“He wouldn’t if I had my preferences.”

“Goddamn it we need him alive. If he dies we’ll never have any way of proving it ends here.”

“Who’s going to believe him anyway? If he pulls through alive you’ll just have to hold off a lynch mob on top of everything else. I’d as soon he kicked off right now.”

“The point is he’s willing to talk.”

“Talk? He’s willing to boast. He knows he has no chance to squirm out of it; he’s a dead man, he just hasn’t been executed yet. He seems to think the more cooperative he acts the longer we’ll keep him alive, if only to keep pumping him. Or maybe he wants everyone to know how clever they all were. Maybe he’s looking for a place in the history books.”

“I still want to know what his chances are.”

“I guess they’ll patch him up. He took a couple of thirty-eights in his guts.”

On his way out of the room Satterthwaite felt a rising sense of alarm. If the rumors could get into this room they could go anywhere. Hard facts were in short supply, the events were beyond everyday understanding, and nothing terrified men more than ambiguous uncertainties that directly affected their lives.

The rumors were to the effect that there was a giant international movement bent on toppling the American government. It was based in Cuba or Peking or Moscow; it was the brainchild of an evil genius—Castro, Chou En-lai, Kosygin; it was Communist-inspired or Communist-led or both; it was, in short, the opening skirmish of World War Three.

“How long’s he intend to keep me waiting like a Goddamn office boy?” Wendell Hollander demanded with biting scorn.

Satterthwaite’s nostrils flared. “The President’s up to here with troubles, Senator. You can see that.”

“His troubles,” Hollander snapped, “are gon to last exactly seventy-five hours by my timepiece. My troubles might well last the next four years.” His eyebrows narrowed shrewdly. “If the country lasts that long, that is.” Even when he was using his confidential tone of voice Hollander tended to yell; he was somewhat deaf.

And if you last that long. Hollander for the past decade or more had had the rheumy appearance of a terminal patient. But like most unhealthy men he took extremely good care of himself; it was not impossible he would live to be ninety and if that was the case he still had thirteen dyspeptic years to go.

“With all due respect,” Hollander shouted, “I would like to suggest you remind that yellow-bellied coward down the hall that I’m waiting here to see him.” His face bulged thick with blood and anger.

“Senator, the President will see you as soon as he can.”

Hollander’s indignation reached its peak. For a moment he stood gathering himself—drawing himself up, pumping air into his caved-in chest. In an effort to be reasonable Satterthwaite said quickly, “These are terrible times for us all.”

He had never been any good at personal diplomacy; he wished the President had assigned someone else to this chore. But protocol required it be someone at least of Cabinet rank.

“That son of a bitch,” Hollander growled, and abruptly shot his eyes toward the ceiling corners, darting from one to another. “And I hope he’s listening to me. You think I don’t know these rooms are bugged?”

Why he’s senile, Satterthwaite thought in awe. Senile and paranoid and probably the next President of the United States.

Satterthwaite ran his fingers through his wild thick crop of hair. “Senator, I can’t force the President to see you right this instant. You know that as well as I do. Now if there’s anything you’d like me to do for you.…”

“There is. You can tell me just what’s being done about this war they’ve started on us. What’s being done, boy? Or is it that all you mangy neurotic intellectuals are still just sitting around arguing the fine points?” Hollander’s moist pale eyes flicked causally across Satterthwaite’s face. The gnarled fingers produced a curved and polished pipe. Packed it with care and lifted it to the wizened mouth. It took Hollander three matches to get the pipe lighted to his satisfaction. He was still on his feet, too agitated to sit. On his head the vanishing gray wisps of hair were carefully combed across the pate; he was as old-fashioned in dress and bearing as a badly tended antique.

It had been a bad mistake, Brewster sending Satterthwaite on this chore. It couldn’t help but antagonize the old man. Hollander, neither thoughtful nor subtle himself, believed these qualities in others were superficial and untrustworthy. No one thought himself a poor judge of human nature; Hollander, seeing before him an arrogant and myopic little fighter and remembering Satterthwaite from years ago when Satterthwaite hadn’t known better than to offend him unforgivably, could only assume Brewster had flung Satterthwaite in his face as a calculated affront.

It was something Satterthwaite supposed the President simply hadn’t had time to think of. But he should have thought of it himself and declined to meet Hollander here.

Hollander was building his jaws on the stem of his pipe. “The Army’s been sent out, I’ve seen that much with my own eyes. But I’d like to know what their orders are.”

“Their orders are to protect public officials.”

“Nobody ever won a war by confining his tactics to defensive operations.”

“Senator, if you want to call this a war we’re in, then the first rule of strategy is never to let the enemy stampede you into doing what he wants you to do.” He leaned forward. “The Communists aren’t behind this, Senator. At least no recognized Communist parties. In a way you can look at this whole sequence of disasters as a terrible accident—a catastrophe as arbitrary as a hurricane. It’s not——”

“Young man, I’ve been reasoned with by the most devious men on the face of this earth. You don’t hold a candle to some of them, so there’s very little point in your trying. All I see when I look at your stripe of animal is cowardice. Cowardice and vacillation. I don’t even see tears in your eyes for the wonderful and distinguished Americans who’ve been sacrificed to your endless cries for appeasement.”

“Yes I have tears, Senator, but I don’t let them blur my vision.”

Suddenly unable to stand any more of this Satterthwaite shot to his feet and made for the door. “I’ll find out if the President can see you.”

“You do that boy.”

The silence was such that he could hear the President’s pen scrape across the pad.

Brewster’s heavy features had gone pale and begun to sag so that the bones showed through the flesh. He gave a gloomy sigh and dropped the pencil; his hands came together in a prayer clasp. “I don’t suppose he’s calmed down any.”

“All I scored was a few debating points. He’s hard of hearing, remember?”

“If that were all it was.…” The President reached for a cigar and stood up. He came around the desk and stood rocking heel-to-toe. “He still inveighing about mass reprisals?”

“It amounts to that.”

“Put him in this office for forty-eight hours,” Brewster murmured, “and he’ll have us at war.”

“War or martial law.”

“Or both. He’s a platitudinous medieval fossil.” The cigar was jammed into the pugnacious mouth and the President made a sudden gesture with the blade of his hand, like a sharp karate chop. “We can’t have it, Bill. That’s all there is to it. We just can’t have it.”

“He’s the top man on the line of succession.”

“We’ve got to get Cliff Fairlie back.”

“That may be impossible.”

“You think there’s no chance at all?”

“I think there’s a fair chance. But we can’t count on it. There’s no guarantee. Don’t we have to proceed on the assumption we won’t get him back?”

When the President made no audible reply Satterthwaite shoved his hands in his pockets and spoke with slow care, using his cautious voice, not committing himself: “Mr. President, he’s unfit to serve. We know that. We’ve got to remove him.”