Promise of Joy (27 page)

Nor were they, though the five shrewd and highly intelligent individuals who faced one another via Picturephone linkup along the Eastern seaboard would have denied with the utmost vehemence the charge that their basic motivations and ultimate intentions were very close to those of the ruthless trio who dreamed their dreams of violence behind the facade of NAWAC’s innocent millions. The principal proprietors of American public opinion were about their business of eliminating the opposing point of view again, and now, as always, their consciences were clear because their purposes, as they always managed to convince themselves, were patriotic and pure.

“I believe,” Walter Dobius said—and his colleagues could see that he was in what some of them referred to as “Walter’s super-doomsday mood”—“that America faces at this moment the gravest crisis in her entire history. I believe that we must stop Orrin Knox or we are literally fated to die, as a nation and as a people. I hope you all feel the same urgency.”

“Is that why you wanted to talk, Walter?” the kindly old man who presided over
The Greatest Publication That Absolutely Ever Was
inquired with his customary gentle irony. “I had thought we on this journal had already made our concern quite clear.”

“We, too,” the
Times
observed, and “We, too,” the
Post
agreed. Frankly Unctuous cleared his throat and looked grave.

“I can see Walter’s point, however,” he observed judiciously. “I think now we must
really
fight this arrogant man in the White House. Otherwise, I would estimate that the Republic has perhaps another two weeks to live.”

“I’m not so sure I give it that long,” the
Post
remarked gloomily. “But certainly
we
are doing everything we can to make
our
feelings known.”

“I think it is time to call for impeachment, or resignation, or both,” Walter said firmly, “to pursue him relentlessly on every front, every aspect of his life, his career, his philosophies, his program. It is time to turn Orrin Knox inside out and expose him to his countrymen for what he is, the most irresponsible, warmongering, unpatriotic, unworthy, dangerous and disastrous individual who ever sat in the White House. It is time to be as absolutely ruthless and uncompromising toward him as he is toward everyone who disagrees with his insane death-making policies.

“We can oppose him, Walter,” the
Times
remarked, “and God knows
we
are, but we also have to maintain at least an aspect of objectivity, you know. We can’t be too rabid. Otherwise we would lose public confidence in the fairness of the press. Then we would really lose all hold on them.”

“‘Objectivity’!” Walter snapped. “‘Rabid’! Is
he
objective, I ask you? And who is being ‘rabid’ in Gorotoland and Panama? Stop giving me empty words and hit him, hit him,
hit him!”

“My goodness,” the proprietor of
The Greatest Publication
said gently. “You
are
concerned, Walter, aren’t you?”

“And why shouldn’t I be?” Walter inquired bitterly, his stubborn face flushed with anger. “When a President has consistently ignored every piece of sound advice that we in the media have been giving him all his public life, what else does he deserve from us? And now the situation is absolutely desperate—
absolutely desperate.
Surely we are not going to hesitate now!”

“I am not,” Frankly said flatly. “And I think I can speak for my colleagues of the networks. Anything you can find to use against him, we will report. And I shan’t hesitate for a minute to comment on it, either. Nor, I think, will the others. It is literally a matter of saving the United States of America. It seems to me that anything is justified in that cause.”

“Well, of course we have the means,” the
Post
acknowledged. “God knows we’ve used them before. We can attack, as you say, Walter, his morals, his family, his life style, his character, his income tax, his financial dealings, his sex life—if Orrin Knox ever had any! I mean, all this is very simple and easy to do. And damned effective, too, I will admit, if you keep hammering at it loud enough and long enough.”

“And we can find plenty of people in Congress to help us out,” the
Times
noted. “Hints, rumors, innuendos—speeches, attacks, charges, investigations—you name it, we’ve got it. But,” he added thoughtfully, “if you don’t mind too much, Walter, we would like to confine it to the issue, because we think the issue is much more important. The issue is war or peace, quick or dead, disaster or joy. What more do we need than that?”

“I am inclined to agree,” the head of
The Greatest Publication
said. “I agree with your basic thesis, Walter, that this is a desperately anxious time, but I think there is plenty to be said about it without resorting to gutter tactics.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the
Post
said dreamily.
“We’ve
found them very effective.”

