by Allen Drury
And the delegations from Indiana, Michigan, Montana, Hawaii, Alaska, Mississippi, South Carolina, North Carolina, Louisiana, Georgia, tumbling in on one another’s heels at the Palace; and Kansas, Pennsylvania, the Dakotas, New York, and a riotous, exuberant California jamming into the Hilton; and the others scattered all over downtown. And the cable cars beginning to move more and more slowly up and down Powell as the crowds grew in Union Square and in front of the St. Francis; and the taxi drivers beginning to curse, and the buses along Geary beginning to honk impatiently; and at the Cow Palace in Daly City, ten miles south on the Peninsula where the convention would actually be held, the last lights being tested, the last cameras and microphones being checked, the last sound trucks being wheeled into place, the last briefings being held for the cops and the sergeants-at-arms, the last consignments of hot dogs, soda pop, banners, and programs being unloaded for the booths beneath the stands. And the sun bright and sparkling everywhere, and the waters of the Bay competing with the sky to see which could be bluest. And at the Fairmont, almost unnoticed in all the shouting, running, moving, shoving people, a conservatively dressed, quietly pretty young woman with a big “UTAH” button on her coat, getting out of a cab with an excited little blond girl of seven—almost unnoticed but not quite, because a stocky, pleasant-faced man with a big “IOWA” button stepped forward and called, “Mabel! Mabel Anderson!” And the young woman stopped and turned and blushed, and the little girl screamed, “Uncle Lafe!” and rushed into his arms.
“Why, there you are,” Mabel said, and he bent and kissed her lips as though he had done it a million times, while Pidge jumped and squealed and wriggled in his arms.
“Yes,” he said with a gravely gentle smile. “Here I am.”
“I find these Knox men,” Crystal confided to her mother-in-law at the St. Francis as they changed and made ready to depart for the Ohio Ladies’ reception at the Fairmont, “quite something to live with.”
Beth smiled.
“No complaints, I hope?”
“Heavens, no,” Crystal said. “But it’s—intriguing—to watch the wheels go around, you know?”
“Yes,” Beth agreed, briskly getting out of the tweed suit she had traveled in, briskly getting into a light blue dress, neat but matronly, “I think I do know. In what particular respect, though?”
“Oh—I don’t know. The ambition, I guess. And the drive. And the sudden spells of being so sentimental and human, and so—overcome by it all. When Hal came back to the room after his first speech at the state convention six months ago, he started to tell me what a wonderful greeting they’d given him and tears came into his eyes and he had to stop. He really got all choked up.” She smiled, her own eyes suddenly brighter. “So did I, as a matter of fact.”
“They care,” Beth said seriously. “People don’t believe that about the Knoxes, or at least about my Knox, but they do care. Such a hatchet job has been done on them by people like Walter Dobius that the public has an automatic association of ‘Knox—cold-blooded.’ At least some of the public. Thank God there are others.”
“Plenty of others,” Crystal said, starting to struggle into a stylishly cut maternity dress that was as efficient a matching of purpose and pretense as maternity dresses ever are. “Look at the crowd downstairs in the lobby.”
“For heaven’s sake, girl, let me help you with that,” Beth said impatiently. “Haven’t you learned to be waited on, yet? You’re a politician’s daughter; you know what crowds mean.”
“Thanks ... It depends on the crowd. I’d say from the tone of the one downstairs that there are plenty of people here who want Orrin Knox on that ticket. I think they’re going to get him.”
“They’ve wanted him before,” Beth said, her eyes suddenly shadowed by the memories of two lost conventions, the endless speeches, the endless campaigning, the shattered effort, heartbreaking and destructive of all but the toughest. “They didn’t get him. What makes you think they will now?”
“A hunch,” Crystal said, moving to the window and staring down at the swirling crowds far below. Faintly the sound of a band in Union Square came up through the cool, shining air. “And this time, a principle and a cause that maybe are greater than any he’s fought for before. Before, I’ve felt, it was Orrin Knox-the-efficient-leader who was running, and that was a powerful argument. But not enough. Now it’s Orrin Knox the man who symbolizes a specific policy and program, and that’s a little different. Man and issue have finally come together, I think.”
