A Shade of Difference (86 page)

“Perhaps somebody,” he said darkly, “will stop Seab Cooley in the Senate.”

“We know you don’t like Seab, Fred,” their host said as everyone laughed, “but surely you don’t approve of this tricky resolution, either. It’s just a stalking-horse for Orrin Knox.”

“I’ll get to Orrin,” Fred Van Ackerman promised. “One stupid fool at a time. As for the resolution, I guess I can go along with it.”

“But surely you don’t want to let your animosity toward Seab blind you to the meretricious nature of it,” Justice Davis said earnestly. “Truly now, you must be objective, my dear boy, you simply
must.
It won’t do to let yourself be blinded by prejudice, as They are.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Fred Van Ackerman said, giving him an insolent look. “What makes you think you’re so perfect? I may support this resolution or I may not.”

“But, my dear boy,” Tommy Davis said in some dismay, “don’t you see that it’s—”

“I see a lot of things,” Senator Van Ackerman said curtly. “Excuse me. I’ve got to get a refill.”

“Goodness,” Justice Davis said as Fred elbowed his way through the crowd which by now jammed the East Lounge of the Press Club to capacity and overflowed raucously into the ballroom beyond. “What an unpleasant young man.”

“He is that,” their host agreed with amusement. “But as long as he’s out to get Seab and Orrin, maybe we can live with him. Look on the sunny side of things, why don’t you, Tommy!”

“Well …” the Justice said doubtfully. Then he brightened, turning quickly to the silently watching M’Bulu. “Possibly,” he said, “Senator Van Ackerman will succeed in killing the resolution while he is ki— That is,” he amended hastily, “I don’t mean to say while he is killing Senator Cooley, but—you know what I mean.”

“I doubt it, Tommy,” the Majority Leader said, coming up behind him so unexpectedly that the little Justice jumped and almost spilled his Gibson. “I doubt if anyone really knows what you mean, including yourself. How did you get involved in this strange affair?”

“It is not a strange affair,” Justice Davis said with dignity. “It is a fine party, and the basic reason for it is that I expressed a desire to meet His Royal Highness the M’Bulu, whom I had not met, and our friend from the
Post,
here, very kindly arranged it.”

“A small, private greeting,” Senator Munson said, surveying the weaving figures, the rising voices, the reddening faces. He shook his head and blinked. They baffled him, but, then, they always had. He realized that the M’Bulu was watching him closely and, on a sudden impulse, smiled slightly and winked. The gorgeous figure towering opposite smiled back.

“What do
you
make of it?” Bob Munson asked, holding out his hand. “I’m Senator Munson, Majority Leader of the Senate. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

“Call me Terry,” the M’Bulu said, moving away from the group toward a position by one of the windows looking down upon the hurrying homeward crowds on F Street, twelve floors below. “What do I make of what?”

“All this,” Bob Munson said. He nodded toward the roaring room, where many eyes were now turned toward them in somewhat woozy curiosity. “Here you are, doing your damnedest to injure the United States, and here they are, doing you honor. Do you suppose it’s just the free drinks?”

Terrible Terry shrugged.

“I think it might be better for the United States if it were. But, no: I think there is something else, and I must confess, just between ourselves, it baffles me, too. I think there is an element in your society that
enjoys
being insulted by foreigners. It is the only way I can explain it. And of course,” he added with a grin of complete and happy cynicism. “Who am I to complain of that?”

“Yes, I can see you’re not about to. Well: I think we have you stopped.”

“The Hamilton Resolution? I think the UN will want more than that. Anyway, it may not pass the Senate. You know more about that than I do.”

“I’m not worried. It will be passed by midnight.”

“Despite the old man Cooley? I hear he is powerful.”

“He was,” Senator Munson said. “In some ways he still is. But he has lost his magic.”

“What?” the M’Bulu said in a startled tone. Then he smiled.

“In my country, old men really
do
have magic. But when they lose it”—his face hardened—“they are put out to die.”

“They often are here, too,” Bob Munson said. “But not this time,” he added softly to himself. “Not if I can help it.”

“What?” the M’Bulu said again.

“Nothing you would care about, or understand. When do you go back to Africa?” he asked politely. “I understand there’s a small rebellion there you might have to worry about.”

“What have you heard?” Terry demanded sharply, and abruptly all his easily confident aspect had disappeared. “What is new on that today?”

