nothing at all. Reverend Spinger admitted to the President that the Turnerites were a small splinter group who’d left his Crispus Society, that he wasn’t bothering to denounce or oppose them because they were inconsequential, and that there were always some elements who had to let off steam. Jed, you’ve got to stop confusing issues. Baraza is one thing. Our own domestic Negro situation is another thing. If the President can keep Baraza happy, and at the same time contain the Russians, then he has achieved a diplomatic marvel. As to our civil rights problems here, when the Minorities Rehabilitation Program is passed into law, that’ll put an end to Negro protest. Relax, Jed, just relax. Let T. C. perform as President. He’ll manage for all of us.”
“There’s too much compromise,” Jed Stover said feebly, but he seemed helpless, and said it more to himself than to anyone.
Edna Foster, after dumping the ashes from the silent butler into a wastebasket, had been watching and listening. She noticed that Arthur Eaton, slumped in his leather chair, fingers pressed together, eyes narrowed, had been watching and listening also, watching everyone, listening to everything.
Edna realized that General Fortney had completed his calls to the Pentagon, and was marching toward the center of the room opposite Eaton. “Well, finally got those chowderheads hopping,” Fortney announced. “Everything checked out on this end. Nothing wrong on this end. Our communication is A-1. Signal Corps reports the disconnection took place on the other end. Line came down in Frankfurt. They’re getting in touch with our Army Communication Center in Wiesbaden, and with our Consulate in Frankfurt. They expect repairs to be made on the double.”
“Any idea how long it will take?” asked Eaton.
“Ten minutes, no more than ten minutes,” said General Fortney. “So we’ve got a little recess before the President comes on again… Hey, Miss Foster, how’s about having some coffee brought up from the Navy Mess?”
Not ten minutes but nearly twenty minutes had passed, and still the direct communications line from the Alte Mainzer Palace in Frankfurt am Main to the Cabinet Room of the White House in Washington, D.C., had not been repaired.
Only General Pitt Fortney, who had asked Edna to order the coffee, had not had the time to finish more than half of his cup. Impatient with the delay, irritated by the unexplained inefficiency, he had been up and down, at the handset telephone and away from it and back to it, belaboring the Signal Corps for not yet making the President’s private line operative. Minutes ago he had bellowed into the telephone at some Pentagon underling, “Dammit, Colonel, if you aren’t fixing to get those wires up, I’m going to get SAC to fly me over in a B-70 and do the job myself. Now, get cracking!”
They were no longer gathered around the Cabinet table. General Fortney, like a caged and offended beast, was pacing near the telephone. Jed Stover stood beside the bookcase, beneath the mantel with its model ships, examining the titles of the various volumes. Near him, propped on the arm of a chair, Senator Dilman was lighting the stub of his cigar, and again reading a sheet of paper he held in his hand. Before the open door to Edna’s office, Senator Selander and Representative Wickland were engaged in a conversation. Secretary of State Eaton, his back to the others, his hands clasped behind him, stood at the French doors contemplating the Rose Garden in the dull August morning. Governor Talley was making an inquiry of Leach, the stenotypist.
Thus it was that Edna Foster found them, as she returned to the Cabinet Room from her office where she had met with Tim Flannery, the press secretary, to inform him that the conference call, while still interrupted, would soon be resumed. Passing Selander and Wickland, she heard a snatch of their conversation.
Senator Selander was saying, “Don’t you worry your head none about old Hoyt Watson. He’s the most reliable member of the Senate. Southerner or not, he’s still aware of our responsibilities abroad. He’ll go with T. C It’s that damn troublemaker in your House I’m worried about. Can’t you control Zeke Miller and that lousy newspaper chain of his? He hasn’t let up a day on our participation in Africa.”
Representative Wickland was at once defensive. “Leave him to me, I can handle him. He likes T. C He’s received plenty of patronage from T. C. If I tell him the President wants African aid, why, Zeke Miller won’t obstruct him.”
