“I’m choosing to go back to work for a man who’s trying his best, if he’ll have me, rather than live with a-a- with whatever low, slimy thing you’ve become. Good-bye, George. You and Blaser go on writing good lynch stories. I’ll be watching for them in print. Only don’t bother to call me ever again, especially not when you can’t sleep nights.”
“Edna, for God’s sake-”
She heard no more. She rushed out of the lobby. In the corridor, she was pleased with only one thing: that she was tearless.
Entering her office, she could see that nothing had changed except that her swivel chair was now occupied by the scrawny colored girl, Diane Fuller, who was busy on the telephone. As Edna put down her purse, propped her umbrella in a corner, and took off her raincoat, she realized that Diane was regarding her with popeyed disbelief, as if she were an apparition from another world.
Diane Fuller said, “Yes, Mr. President,” into the telephone. Then hanging up, rising, fumbling for her shorthand pad and pencils, she nervously said, “Hello, Miss Foster. I somehow didn’t expect you.”
Edna reached the desk. “Where are you going?”
“Inside. There’s a meeting about to start. The President wants me to take it down.”
“Well, you never mind.” She held out her hands for the pad and pencils. “I’m ready to go back to work.”
Diane Fuller clutched the pad and pencils. “I-I don’t know if-”
“I don’t know either, Diane,” she agreed, “but I intend to find out.” Firmly, she removed pad and pencils from the colored girl’s fingers. “You stand by for a while, take the phone messages. If I remain inside over five minutes you can go back to your office in the East Wing. If I come flying right out, you’ve got yourself a permanent position right here.”
Without bothering to check her appearance in the mirror, Edna Foster opened the heavy door to the Oval Office and walked into the room. At first, as she advanced toward the Buchanan desk, she saw him in profile, and she realized that President Dilman was unaware of her entrance. He stood behind the desk, his attention entirely fixed on the television screen. The volume was turned low, and not until Edna reached the desk could she make out the words spoken by the voice coming from the television set, that of Nat Abrahams, as it gently chided the House for having included Article II as one of the impeachment charges.
Reaching the desk, Edna Foster coughed discreetly. At the sound, President Dilman’s head jerked toward her. His brow contracted slightly, but there was no astonishment in his reaction. He turned off the television set.
“Good afternoon, Miss Foster,” he said. “Are you fully recovered?”
“I’ve been ill, Mr. President. But now, yes, I am fully recovered. Whether or not I am well enough to work, that’s entirely up to you. I do feel-I feel I owe you an honest explanation-”
Dilman fussed with the papers on his desk. “No further explanation needed. I heard the whole thing from Tim Flannery at lunch today. He finally confessed to seeing you, and took it upon himself to repeat what you had told him.”
She was thankful that Tim had made at least a part of her task easier. Still, she felt that she must speak for herself. “Then all I can add-whether it means anything to you or not-but I must say it for my own sake-it’s this-I’ve had to make an important personal decision, and I’ve made it. Sooner or later, I guess, everyone is called on to choose sides. There’s no avoiding it. Well-not that it matters to you any more-but I am on your side, whatever happens, and I won’t tolerate or have anything to do with anyone who is not on your side. I’d like to work for you, not because it’s the most rewarding secretarial job in the world, but because, like Mr. Abrahams, I want to do my part. I know I’m not being fair to you. You have every reason to tell me to leave. If you do, I won’t blame you a bit. I know in your shoes I’d-”
“Miss Foster,” the President said, with a trace of impatience, “this is a busy day. Please sit down and let’s go to work.”
Her heart, its beat momentarily suspended, or so it seemed to her, suddenly resumed its thumping. She wanted to embrace him. She murmured, “Thank you, Mr. President,” and quickly occupied her accustomed place. The President pushed a button on the intercom, and spoke something to his engagements secretary.
