(1964) The Man

by Irving Wallace

  “ ‘All of this I had to consider and weigh, against our own national security, when you rashly moved a division of your armies into Africa in these last hours. Over a local and passive incident in Africa, you—a man of good will, I had believed, but a man at the mercy of advisers now persecuting you—have challenged the U.S.S.R. and brought the world to that minute that precedes eternal and total sleep, the sleep of death by suicide. Through dangerous aggression over a relatively unimportant and overvalued problem, you have challenged the U.S.S.R. to respond with like aggression, in the cause of self-defense, to respond thus, or to withhold its invincible arms and become the nation which, by its belief in an Idea, shall lead the way through nonviolence and good example to preserve humanity.

  “ ‘While reaching my final decision, there came to my mind a curious recollection. I remembered the two little old ladies who walked in Versailles. They, so you told me, were possessed of the gift to see into the past. But for us, to see into the past is useless, for we no longer have much to learn from it, because in the past mankind never had the power to destroy itself. Then I held another recollection. I remembered two leaders of the world’s two foremost nations who also walked in Versailles. It occurred to me that perhaps they were gifted to look into the future. Would they see a barren earth come to an end through pride and madness? Or would they see, as one of them saw, as I saw in that clear vision hours ago, a world surviving and immortal, populated by independent nations coexisting as good neighbors in peace and harmony and mutual prosperity?

  “ ‘This, Mr. President, is the world I saw ahead, and by my making the first step toward reaching it, I hope you shall see it, too.

  “ ‘Therefore, I have dispatched Marshal Borov and his military staff to Africa, under instructions to carry out and facilitate, immediately, the complete disbandment and dispersal of native African Communist militia who respect our advice and who have been gathering at the Barazan frontier. I have ordered that any weaponry in their hands be surrendered or returned to the sources from which the arms were purchased. I have ordered that our Soviet technicians and educators, working with these native groups, be recalled at once to the Soviet Union. All of this activity, in the interests of peace, is taking place at this time, even as this note is being read to you.

  “ ‘In return for our forward-looking act of peace, I request only that you display America’s similar desire for peace by responding in kind. I ask the immediate dispersal of African Unity Pact forces gathered in and around Baraza, and the immediate withdrawal of all United States military forces and equipment from Baraza.

  “ ‘Mr. President, let us remain the two men we were at Versailles. Let us look into the future, the future of this day, all days to follow, and let us see only peace.

  “ ‘With every good wish, I am, Yours, Nikolai Kasatkin, Premier, U.S.S.R.’ ”

  Ambassador Rudenko had finished, and his words hung in the room. Then he placed the note on the President’s desk, and, busily, he closed his attaché case.

  Dilman sat stunned, hands clenching the arms of his chair, trying to absorb what he had heard.

  The telephone beside him was ringing. It was, he saw, the direct Pentagon line. He answered the telephone, listened to Steinbrenner’s excited exclamations, and then he spoke a few words and hung up.

  Dilman came to his feet. “That was my Secretary of Defense. Premier Kasatkin’s notification of total withdrawal of Communist forces from the Barazan frontier has just been confirmed by President Amboko and by our Ambassador to the United Nations. The United Nations, I understand, is this afternoon flying a team to Baraza to supervise the Communist withdrawal. We have instructed our Ambassador Slater to inform the Security Council that we will pull out our own forces within twenty-four hours after your forces are gone. Your delegation has agreed to this.”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well, Ambassador Rudenko. This is a happy day for the world. Please inform Premier Kasatkin that I have heard his note, and that on behalf of my countrymen and all who believe in peace, I am relieved and delighted, and tell him—tell him it is my hope, too, and my belief, that enduring peace is possible, that we shall walk arm and arm into the future—into a world that shall remain immortal.”

  “I shall convey your message, Mr. President. Thank you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ambassador.”

  Dilman saw Rudenko through the French door, watched him depart up the colonnaded walk with the now cheerful General Jaskawich, and then he swung around and bounded back into the Oval Office.

  Nat Abrahams was waiting, beaming as Dilman was beaming. The two men embraced, pounding each other on the back in their excitement.

  “We won! We won the big one!” Dilman chortled. “We’ve got to get Tim Flannery—got to tell the whole world!”