“Anyway,” Walter said impatiently, “they aren’t ‘gutter tactics.’ They’re perfectly legitimate dissections of a man’s basic character and career, vital to an appraisal of his present policies. They supplement the arguments on the issue, which I grant you are very important—overwhelmingly important. Certainly no one can honestly say that I haven’t been making the arguments on the issue! My God, I’ve been arguing the issues with Orrin Knox for twenty years!”

“And very well, too,” the head of
The Greatest Publication
said soothingly. “You wouldn’t be America’s leading columnist otherwise.”

“You can do as you like,” Walter said, his face getting the balky set they knew so well, “but I am going to attack him in every way possible. I think we must hit him and
hit him hard.”

“I’m with you, Walter,” the
Post
agreed, abandoning discussion with a sudden decisiveness. “He is on an insane collision course and he must be stopped. We’ll use everything we can.”

“I, too,” Frankly Unctuous said firmly.

“Even if it may tend to obscure the real issue?” the
Times
inquired thoughtfully.

“Even if it may inflame even further the leaders of NAWAC and the violent and incite them to more God-knows-what?”
The Greatest Publication
inquired gently.

“Even so,” Walter Dobius said coldly, his tone abandoning once and for all any remotest shred of tolerance that might still be lingering in his heart for Orrin Knox. “Even so.”

“I wouldn’t have asked for this interview,” he said with a sudden nervousness that surprised him, “except that you ought to know what I’ve been through this afternoon.”

“Sit down, Cullee,” the President said with a relaxed courtesy that might have been light-years away from the hectic moment in which they met, and from the house that was the fulcrum of the world’s animosities, hopes, disparagements, concerns. “I’m going through a bit, myself.”

“Yes, I know,” the Vice President said hurriedly. “I didn’t mean to imply—”

“Oh, I know,” the President said with a smile. “Ignore me. I’m just letting off steam. What happened to
you
on this happy day?”

His expression hardened as Cullee told him. When the recital ended he hit the desk with the flat of his hand.

“Those sons of bitches,” he said quietly. “I’ve always regretted society doesn’t have an automatic trapdoor for that type, preferably over a pool of piranhas. It would simplify matters. But we don’t, so here we are. Are you ready to take over if they get me?”

“Mr. President!” Cullee said in an alarmed voice, forgetting for a moment Orrin’s propensity to make rather grim jokes at times of tension. “They aren’t going to get you!”

“They may,” the President said, his voice becoming somber. “They may. I’m very well protected, but sooner or later somebody may get through, just as they did at the Monument Grounds.” His expression darkened. “They’re after my family again, you know.”

“No.”

“Yes. And you’d better look out for yours. Do you have enough protection at your house?”

The Vice President hesitated for a moment, then gave him an honest and troubled look.

“I could use more.”

“Right,” Orrin said promptly. “Excuse me.” He buzzed his secretary, asked for the chief of the Secret Service, reached him immediately, gave a quick order, turned back. “Five more men will be on the job in fifteen minutes, so you can rest a little easier. They added three more on the Spring Valley house last night, even though it’s empty now, with Hal and Crystal living here. Crystal had planned to go back this afternoon to get some clothes but we had the detail do it for her, after the threats.”

“What threats?”

“Death, doom and destruction to the two of them if I don’t change my policies. The same line you got, from the same sources, I suspect—although of course they’ve gathered so many kooks around them that it could be somebody down the line. But I rather think not.”

“Evil days,” Cullee said moodily. The President nodded, with a certain grim irony.

“And all my fault, too, as you can hear all over. Are you still glad you joined this Administration, Cullee?”

“I believe you’re doing what’s right,” Cullee said simply.

“Thank you,” the President said gravely. “So do I. However—” He picked up a sheaf of papers and handed them across the desk. “Look at these for a minute.”

There was silence while the Vice President read. Presently he looked up.

“It doesn’t look good,” he admitted uncomfortably.

