ends. So I’m afraid there isn’t much to report in that area this afternoon.”
“Isn’t it true, Mr. President, that the UN and many of our allies are demanding an end to both conflicts?” the Denver Post asked.
“No more than they have right along.”
“Don’t they think an end to them is advisable?” the Denver Post persisted.
“On rebel terms?” the President said. “We don’t.”
“Then we think our judgment is superior to their collective judgment, Mr. President,” the New York Times suggested.
“We happen to believe so, yes,” the President replied. There was a little gasp of surprise at his tone, followed by an ironic murmuring.
“Is it planned to send more troops, planes, and supplies to both places, Mr. President?” the Chicago Sun-Times asked.
“When they’re needed.”
“Not if they’re needed,” the Sun-Times said gently.
“I answered it, Bill,” the President said, and there was a tension-releasing amusement, not at his sentiments, which many of them abhorred, but at his tartly humorous tone, which they could enjoy even if they did not agree with him.
“Well,” he said, “if there are no more questions—”
“Mr. President,” Walter Dobius said heavily, and there was an instant quieting and swiveling-about in the room to see what he was up to. “Can you tell us anything about your political plans?”
The President gave him a cheerful smile.
“Thank you, Walter,” he said, “I was afraid I was going to have to raise the subject myself. I just happen to have an item here—” and he reached in his pocket as if to pull it out while an excited buzzing erupted and the Washington Evening Star, leaning forward to poke the back of the Baltimore Sun, said, “Now you know why we’re here this afternoon.”
“Can’t seem to find it,” the President remarked amiably. “Anyway, I expect to repeat and enlarge upon it on television at 9 P.M. Eastern Standard Time tonight, because I think the country deserves a full accounting of my reasons for reaching this decision.”
(“He’s going to run?” the New York World Journal Tribune hissed to the AP, and the AP, scribbling furiously, snapped, “Shut up and don’t bother me!”)
“But for now,” the President went on in the same friendly tone, “I wanted you to have the gist of it so you can get it out right away—and I hope,” he said with an amused candor, “help me arouse sufficient interest to get up a reasonably good audience.
(“God, this man kills me when he gets coy,” the Chicago Daily News muttered to the Houston Post. “He does it so perfectly.”)
“You will recall,” the President said, more seriously, “that when I succeeded to the Presidency a year ago, I told the Senate in a formal speech that I would not be a candidate for this office this year—that I would retire from the Presidency, and from public life.
“This was my firm intention at that time. I told the Senate and the country—and I meant it—that the decision was irrevocable.
“But, as all of us who live and work in Washington know, words do not always have meanings that stay the same from year to year or month to month or even day to day.
“I think”—he smiled—“that ‘irrevocable’ is perhaps the most flexible word we have in the entire Washington vocabulary—perhaps outranked only by permanent’ and ‘final.’
(“Get on with it, damn it,” CBS whispered vehemently. “Stop the damned sideshow!”)
“Events since then,” the President said, now completely serious, “have made it impera
tive, at least in my mind, that I run for re-election.
“I shall not attempt any defensive rationalization for my change of mind. I was completely sincere a year ago when I said that I would not run. I am completely sincere, believe me, when I say that I am convinced that now I must run.
“I must run,” he said, “because I am the principal initiator of a policy of meeting treachery with force which has aroused very loud and violent criticism from some of you gentlemen and your publications, and from some segments of the national and world community.
“I must run because I believe this policy to be the only one consistent with the honor and security of the United States that can safely be followed in this present era.
“I must run because it is my policy and because it is not fair to ask someone else—even if,” he said, and they stirred and murmured for they knew who he meant—“he might have been closely associated with it—to carry the burden of criticism which rightfully falls on me.
“I must run because I should not ask anyone else—particularly if he were not closely associated with it”—and again they knew who he meant—“to carry the criticism and fight the battle.
“It is my policy.
“I want to defend it.
“And I will.
“Furthermore,” he said quietly, “I want to defend it because I do not believe that some of you gentlemen are completely correct when you tell the country that it does not agree with me.
“I think the country should have a chance to say whether it agrees with me or not. I expect to explain to the country again tonight why I have taken the road I have in Gorotoland and Panama and the United Nations, and I expect to keep on explaining, right straight through to November 3. And then I expect the country to say, with its votes, whether I am right or wrong.
“For once,” he said, and smiled, “this will be a campaign that really discusses some issues. That in itself will be a service to the country, I hope, whether I win or lose.”