  He had broken away to summon Flannery when he stopped, and slowly came around to face Abrahams again.

  “The big one,” he murmured, with wonder. Then he said, “What about the small one, Nat? Will this make the difference in—in the Senate?”

  “I can’t promise it’ll make the difference,” said Abrahams, suddenly solemn. “I can only promise you this—it’ll make it a contest, a real contest, for the first time.”

  IT was a quarter after two o’clock in the afternoon, and although Chief Justice Johnstone’s reluctant gavel had sounded several times, the Senate had not yet been convened as a court of impeachment.

  In all the days of the trial, Nat Abrahams had never once observed a scene in the Senate such as the one that spread before his eyes. Weakly, he smiled and shrugged at Tuttle, Priest, Hart, and received their nervous smiles in reply, and then, again, he tried to take in what was going on before him.

  If the galleries had been filled every day, and filled to overflowing during the occasion the President had been on the witness stand, the galleries seemed bent and sagging with vociferous humanity on this afternoon of final judgment.

  On the floor of the Chamber itself, few senators were at their mahogany desks. Most of them had spilled into the narrow aisles, clustering in groups, reading the bold headlines of the special editions of the Washington newspapers or listening to the steady chattering of commentators on their transistor radios, reading, listening, and then discussing the sensational news of President Dilman’s victory, of Soviet Russia’s backdown and retreat, of peace on earth once more.

  Abrahams’ keen eyes tried to follow the activity of both sides, that of the senators who were known to be in the camp against the President, determined to convict and remove him, led by aging Senator Bruce Hankins, who was everywhere, and that of the senators who were known to be in the camp supporting the President, determined to acquit him, led by the spry former labor union executive, Chris Van Horn, senior senator from Dilman’s own state.

  Had a single vote changed from guilty to not guilty, even one? Abrahams could not tell. The partisans were easy to read. The independents were independent still, and unreadable. Only one emotion in common was evident in all faces, all stances, all movement: intense excitement.

  At last, in his carved chair on the rostrum high above, Chief Justice Johnstone slid forward and rapped his gavel down hard once, twice, three times on the oak board, and the sound reverberated throughout the Chamber and stilled it, and gradually the Senate members began to empty the aisles and return to their individual desks, with their personal decisions already made or soon to be made.

  “All caucusing will come to an end, and the senators will resume their seats and be attentive,” the Chief Justice commanded. He waited for his order to be obeyed, and it was obeyed. Satisfied, in a louder voice he announced, “The Senate is now organized for the purpose of proceeding to the trial of the impeachment of Douglass Dilman, President of the United States. The Sergeant at Arms will make the proclamation.”

  The Sergeant at Arms jumped to his feet. “Hear ye! Hear ye! All persons are commanded to keep silence on pain of imprisonment while the Senate of the United States is sitting for
the trial of the Articles of Impeachment against Douglass Dilman, President of the United States.”

  Abrahams saw a rangy figure rise behind his desk near the aisle. It was Van Horn, the vigorous outspoken senator from Dilman’s state. His arm was uplifted.

  “Mr. Chief Justice, I move that the Senate proceed by voice vote to the consideration of the order that I submitted to the bench a short time ago, as to the reading of the Articles of Impeachment.”

  The Chief Justice looked directly below him. “The Secretary of the Senate will read the order which Senator Van Horn proposes to take up.”

  The Secretary of the Senate rose, and from a sheet of paper read aloud, “Ordered, that the Chief Justice, in directing the Secretary to read the four Articles of Impeachment, shall direct him to read the fourth Article first, and the question shall then be taken on that Article, and thereafter the other three successively as they stand.”

  Senator Bruce Hankins, coughing and hacking, stood up. “Mr. Chief Justice, is this legal? Can the Articles be voted upon out of their original sequence?”

  Senator Van Horn spoke quickly. “Mr. Chief Justice, I suggest the bench remind the able Senator that there is historical precedent for such procedure, as evidenced in the minutes of the Andrew Johnson impeachment, and other lesser impeachments in modern times. While I am aware that each and every one of the Articles is subject to a separate roll-call vote, it is also legal, and there is precedent for this, to select of the several Articles of Impeachment the one that is most important, and center a vote on that. If the respondent is found guilty on that one Article, he will be guilty and removed no matter what the vote on the others. If the respondent is found not guilty on that one Article, it is unlikely he will be found otherwise on the remaining and lesser Articles, which have considerably less support for conviction. On both sides of the aisle, and in both camps, I find sentiment agreeing that Article IV is the key indictment against the President. That is why I have moved that it be taken up at once, and have suggested a voice vote for or against.”