Almost immediately, Shelby Lucas’ door opened, and the Director of the CIA, Montgomery Scott, entered, unzipping his portfolio. He was followed by General Jaskawich. Both men greeted the President, and then Scott saluted Edna, and Jaskawich warmly introduced himself to her. Edna, whose years around the Senate and the White House under T. C. had made her incapable of hero worship, found herself awkward and thrilled in the presence of Jaskawich. She had read that he had been sworn in as the President’s new military aide, and somehow, she had expected that he would be as aloof and remote as the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Instead, as if refusing to take his rank, uniform, and orbital flights seriously, he was as friendly and natural as, well, as Tim Flannery. To Edna, it was as if one of those stone statues in Lafayette Square had leaped down from the saddle to enlist itself on their side.
“Where shall we sit, Mr. President?” Scott asked.
“You sit here, right next to Miss Foster,” Dilman said. “General Jaskawich, you pull up a chair next to me, so we’ll be facing them.”
“I’ve been watching television,” Jaskawich said, lifting a chair and moving it to the indicated spot. “If ever I laid eyes on an animated cuspidor, I did today, watching that Zeke Miller. But you know, I think your Mr. Abrahams is spitting him right back in the eye.”
“Do you think so?” Dilman asked. “It’s difficult for me to judge.”
“You may lose the first round by a shade in the Senate,” said Jaskawich, “but you may have won it by a mile around the country.”
Dilman nodded thoughtfully, then suddenly pulled up his swivel chair and again buzzed his engagements secretary. He studied Jaskawich and Scott, and then he said, “They’ll be coming in now… When I think of what we’re up against this second, that show on television seems about as important as a cartoon short for children. Mr. Scott, you’ve got to lay it on the line.”
A door opened and closed, and at once, with the arrival of the Secretary of Defense and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the atmosphere of the Oval Office seemed to become highly charged. Secretary Carl Steinbrenner, embodying in his every movement the irreproachable solidity of the self-made successful aircraft manufacturer, exchanged guarded courtesies with the others, while General Pitt Fortney, after flinging his braid- trimmed cap and military trench coat on a sofa, strode forward with a more aggressive helloing.
“Well, now, Mr. President,” drawled General Fortney, settling himself beside the Secretary of Defense, “what’s so pressing that Carl and I have to come hopping over here in the middle of the day? Far as I could learn, everything that’s been coming in this afternoon on our restricted communications wires and the command lines might as well have been delivered by doves. All’s pretty much at peace around the world-no rumbles, except for that little brush-fire conflict down on our own Senate floor maybe.” He chuckled. “Guess that’s pretty much outside our province.”
Dilman appeared to endure this calmly, and then, gripping the edge of his desk, ignoring General Fortney, he addressed himself wholly to Steinbrenner. “Gentlemen, I summoned you because there is a very real and grave crisis developing abroad. As of and until yesterday, Mr. Scott and I have kept you fully apprised as to the situation in and around Baraza, and-”
“Oh,
Dilman stared at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “Yes, that,” he said. “So long as there is a place on earth where the Soviet Union, secretly or overtly, is prepared to challenge the independence of a democratic government, no matter how large or small, to which we have pledged support, that is a place with which we must concern ourselves. Baraza is such a place. We persuaded Baraza to relax its guard against Communism, as a barter for Russia’s good will and promise of peace. Now there is ample evidence that Russia is about to break its promise by helping overthrow President Amboko. Our responsibility is to see that Amboko is not overthrown.”
“Mr. President,” said Secretary Steinbrenner, “based on the information that I have seen up to and through yesterday, it would seem extremely doubtful that Premier Kasatkin has any real intention of fomenting rebellion in Africa.”
“That was yesterday,” said Dilman. “Today’s another day, and the additional information we’ve been waiting for came in late this morning… Mr. Scott, repeat right here and now what you told me an hour ago, the latest intelligence that just came in to CIA.”
Montgomery Scott had emptied his portfolio, and shuffling the papers in his hands, he looked gloomily at