“What does Stanley think?”
At this reference to her father, senior Senator from Connecticut and Majority Whip of the Senate, Crystal looked surprised.
“He’s heading up the campaign, isn’t he?”
“I know,” Beth said, pinning to her blouse a rose taken from one of the bouquets sent to the room by the ladies of Illinois, the ladies of Michigan, the ladies of Pennsylvania, the ladies of Nebraska. “But what does he really think?”
“The Dantas are like the Knoxes,” Crystal said, a little stiffly. “He wouldn’t make the commitment if he didn’t believe in it.”
“Now, now,” Beth said calmly. “Don’t get upset. I know Stanley. I mean about the chances. Is he as confident about it as we’d like to have him?”
“I think he is,” Crystal said slowly. “He’s pretty close-mouthed, you know, even with me, but I think he thinks there’s a very good chance.”
“I hope so,” Beth said soberly. “I do hope so. I don’t know whether Orrin could stand it again if—”
“Oh, of course he could. Others have taken it and survived. He could too.”
I’m glad you have such faith in the Knoxes,” Beth said with a sudden smile. Her daughter-in-law smiled back with perfect candor. It grows.
There was a banging on the door of the adjoining room. Crystal laughed.
“There they are, ready to start the grind. Hold on a minute!” she called cheerfully. “We’ll be right there.…Really, you know,” she said as she started for the door, “I feel like a cow on exhibition.”
Beth laughed.
“You look rather like one, too, as a matter of fact. But a nice one.”
“Thanks so much,” Crystal said, giving her an affectionate peck on the cheek as she went by. She opened the door for her husband and the Secretary of State, both of whom looked alert and a lot more rested than they would in twenty-four hours—or forty-eight—or seventy-two—or whenever it all ended. “O.K., boys. The girls are ready!”
They were at the Mark Hopkins, too, or almost. Patsy was trying on orchids, and having discarded a cerise, three whites, and a purple, was now experimenting with a deep yellow flecked with green. Selena, gin and tonic in hand, was standing by the window staring down at the crowds that swarmed atop Nob Hill. Here, too, a band could be heard, faint shouts and celebrations ascended, the whole great hotel seemed to vibrate with excitement. Valuela sat on one of the sofas, surrounded by newspapers: KNOX-JASON CONTEST DOMINATES CONVENTION ON OPENING DAY, the New York Times said. JASON AIDES CLAIM VICTORY ON FIRST BALLOT, the San Francisco Chronicle announced. JASONS, KNOXES ARRIVE; PRESIDENT DUE WEDNESDAY, the San Francisco Examiner reported. KNOX-JASON DEADLOCK COULD OPEN WAY FOR DARK HORSE, the Washington Post advised. Herbert, looking rather morose, sat in a rocking chair and read Time: his nephew and the Secretary faced one another on the cover against a background of campaign banners, Goroto assegais, and the Panama Canal. In the next room a murmur of voices indicated Ceil and the Governor, busy with their dressing. In the hall outside other voices gave evidence of adoring supporters, the few interlopers who always manage, by dint of much pleading and assistance, to get past the first barrier of guards to stand chattering excitedly before their hero’s room.
“Val,” Patsy said in a sudden explosive voice, “you’re the artist. Will you PLEASE tell me WHAT color orchid to wear with this dress?”
“Darling,” Valuela said with a lazy smile, tossing aside the Chronicle and surveying her niece from head to f
oot, “with that dress you could wear anything. Who gave it to you, Joseph?”
“Patsy’s noted for her clothes,” Selena said spitefully. “I read about them all the time in the New York papers. ‘Señora Labaiya, in a startling combination of green and magenta,’ or, ‘Señora Labaiya, as usual trying to outdo the rainbow.’ Good Lord, girl, you have the money. Why haven’t you ever learned how to dress?”