“It does not,” Orrin agreed. “Their initial momentum is still running, we’re still falling back. Losses are mounting, matériel is being wiped out. Britain and France and the rest are beginning to talk seriously about running the blockade in Panama. Everything appears to be going wrong.” He gave his Vice President the sharp, direct, undodgeable look his friends and colleagues knew so well. “Shall I give up?”

Cullee answered without hesitation.

“How can you?”

“Yes,” the President said. “That is the question, which I resolve in favor of my policies because I do not see any other way out of the situation our enemies have created. I am afraid, however, that in the classical pattern of difficult democracy it is going to get worse before it gets better.”

“I’m not dismayed,” the Vice President said.

“Nor I. Troubled, of course—far more troubled than my critics will ever grant me—but not dismayed. This dismays
them,
no doubt, but I won’t yield to them, Cullee.” He paused and repeated softly as if to himself, “I won’t yield to them.…” He looked at the snow, still hitting the house in occasional spits and flurries, the great storm reluctant to yield its hold on the desolate gray world. “I wonder what Ted would have done,” he said in a musing tone, “if I had died at the Monument and he had come to this chair. Appeased, maybe? Been tough, maybe? Fought it out, or gulped and gone under? Nobody knows, but I do know one thing”—his tone became wry—“whatever it was, he would have had the media behind him with a whoop and a holler, that’s for sure. At least until it got too late, even for the media.… Well—” He stood up, held out his hand, prepared to say goodbye. As he did so the buzzer sounded urgently several times. “Yes?” he said, switching on the intercom, sitting slowly down again.

“Mrs. Jason on the line,” his secretary said.

“Yes, Ceil,” he said, turning on the Picturephone, gesturing Cullee to come stand beside him. “What is it?
What is it?”
he repeated sharply as her face, strained and obviously agitated as he had never seen Ceil Jason’s face agitated, came on the screen.

“Mr. President—” she began, seeming to have difficulty with her breathing. “Mr. President—”

“Take your time,” he ordered calmly. “The Vice President is here, as you can see. We’ll wait.”

“Yes,” she said; and after a moment, pushing her golden hair back, clearly fighting for control and presently achieving it, she was able to speak more quietly and coherently. “We have had some trouble up here.”

“You haven’t been hurt?” he demanded sharply.

“No,” she said. “No. But”—her face threatened to crumple again, then steadied—“but someone was. My—my chauffeur. We were about to leave for the Secretary-General’s cocktail party and he went—went out to the car a moment ahead of me and started it up. I was about to get in when I decided that I wanted to change my purse. So I went back up to the suite and did so, and just as I stepped out the door again, it—it went off.”

“A bomb,” he said, not a question but a flat, weary statement. She nodded.

“Yes,” she said, her voice threatening to break again. “It was apparently set to go off about—about five minutes after the engine was started. If I hadn’t gone back to get my purse—” She shivered and stopped.

“Was he killed?”

“Y—yes.”

“I am so sorry,” he said gravely. Suddenly his voice exploded in an angry, frustrated burst. “God
damn
it to hell! I could murder those bastards with my own bare hands.” Then he, too, with an obvious effort, regained control. “Who did it?”

“We don’t know yet,” she said. “The Secret Service and the New York police are already here and I think the FBI is on the way.”

“Who do you think did it? Some of our charming countrymen, or some of our charming friends in the UN?”

“It could be any one of fifty up here. But I have the feeling it was—our own people.”

“So do I,” he said. “How ironic that Ted’s most devoted followers should now be trying to kill Ted’s wife.” He paused and thought for a moment. “Of course, I don’t have to tell you to take all necessary precautions—”

“There are ten additional Secret Service men here already,” she said with the start of a shaky little laugh, “and a couple of policewomen. I can’t even—even powder my nose alone, right now.”

“That’s good,” he said. “And don’t try to, either, at any time in the foreseeable future. Maybe someday things will calm down, but not before the wars are over. And when that will be, I can’t predict.…Well”—a sudden cold decisiveness came into his tone—“there have been other things in the last several hours and I think it’s about time I did something about them. You and Cullee listen, now. I’m going to dictate a statement and I want you to make whatever suggestions you think necessary.” He flicked the intercom, buzzed his secretary. “Come in here a minute, Dottie. I’ve got something for you.”