Bucky said, “The media’s eating it up.”

The president said, “Well, let’s hope he doesn’t give up his sources.”

“He also called her ‘Joan of Dark.’ Wish I’d thought of that. Sir, the whip count on the Transitioning bill, it’s worrisome. Jepperson’s gotten thirty-five senators aboard.”

“This thing isn’t going to fly. You know that.”

“That’s not what concerns me. Jepperson’s using it as a springboard. A trampoline. We need to remove the trampoline. And with regard to that, I…had a thought.”

“Go ahead,” said the president, managing to sound bored. He wasn’t, but he found it kept people on their toes.

Bucky explained his idea. The president pretended to be listening with only one ear. When Bucky was finished, the president snorted, stared, pursed his lips, rubbed his chin, nose, tugged on an earlobe.

“Not bad,” he said, “but won’t Gideon shit his britches if we do that?”

“Not if we tell him-on a confidential basis-exactly what we’re up to. And…throw in a memorial on the Mall.”

“Ah, goddamnit, Buck, I don’t want to look out my bedroom window onto the Mall and see some memorial to forty goddamn million fetuses. For crying out loud. It’s undignified.”

“It won’t ever get to that. All you have to do is put it out quietly that you’re not entirely opposed to it. Tell him you’ll call in the senators and congressmen who sit on the Mall Memorial Commission and…forget about it. By then the election will be over and it won’t matter what we’ve promised Gideon. We’ll tell him we tried. Have him to Camp David for a weekend, that’ll shut him up.”

“I’m not spending a weekend with him at Camp David or anywhere. But all right. I like it. Tee it up.”

“Yes, sir.” It was the first time Bucky Trumble had relaxed in months.

Randy had never been to the Oval Office before. Riding down Capitol Hill in the car the White House had sent for him, he couldn’t resist daydreaming about a day in the future when he might find himself being driven to the White House in an even bigger car. With Secret Service agents running alongside. Sweating.

The car was turning into the southwest gate, slowing as the uniformed Secret Service men approached.

Bucky Trumble, the president’s chief political counselor, deputy chief of staff, and most trusted aide, the second most powerful man in the country, had called Randy the day before-personally-to congratulate him on the success he was having with his Transitioning bill. Trumble said to him, “The president would like to meet with you.”

At first, Randy affected aloofness. “What about, exactly?”

Bucky said, “The president admires the way you’ve stewarded this issue. As you know, we’re on the other side of it. But he’s been impressed by the way you’ve carried the ball. Very impressed, you might say.”

Randy, now all jelly, said, “Tell the president that while we may not agree on some things, I have the deepest personal respect for him.”

“I’ll let you tell him that yourself,” Bucky said brightly. Time to set the hook. “Senator, may I pay you the compliment of candor?”

“Uh, sure. Of course.”

“I must ask for your total discretion.”

“You have it,” Randy said, flush with curiosity.

Bucky lowered his voice to just above audible, which guarantees intent listening. “The president is keeping his options open with respect to the vice president being his running mate again in the election. In the event…” He let the words dangle like mistletoe. “He may choose to designate another running mate.”

Randy worried that Bucky might hear his heart going thump-thump, thump-thump. “Yes…”

“That is not the ostensible purpose of your visit. But strictly between you and me, that is the unostensible purpose for it.” Bucky laughed softly. “I’m sorry to be so gosh darn elliptical.”

Randy was by now sitting bolt upright at his desk. “I understand,” he said solemnly.

“Three o’clock tomorrow?”

“You betcha!”

Randy chided himself for sounding so eager. As a card-carrying member of the WASPocracy, he was good at the old languor; but here his training had, alas, failed him.

He was about to summon the staff and tell them about the call, but then, fearful that they might leak it and blow it for him, he decided to keep it to himself for now. He yearned to tell Cass but worried that she’d tell Terry, and he didn’t trust Terry not to blab it all over town. Those PR types were always trying to impress.

He scarcely slept a wink that night.