  The Chief Justice rapped his gavel. “A voice vote will be taken on the motion. On the question of reversing the order, in the first instance, for voting on the Articles under consideration, how many of you say yea?”

  A powerful, lusty chorus of voices rang out, “Yea!”

  “How many of you say nay?”

  Another chorus of voices, thin and scattered, shouted, “Nay!”

  “The yeas have it,” announced Chief Justice Johnstone. “The motion as to altering the sequence of the Articles to be voted upon is carried.”

  Senator Selander, the Majority Leader, was calling for recognition. When he had it, he said, “Mr. Chief Justice, I move that the Senate now proceed to vote upon the Articles according to the order of the Senate just adopted. I have submitted this motion in writing to the chair.”

  “Very well,” said the Chief Justice, “the motion will be read.”

  The Chief Clerk came to his feet, and he read the motion. Promptly, a voice vote was called for. The motion was unanimously agreed upon.

  Twice now the robed magistrate’s gavel was heard, and when the Chamber was hushed, he announced, “By direction of the Senate, I hereby, as Chief Justice presiding over this court, admonish citizens and strangers in the galleries that absolute silence and perfect order must be maintained from this moment onward. Persons responsible for disturbance will be immediately arrested. . . . Senators, in conformity with the order of the Senate, the chair will now proceed to take the final vote on Article IV, as directed by the rule. The Chief Clerk of the Senate will now read aloud Article IV.”

  The Chief Clerk was already standing with the document containing the Articles of Impeachment in his quivering hand. He scanned the assembly, and then, with deliberation, enunciating every word of the language of indictment clearly, he began to read.

  “Article IV. That said Douglass Dilman, President of the United States, at Washington, in the District of Columbia, unmindful of the high duties of his office, of his oath of office, and in violation of the Constitution of the United States, and contrary to the provisions of an act entitled ‘The New Succession Act Regulating the Line of Succession to the Presidency and the Tenure of Certain Civil Offices,’ without the advice and consent of the Senate of the United States, said Senate then and there being in session, and without authority of law, did, with intent to violate the Constitution of the United States, and the act aforesaid, remove from office as Secretary of State . . .”

  From his corner of the President’s managers’ table, Nat Abrahams had been listening to the words of indictment long engraved on his mind. But now his attention wandered from the Chief Clerk to the faces of the five at the table across the way, the House managers, each expression intent and solemn, except that on the countenance of Zeke Miller, sitting back carelessly, lips curled in a self-satisfied smirk, as if relishing every dagger word of the indictment.

  From Miller’s face, Abrahams’ attention moved out and across the faces hung over the Senate desks, some directed toward the reading, some turned downward as if contemplating what judgment they must pronounce in not many minutes.

  At once, the suddenness of silence brought Abrahams up short. He realized the reading of the indictment, the crucial one, had concluded, and that everyone, everyone around the room, up high, down low, was staring at the dais. Abrahams looked up, too.

  Chief Justice Johnstone had risen from his chair, his black robes flowing. Majestically, he surveyed those beneath him. In a husky voice, he uttered three words.

  “Call the roll!”

  The moment had come, the moment of hope and dread, and Abrahams was certain that his heart had temporarily ceased its beat.

  He thought of the millions everywhere, in America, in Europe, in Asia, hypnotized before their television sets. He thought of Doug Dilman watching, and of all the ones that mattered in Doug’s life and his own life. The moment had come, and there was no hiding from it, no turning from it, no stopping it.

  The Senate Chamber was deathly still.

  No longer, it seemed, were all eyes focused upon the Chief Justice, who remained upright. All eyes were on the Chief Clerk, directly beneath him, who had risen with a scroll containing the names of the 100 senators present who would vote in alphabetical order.

  “Mr. Alexander,” the Chief Clerk called out.