“I do know how to dress,” Patsy said, “and you’re certainly no example, Sel. Just look at you! A rag, a bone, and a hank of hair—”
“Worth fifty million dollars,” Herbert spoke up with a sudden chuckle. “You can get away with quite a lot with that kind of backing—”
“And you shouldn’t talk,” his niece told him sharply. “If that suit has been pressed in the last three weeks, I’ll eat my hat. The shabby Jasons! We’re a fine lot for a presidential—vice presidential—candidate to have for a family.”
“At least I,” Valuela said, “am presentable”—and she did look stunning at sixty-three, in a sleek black sheath, enormous rhinestone earrings, an upswept hairdo, a slash of brilliant lipstick, and a Spanish comb, also alive with rhinestones. “Anyway, Pat, I think we make up in shock value what we lack in couture. I’ve already been tagged for sixteen interviews in the next three days. How are the rest of you doing?”
“I’m doing all right, too,” Herbert said, his pop-eyes puckish beneath their crown of frizzly white hair. “I’ve been invited for ten or so, plus a scientific round table under the auspices of the University of California which for some reason, probably attributable to my presence, is, I understand, to be rather extensively covered by the press.”
“Lord!” Patsy said. “I pity those poor reporters stuck with an assignment like that just because you’re there.”
“But who knows,” Herbert said blandly. “I might blow up something. Or commit Ted to overthrowing the government by force and violence. Or something equally astounding.”
“Now, THAT,” Patsy said severely, “is exactly the sort of levity we can’t have. I do hope you and Sel will try to act halfway sensible this week.”
“Pet,” Selena said, running a hand through her hacked-off hair, turning her perennially startled eyes upon her niece with a blandness equal to her brother’s, “that is the last thing you have to worry about. Bert and I have nothing more in mind than picketing Knox headquarters with ban-the-bomb banners. No one will notice that.”
“Oh, stop it,” Patsy said, suddenly no longer amused. “This is so serious for him, and for all of us—for the whole country. Now, do stop it, PLEASE! He’s got to win, and we’ve got to help him in every way we can. Now, please.”
“Relax, child,” Valuela said calmly. “When did you ever know the Jasons not wanting to win? We’re going to help him, all right. I might suggest,” she added a trifle acidly, “that perhaps his biggest embarrassment may lie in the fact that his sister is still married to a man who so far seems to be leading a successful military action against the United States.”
“That isn’t fair,” Patsy said. “That really isn’t fair, Val. I’ve filed for divorce. It has to be done in absentia, obviously. That takes time, particularly with the Church involved. I don’t see how anyone can claim that I’m not doing all I can to clear it up.”
“I wonder what Felix will do to JM’s holdings in Panama,” Valuela said dreamily, “if he wins?”
“He won’t win,” Patsy said shortly. Her aunt looked surprised.
“But don’t Ted’s backers want him to win? Isn’t Ted the idol of all those who oppose the Administration’s attempt to stop him from winning? I think Ted is in quite a position.”
“He isn’t as long as he keeps his mouth shut,” Herbert said.
“My thought exactly,” the Governor agreed with an amiable smile, entering on the remark. “Are we ready, all?”
“We’re ready,” Ceil said in a noncommittal tone. She straightened her back, squared her shoulders, gave her glorious hair a toss, and grinned. “Once more unto the breach! Dear friends, we may be dead already.”
“Oh, CEIL,” Patsy said. “You’re always so—so—”
“Aren’t I, though?” Ceil said cheerfully. “Awful, isn’t it?”
“Here they come!” the crowds roared in front of the St. Francis, screamed in front of the Mark. Two families hurried out into the gorgeous blue day amid bursting flashbulbs, snapping cameras, microphones, reporters, shoving, clamoring, frantically eager people straining to see. ON THE ROCKS WITH ORRIN KNOX, a placard held by a grinning college boy summed up one view, at the St. Francis. HASTEN, JASON, GET YOUR BASIN, a placard held by another grinning college boy summed up the other view, at the Mark. At this point everyone was still happy, and everyone laughed.
Elsewhere, the mood grew grimmer.
“Bob,” the Speaker said in a worried voice from his room at the Hilton, “I’m going to Credentials Committee. Things seem to be getting out of hand a little bit.”