And so the next day, he found himself walking across the threshold of the Oval Office, omphalos of history, anvil of ambition, and, unbeknownst to him, a large, irregularly shaped trapdoor.

The president gave him his thousand-watt smile and rushed to intercept him as he walked in. Randy’s limp became exaggerated as he walked to greet the commander in chief.

How kind of Randy to come on such short notice. Long been an admirer. Hell of a thing he’d done back there in Bosnia. Amazing the way he’d focused the national attention on Social Security reform. Coffee? Will you sit for a moment? Wish we’d done this sooner. Bucky, why’d you take so damn long to invite Randy down here? You falling asleep on the job? Bucky smiled. All my fault, boss. All my fault.

“May I call you Randy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Randy, I’ve got a job for you.”

Randy thought, That was fast.

“This Transitioning thing.”

“Oh? Yes?” Randy said cautiously.

“You know-and I know-and everyone knows, it isn’t going to fly.”

“Well”-Randy smiled-“I wouldn’t be too absolutely certain of that, Mr. President. We’re getting more votes every-”

“I would.” The president had a strong physical presence. His staff called it “the death stare.” It was an accurate name.

“Thirty-five senators have-”

“Doesn’t mean shit. They’re supporting because they know it’ll never pass. Even if it did, you’ve already gutted it of any positive fiscal impact by handing out all that Boomer pork.” He chuckled. “Subsidies for Segways? That’s some major oinking.”

Randy shifted in his chair and was about to assert himself when the president put a hand on his shoulder and said, “But I will tell you-I like your style. I’ve been in this business a long time. There’s amateurs, there’s pros, and then there’s thoroughbreds. The ones born to run. That’s you. You were put on this green earth to be a politician.” The president leaned back as if weary from having unburdened himself of such a momentous observation. He looked over at Bucky in a gruff, almost accusatory way and demanded, “Did you tell Randy what I had in mind?”

“No, sir.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Bucky. I can always tell.”

“I didn’t, sir.”

The president looked back at Randy, who at this point was a thoroughly confused thoroughbred. A growly smile spread across the president’s face. He said, “I bet he’s lying to me. He always does. But it doesn’t matter. What does matter is you’ve got to keep what I’m about to tell you to yourself and only yourself. That includes pillow talk.” The president extended his hand. “Can I count on you?” Randy shook his hand and nodded wordlessly.

“All right. Now, I may be looking for a new running mate. I haven’t decided yet. But I may.”

“I see.”

“Bucky here thinks you’d be a real asset. I’m inclined to agree with him.”

Randy stared, mute.

“However,” the president continued, “there’s a problem. This Transitioning business.”

Randy stiffened. “I can’t just drop it. Nor will I.”

“Wouldn’t expect you to. Wouldn’t ask you to. Wouldn’t ever ask a man, especially a man who left a leg behind in a war zone, to throw away his principles just for the sake of advancing his career.”

Randy said, “I’m not sure I’m following you, sir.”

The president leaned in closely. “Look here, son. Now, sooner or later, this silly Transitioning business is going to blow up in your face. You’ll look like you just bit down on an exploding cigar.” The president glanced at Randy’s leg. “I mean…Hear me out. You’re not going to get the votes. And then where will you be? You’ll just be the poster boy for suicide. You can call it ‘Transitioning’ or whatever the hell you want. It’s still legalized suicide, never mind all that shineola about how it’s all for the common good. Even if you did get the votes, I’d veto it faster’n you can take a morning crap. I promise you that. Now, I can’t have for a running mate someone whose name is synonymous with ‘lethal injection.’ We’ve got to put some daylight between you and this bill. Like you said, you can’t just walk away from it. You need an exit strategy. Some way where you can walk away from it and still have your integrity. And once that’s done, I believe you would make me a fine running mate. You’re young, good-looking, a regular Pied Piper with the kids. And we’re going to need them. Yes, you remind me a bit of John F. Kennedy. You with me, Randy?”