Two years later after trying to work up an interest in private law practice Bee had run for office again. He had jumped into the congressional election in his home district in Los Angeles and had won by a majority that broke every California record. It was assumed Bee would use his House seat merely to keep himself warm—as a jumping-off place for the next senatorial election—but last summer he had chosen to make the big leap instead: he had campaigned for the Presidency.

It was unheard of, reaching for the Presidency from the House of Representatives: particularly when you were a member of the minority party. Ethridge had never been quite certain what Bee expected. Was he just making a trial run, getting the public used to the idea of Andrew Bee as presidential candidate? Would he go for the Senate two years from now and then make a serious bid for the Presidency two years after that? He would still be young enough; he was only forty-seven now.

It had been taken for granted Howard Brewster was unbeatable for re-election. But Bee had campaigned and had received surprising support. He’d won the New Hampshire primary and lost the Florida primary only narrowly to Fitzroy Grant. But then the Fairlie machine had got steam up and Fairlie had walked away with the primaries in Oregon and Texas and even Bee’s home state of California; at the convention Bee had magnanimously thrown his support to Clifford Fairlie. To Ethridge’s knowledge there had been no deals made but two of Fairlie’s Cabinet designees were Bee campaigners.

Andrew Bee had spent two days stumping for Fairlie for every day he spent at home running for re-election in Congress—a race he had to make as an independent because he’d dropped out of the congressional primary to run for the presidential nomination—but Bee had been re-elected by a powerful plurality over both his party-line opponents and the victory had solidified him with the Republicans as an unbeatable vote-getter.

The fact was that even from his lowly House seat Andrew Bee was an important force in the Republican party and in American politics.

Ethridge went out front to alert the Secret Service men to Bee’s arrival. “I forgot to give him the password but I’d appreciate it if you’d let him in anyway.”

Agent Pickett, always an easy mark for Ethridge’s quiet humor, smiled quickly. “We might strip him down and brainwash him a little but we’ll let him through eventually, sir.”

“Fine—fine.” Ethridge withdrew to his study.

Bee arrived within twenty minutes, a tall burly man with deep-set blue eyes and a California tan and the stage presence of a leading actor. He had a slight limp from the automobile crash four years ago; it had taken some pieces of bone out of his legs. But he moved athletically enough; it hadn’t crippled him. He had once been a logger in northern California and he still had the look of it.

“Very mysterious,” Bee hinted as he accepted a globe of brandy.

Ethridge moved to his seat. “You’ve thought about the implications of Cliff Fairlie’s kidnapping.”

“Which implications did you have in mind?” Bee was being careful; it made Ethridge smile a little and Bee nodded in understanding. “You could be President—that implication.”

“Andy, you had a lot of support at the convention. You might have made a hell of a fight of it.”

“I had to defer to Cliff. His chances were better than mine.”

“It was a big thing to do.”

“Well I didn’t do it expecting gratitude, Senator. Cliff and I were splitting the moderate-liberal support, and if we’d slugged it out to the finish Fitz Grant would likely have won the nomination. I don’t think a conservative Republican could have beaten Brewster.”

“You’re saying you threw your support to Fairlie for the good of the party?”

“I didn’t think of it like that.”

It had been not so much for the good of the party as for the good, in Bee’s estimation, of the country—the belief that Fairlie would make a far better Chief Executive than Brewster.

“You were Cliffs first choice for running mate.”

“I know. But McNeely and the others counseled him against it. I’d have weighted the ticket too far to the left—he’d have lost too much conservative support.”

“So they picked me instead of you. I’m supposed to be the conservative on the ticket.”

“A lot of people made that assumption,” Bee said. “I didn’t. I know your voting record.”

“You and I have always got along pretty well in the Senate. Can we still get along well, Andy?”

“I think I see what you’re driving at.”

“I’ve got to be blunt,” Ethridge said. “There’s a chance Cliff Fairlie won’t be recovered alive—we have to face that. If I’m to take office as President my first act has to be to nominate someone to fill the vacancy in the Vice-Presidency.”

“And you’re asking my advice?”

“No. I’m asking you to be my Vice-President if Cliff doesn’t come back.”

A beat of silence: Bee’s big lumberjack face dipping toward the brandy in thought. “It’s mighty flattering, Dex.”

“Frankly, I might have preferred Sam March but he’s gone. But the important thing is you were Cliff’s first choice. I feel obliged to honor his wishes—after all he’s the one who was elected President.”

“You are being blunt.” The famous Bee grin.

“Next to March you’d be my own choice. That’s the truth.”

Bee lifted his head to sip from the globe. “Sam March was pretty good company to be in. I’m not offended.”

“You and I might make a good team, don’t you think?”

Bee uncrossed his legs and recrossed them in the other direction. “I guess you want my decision pretty fast.”

“I’m afraid so.”

The big Californian lifted to his feet. “Let me sleep on it.”

“I’ll call your office tomorrow.”

“Fine.”

They moved toward the door. Bee said, “It seems damned callous, doesn’t it.”

“It does. Like picking the pockets of a man who isn’t quite dead yet.”

“Sometimes I hate politics,” Bee said. He gave Ethridge his quick firm handshake and went.

It was well past midnight. The headache was beginning to throb again. Ethridge thought of calling the doctor but decided to get a night’s rest and see if the headache disappeared.

Feeling strangely guilty, thinking of the big desk in the White House, he went up to bed.

TUESDAY,

JANUARY 11

11:35 A.M.Greenwich Mean Time The signal came on a faint pulse on the five hundred-kilocycle marine band. At Land’s End the W/T operator logged it in, time-of-origin 1135 hours. It was in Morse, an awkward fist on the key. Written out it was brief: Fairlie will broadcast this frequency 1200 GMT keep channel open.

The W/T station got right through on the land line to Commander-in-Chief Portsmouth.

There was no time to think about the possibility of a hoax. C-in-C sent immediate orders to all stations. By 11:48 every official wireless set on the coasts of England and France was ready to receive.

At 11:50 a crackle of introductory static and then a voice transmission:

“This is Clifford Fairlie speaking. In … ten minutes … I will speak … on this … band.”

C-in-C Portsmouth had reached the Admiralty by telephone at 11:49. Word sped to 10 Downing Street.

Two lines to Washington were opened: the Prime Minister’s hot line to President Brewster and a satellite-relayed broadcast circuit to convey the promised broadcast live.

At 11:55 another voice transmission on 500 KG: “This is Clifford Fairlie speaking. In … five minutes … I will speak … on this … band.”

To a few monitors with good ears it was apparent the second broadcast was the same voice recording as the first with the exception of the phrases “ten minutes” and “five minutes.”

The PM heard it, live, by telephone from Admiralty; the PM remarked the curious hesitations between words. It sounded like Fairlie’s voice.… The PM inquired of the First Lord of the Admiralty: “We are taping this of course?”