  A pinch-faced, elderly man rose in his place at the rear bench.

  “Mr. Senator Alexander, how say you?” the Chief Justice asked sternly. “Is the respondent, Douglass Dilman, President of the United States, guilty or not guilty of a high misdemeanor, as charged in this Article?”

  Senator Alexander’s reply was a shout. “Guilty!”

  He sat down, satisfied with himself.

  “Mr. Austin,” the Chief Clerk called out.

  A dapper young politician in the second row stood up.

  “Mr. Senator Austin, how say you?” the Chief Justice demanded to know. “Is the respondent, Douglass Dilman, President of the United States, guilty of not guilty of a high misdemeanor, as charged in this Article?”

  Senator Austin hesitated, then answered, “Guilty.”

  “Mr. Bennatt,” the Chief Clerk called out.

  A twitching, stunted man leaped up from his desk near the center row.

  “Mr. Senator Bennatt, how say you?” the Chief Justice inquired. “Is the respondent—”

  “Not guilty, sir!” Senator Bennatt interrupted.

  From the gallery came a nervous giggle, then laughter, and the Chief Justice suppressed his own smile, held his gavel poised, but did not use it.

  “Mr. Bollinger,” the Chief Clerk called out.

  “Mr. Senator Bollinger, how say you? Is the respondent, Douglass Dilman, President of the United States, guilty or not guilty of a high misdemeanor, as charged in this Article?”

  “Guilty.”

  Abrahams’ heart was hammering again, as if to make up for its loss in suspension, and he stared d
own at his hands worriedly. Four of the one hundred had voted, and three of the four had judged the President as guilty. It was not promising. Abrahams could hear Senator Campbell being questioned, and now he heard the reply.

  “Guilty.”

  About to return his full attention to the rising, announcing, and sitting of senator jurors, Nat Abrahams found himself mildly distracted by the sounds of whispering beside or behind him. He glanced at Tuttle, then down the table at Priest and Hart, to learn if they were the ones conferring, but they were silent, mesmerized by the drama of the vote.

  Perplexed, as the whispering continued, Abrahams quietly turned in his chair, and then saw the source of the sound that had distracted him. A network television camera, which he had not noticed before, had been set up on the ground floor level, near the rostrum, to capture the historic countdown in its glass eye. Nearby two men crouched, one tallying the voting on a pad, as the other, an announcer, whispered the totaled figures, and their significance, into a perforated microphone in his hand.

  Abrahams tilted backward, cocking an ear toward the whispering announcer, trying to close out the individual senators rising with their votes in order to catch, if he could, the latest tabulation. He listened hard, heard parts of several sentences, and then became attuned to the television announcer’s low-keyed commentary and was able to hear him distinctly.

  “The vote is going swiftly, as you can see on your screens,” the announcer was purring into the microphone. “We have—let me see—yes—thirty—five out of the one hundred senators have already declared themselves. Of this first thirty-five, the vote summary this moment is twenty-six against President Dilman, nine favoring President Dilman, meaning that the vote to convict is running well ahead of the two-thirds required to remove the President from his office. It is too early to tell if this is a trend, and we are unable to learn if there have been any surprise switches against or for, but the President is trailing, he is behind, and if this count continues, he will be removed. For the first time in American history, a President of the United States will be removed from office for high crimes and misdemeanors. We want to remind all of you it will require two-thirds of the one hundred present to vote guilty, if conviction is to be obtained. Two-thirds means sixty-seven Senate members must declare aloud that they believe President Dilman guilty—wait, one moment—what’s that, Kent?—yes, fine. Ladies and gentlemen, while I’ve been speaking to you, the voting has been going on, inexorably continuing, relentlessly driving to its climactic moment, and now my colleague with the tally sheet informs me—uniforms me that half of the votes are in—here, I have the halfway total in hand—the vote now stands, this minute it stands, thirty-four votes guilty, sixteen votes not guilty, out of fifty senators who have declared. It would appear—it appears that while the President is still running behind, his supporters have somewhat closed the gap, the voting has tightened considerably. If this ratio maintains, the prosecution will get its two-thirds by two votes to spare, at least, but since the earlier tabulation, it has narrowed down to a real life-and-death struggle—let’s see now, who’s that rising to vote?”