“Right,” the Majority Leader said from his room at the St. Francis. “They are in Platform Committee, too. I’m going there. How about meeting us for lunch at one-thirty in the room here, and we can call Harley?”
“O.K.,” the Speaker said. “See you.”
“Can I come, too?” Dolly asked. Senator Munson smiled.
“I thought you had to stay here and plan for your party tonight. Can you tear yourself away?”
“Everything’s ready,” Dolly said. “I can steal an hour: or two.”
“Be my guest,” her husband said. “It may be brutal.”
“What are you doing here?” Cullee asked in a pleased voice, bumping into familiar figures in the crush in front of the Palace. The Maudulaynes greeted him with beaming smiles and shook hands cordially with Sarah Johnson.
“Just observing,” Claude said airily.
“It’s so fascinating,” Kitty remarked. “This is our second, you know. We went to the last one, too.”
“Not under quite such dramatic circumstances, though,” Lord Maudulayne said, pointing to the Chronicle he was carrying. It had headlines on NEW LOSSES IN GOROTOLAND … AFRO-ASIANS AGAIN DEMAND UN INTERVENTION IN PANAMA … PRESIDENT REITERATES WILL TO STAND FIRM, NEGOTIATE, and a column by Walter Dobius entitled WHAT CAN THE WORLD’S COP DO NOW?, wrapped around four bloody (and of course not at all inflammatory, one-sided, or biased) photographs of GOROTO REBELS GET TORTURE TREATMENT FROM U.S. ALLIES. “What will happen on all of this?”
“I’m just on my way to Platform Committee to see,” Cullee said.
“Oh, that’s where we’re going,” Lord Maudulayne said. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“It’s closed,” Cullee said. “There may be a more significant fight in Credentials, in terms of the convention. Why don’t you go there?”
“Can you get us in?” Kitty asked, and took Cullee’s arm. Sarah smiled.
“Looks like we’ve got some company,” she said with a smile as Lord Maudulayne offered her his arm. “If we can get through the crowd, that is.”
“You do things so much more quietly in your country,” Cullee told Kitty as he began gently but firmly pushing people out of their way.
“The blood flows,” she said cheerfully. “It usually seeps under the door instead of being splattered all over the hall. But it flows.”
“I only hope we can get through this without too much being spilled here,” Cullee said grimly. “I’m not too confident.”
“Hey, there, boy!” Fred Van Ackerman cried, slapping LeGage Shelby on the back in the midst of the shifting, shouting crowd at the Palace. The chairman of DEFY winced and turned on him with a flaring anger.
“I’ve told you a million times,” he said savagely, “don’t ‘boy’ me. What do you want?”
“Look, pal,” Senator Van Ackerman said in a suddenly tight voice, while a dozen delegates, college kids, and reporters looked on with interest. “We’ve got to stand together on this, so don’t go flying off the handle every time I say hello t
o you, will you? Where’s that fat fool Kleinfert? Are his people ready to demonstrate?”
“They’ll be ready when yours are,” ’Gage said shortly, “and so will we. What do you hear?”
“I hear there’s a hell of a fight in Credentials Committee over the Ohio and Alabama delegations. What about you?”
“They tell me Jason’s got fifteen of the Illinois delegation and may get some from Michigan and Washington state by tonight.”
“Got any over-all figures yet?”
“Somebody said Knox was claiming 672.”
Senator Van Ackerman uttered a short cloacal expletive that made two elderly lady delegates from Massachusetts jump and exchange indignant looks.
“What Knox claims and what Knox gets will be two different things, boy. Yes, sir, two different things. Take care, now. You and Rufe keep in touch with us over at the Hilton. Drop in ‘The COMFORT Room’ and have a drink, when you get a chance. We’ve got a real live-wire bunch at work over there. Let us know when you want to demonstrate.”
“We’ll call you,” LeGage said, without much humor. “Don’t call us.”
“You’re a kidder,” Fred said, but he laid his hand on ’Gage’s arm with a grip that made him wince again and look furious. “Don’t forget this is damned serious business here. The world may depend upon it.”