Senator Selander appeared unconvinced. “For someone who likes T. C., he’s sure raising hell with T. C.’s Cabinet. Did you see what he let Reb Blaser publish in the
Edna Foster, who had hung back to hear the last, saw that both Majority Leaders were turning to inspect Eaton. Embarrassed at eavesdropping, she hurried to her purse lying on the table. Opening it to find a cigarette, she cast a surreptitious glance at Eaton, still at the French doors, still contemplating the Rose Garden. She wondered if he was thinking about Reb Blaser’s column in the Washington
George had showed her the column. It had been devoted to the low moral tone of the Department of State, and then boldly revealed information “from an inside informant” that the Secretary of State and his attractive socialite wife, Kay Varney Eaton, were on the verge of a divorce. The gossip column had pointed out that of the 365 days past, Kay Varney Eaton and her husband had been together, in the capital city, only sixty-eight days. In fact, Reb Blaser had pointed out, she was now in Miami, being seen in nightclubs with Cartnell, the renowned decorator, while her equally renowned husband rattled around alone in their elegant Georgetown mansion. “We can only hope,” Reb Blaser had concluded, “that our Secretary of State will be more successful in maintaining peace with the Soviet Union than with his wife of two-and-twenty years.”
Edna remembered that she had considered Blaser’s column disgraceful, and she had blamed his publisher, Congressman Zeke Miller, for allowing, even encouraging, such attacks. She had been surprised to find George defending both Blaser and Miller. He had, he had said, only admiration for their news sense and for their honesty. Edna had quickly forgiven George, understanding that as a member of the White House press corps, he would naturally defend and admire his own.
Now Edna realized that Arthur Eaton had come away from the window, and caught her staring at him. Flushing, she turned away, only to observe Senator Dilman going out the corridor door, probably to the washroom. She decided to talk to Jed Stover at the bookshelves.
Starting toward the Assistant Secretary for African Affairs, she became aware of a folded paper lying on the green carpet behind Stover. Quickly she went to it, picked it up, and opened it in order to find out to whom it belonged. The embossed letterhead, she saw, bore the name “Trafford University.” In the left corner was the smaller lettering, “Office of the Chancellor-Dr. Chauncey L. McKaye.” It was addressed to “Dear Senator Dilman.” Not meaning to go further, but unable to escape the typed words in the single paragraph that followed, Edna realized that the head of the University, at the suggestion of the dean of men, was writing the Senator about his son, Julian Dilman, a sophomore, whose grades had seriously fallen off and who would have to be placed on probation if this continued. She noticed words like “inattentive” and “disrespectful,” and the phrase “more interested in outside activities of late than in his schooling.”
She folded the letter, embarrassed to have seen its private contents, but for the first time she thought of Dilman as a human being. Of those in the room, she knew Senator Dilman the least. This was because, since T. C. had been President, Dilman had been less frequently in the White House than the others. Only in the few days between the Vice-President’s death and the President’s departure for Frankfurt had Dilman appeared several times with the Majority Leader. But now this letter in Edna’s hand: it gave him a son, a son who was a problem, and it made him a father, not just another senator but a human being.
Noticing that Dilman had reappeared, and was making his way toward Selander and Wickland, Edna hurried to intercept him.
“Senator, I found this on the floor,” she said. “Apparently you dropped it. I’m sorry, I had to open it.”
Senator Dilman accepted the letter with the slightest smile. “It’s quite all right. Thank you.”
Edna turned in time to see Wayne Talley approaching Eaton. “Arthur, it’s past two in the afternoon in Frankfurt. T. C.’s probably gone back into the conference. Think there’s any point in waiting around like this?”
Eaton shrugged. He addressed not only Talley but everyone. “I think we have no choice but to wait. The President just may feel this is important enough to delay the conference. He may want to speak to us further.”
As if the deferment in resuming communications was a personal affront, General Fortney charged at the