“Nothing,” the Majority Leader said in a surprised tone. “I thought you were in touch—”

“I am,” the M’Bulu said. “There is nothing to it. It is all over. I, Terence Ajkaje the M’Bulu, tell you so.”

“Well, good for you, Terence Ajkaje the M’Bulu,” Bob Munson said. Well, well, he thought; well, well. “Shall we drink to it?”

“Scotch and soda for me,” the M’Bulu said, seizing one from a passing tray and drinking an enormous gulp straight down.

“It’s nice you don’t have to hurry back,” Senator Munson said comfortably. “You’ll be able to see this whole thing through then, won’t you?”

“Perhaps,” Terry said, staring straight ahead into some distance the Majority Leader could not see but which apparently needed the M’Bulu’s most intense concentration. “I shall see.”

“I hope so. We wouldn’t want you to have to cut short your visit before all your triumphs are completed.”

“Where is Justice Davis?” Terry asked abruptly. “He wanted to talk to me—”

“I’ll find him for you,” the Majority Leader said, looking about blandly at the circle of eager faces which was once more moving to surround them now that it was apparent their private talk was concluded. “Don’t go away.”

Now what particular chord do you suppose I hit there? he asked himself as he pushed his way slowly through the room, shaking hands and nodding greetings and calling out the casual small change of the Washington cocktail circuit. Granted that Terry might be worried more than the world knew about the strange little uprising yesterday in Molobangwe, still it was surprising he should reveal it to the newly met Majority Leader. He did not suppose the M’Bulu’s inner feelings were often revealed to anyone, which was accurate; and he was at a loss to understand what sudden impulse or slipping of control had caused them to be revealed to him. He decided to tell Orrin when he saw him, for whatever it might be worth, as he moved on across the room, saw Tommy Davis and Fred Van Ackerman again talking in a corner, and was surprised and amused by the thought of how quickly these little collaborations and differences eddied and swirled in this hecticly self-conscious sector of American politics. More or less for the hell of it, he decided to join them, and was intrigued to see that Robert A. Leffingwell was doing the same from the other side of the room.

“Good evening, Bob,” he said as their paths converged. The director of the President’s Commission on Administrative Reform looked startled for a second, then held out his hand with a fair show of cordiality.

“Senator, how have you been? I haven’t seen you in a long time.”

“No,” Senator Munson agreed. “How have you been? Keeping you busy over there in the Executive Branch, are they?”

“I seem to keep occupied,” Bob Leffingwell said pleasantly. “You, too, I read in the papers.”

“Always,” the Majority Leader said. “Always. Although I think we’re about to see the end tonight. For a while, anyway.”

“Really going to adjourn, hm? In spite of my old friend from South Carolina,” Bob Leffingwell said, and, despite the attempt at jocularity, too many old bitternesses from his long-standing feud with Seab Cooley got in the way and his eyes clouded with a reminiscent pain and anger.

“He can’t win on this,” Senator Munson said, ignoring it. “It’s impossible.”

“You’ve rounded up the votes, then, in your famously efficient fashion,” Bob Leffingwell said, more relaxed. The Majority Leader shook his head.

“I don’t really need them. The times are against Seab. He’s got to lose. History says so.”

“And you think it’s a good thing.”

“Yes, don’t you?”

“I
do,” Bob Leffingwell said, “but I was wondering if you did.”

“Yes,” the Majority Leader said shortly. “I do. I can’t say that I think
this
kind of thing is any help to the welfare of man and his nations, but the cocktail party is Washington’s standard answer to everything, so I guess I’m alone in that.”

“You’re not,” Bob Leffingwell told him. “I don’t approve of this, myself. I only came because these people have been very loyal to me, over the years, so I thought I should put in an appearance. I agree with you this kind of fawning overemphasis on the Africans is no help. That surprises you.”

“It does,” the Majority Leader said, taking a hot crab-meat canapé from a passing tray, “You’ve changed.”

“Oh, no,” Bob Leffingwell said, taking one also. “I’ve been rather—overemphasized—myself, thanks to some of my good friends. I have a lot of ideas that might seem startling. For instance: Just what is the game of that seven-foot calculating machine over there in his pretty robes? And why does someone like Tommy Davis talk to someone like Fred Van Ackerman? Life has many little mysteries.”

“Of which you are turning out to be one,” Senator Munson said as the crowd swirled around them, louder, noisier, happier, and increasingly relaxed. “What’s Harley going to do next year? And are you going to work for Ted Jason?”

Bob Leffingwell looked amused.

“You have the right sequence. If Harley runs for re-election, I shall support him actively. If he doesn’t, I think I shall go with Ted. After all,” he remarked quietly, “I owe Harley a great deal.”

“Yes, you do.” The Majority Leader gave him a direct, searching glance. “There are some who would be surprised at your capacity for loyalty.”

“Are you one of them?”

“No, sir,” Senator Munson said. Bob Leffingwell gave an ironic little nod.

“Good. I never knew exactly where I stood with you, during that fight.”

“Nor will you ever know,” the Majority Leader said, “during that fight. Now, too, you may have to guess.”

Bob Leffingwell returned a direct and searching glance of his own. Then he smiled.

“I feel better. What do you suppose Tommy and Fred
are
cooking up?”

“They weren’t speaking, half an hour ago. Let’s find out …”

“I think that might be a good idea,” Justice Davis was saying as they approached. “Yes, I think it might.”

“What’s that, Tommy?” Senator Munson asked. “Fred going to blow up the Capitol or something?”

“Always laughing,” Senator Van Ackerman said sourly. “Always joking, always happy. Why don’t you run along, Bob? What we’re talking about isn’t any of your business.”

“The last time you two had something to talk about,” Senator Munson said in a sudden blaze of anger that startled them all, himself included, “a Senator died. I hope the talk isn’t as evil this time.”

He was aware that his voice had carried more than it should, for around them a little silence fell for a second before people resumed talking in a baffled, half-amused way, as though they were quite sure they couldn’t have heard what they thought they had. Tommy Davis and Fred Van Ackerman were in no doubt, however. The Justice’s face was completely white, the Senator’s flushed with a scowling anger.

“I didn’t talk to Brig—Brigham,” Tommy Davis said in an agonized whisper.
“I
never talked to him about—about anything, Bob. I swear I never did. I only talked to you.”

Senator Van Ackerman gave an impatient shake of his head.

“And what did you do about it, Mr. Nobility?” he said in a savage voice, held low. “I don’t recall that your part was so noble, except to censure me. Maybe that was noble.”

With a great effort, Senator Munson kept his voice down, too; and over the great weariness that suddenly filled it he injected a quiet but implacable warning.

“I don’t intend for you to bully Seab tonight, Fred. I just want you to understand that.”

“What more can you do to me?” Fred Van Ackerman asked bitterly. “I’ve been censured; now what? You can’t expel me if I insist that the rules be enforced. And they will be. I promise you that … Now I’m going back. Don’t let him scare you, Tommy. He talks, but it doesn’t matter.”

“I’d go too,” the Justice said in a bleakly unhappy voice, “except I’m supposed to be a guest of honor.” He shook his head in a dazed way. “Honor,” he repeated, as if to himself. “Honor.”

“I think I really must run along, too,” Bob Leffingwell said quietly. “It was good to see you, Senator. Tommy, take care.”

The Justice did not reply, and after a moment they turned away and left him. Several guests were approaching, and in a second he would be swept up again in their arch and woozy chatter; another second or two after that and he would be chattering away again himself, bright and cheery on the surface, whatever lay beneath.

“Anyway,” Senator Munson said, “at least now I know it hit him.”

Bob Leffingwell gave a harsh laugh, bleak and without amusement.

“Who didn’t it hit?”

At the door they found their host from the
Post
and his towering star of the evening. The M’Bulu, serenity outwardly restored, looked down benignly, as they approached in the growing stream of departing guests.

“So delightful you could come, Senator. Now back to your duties, eh?”

“I’m afraid so. But it has been lovely. Simply lovely.”

“I may see you later. I think I may come up and watch.”

“I’m sure that would be very helpful,” the Majority Leader said. The M’Bulu uttered his merry laugh, giving Bob Munson a slow look from half-closed, heavy-lidded eyes agleam with a sardonic mockery. “That is all I desire, really. To be helpful.”

Senator Munson shrugged.

“Come up if you like,” he said, though his calculations of the adverse effect of this upon the Hamilton Resolution belied the casual disinterest he displayed. “It’s a free country.”