senator boss. And she was smart, smarter than him, she had kept her mouth shut.
The door of his office opened and the girl he had patted on the shoulder came in. She had an armful of computer printout sheets and Sal sat at his desk to go over them. She stood beside him. He could feel the heat of her body, a heat generated by the long hours she had put in on the computer that day.
Troyca had interviewed this girl when she had applied for the job. He often said that if only the girls who worked in the office kept looking as good as on their interview day, he could put them all in Playboy. And if they remained as demure and sweet, he would marry them. The girl's name was Janet Wyngale, and she was really beautiful. The first day he saw her, a line from Dante had flashed through Troyca's mind, 'Here is the goddess that will subjugate me.' Of course he would not allow such a misfortune to happen. But she was that beautiful that first day. She was never as beautiful again. Her hair was still blond, but not gold; her eyes were still that amazing blue, but she wore glasses and was a little ugly without the first perfect makeup. Nor were her lips as cherry-red.
Her body was not as voluptuous as on the first day, which was natural since she was a hard worker and dressed comfortably now to increase her efficiency. He had, all in a] I, made a good decision; she was not yet squintyeyed.
Janet Wyngale, what a great name. She was leaning over his shoulder to point out things on the computer sheets. He was conscious she had switched her feet so that she was standing more beside him than behind him. Her golden hair brushed his cheek, silky, warm and smelling of crushed flowers.
'Your perfume is great,' Sal Troyca said, and he was almost shivering when the heat of her body gusted over him. She didn't move or say anything. But her hair was like a Geiger counter over his cheek picking up the radiating lust in his body. It was a friendly lust, two buddies in a jam together. They would be going over computer sheets all through the night, answering a witch's brew of telephone calls, calling emergency meetings. They would fight side by side.
Holding the computer sheets in his left hand, Troyca let his right hand touch the back of her thigh under her skirt. She didn't move. They were both staring intently at the computer sheets. He let his hand stay perfectly still, let it burn on satiny skin that electrified his scrotum.
He was not conscious that the computer sheets had fallen to the desk. Her flowered hair drowned his face and he swiveled and both his hands were under her skirt, both his hands like little feet running over that field so satiny under the nylon of her panties. Underneath to the pubic hair and the wet agonizing sweetness of the flesh beneath. Troyca levitated from his seat, it seemed to him he was motionless in the air, his body forming a supernatural eagle's nest into which Janet Wyngale, with a fluttering of wings, came to rest on his lap. Miraculously she was sitting right on his cock, which had mysteriously emerged and they were face-to-face kissing; he drowning in crushed flowers, groaning with passion, and Janet Wyngale kept repeating a passionate endearment, which he finally understood. 'Lock the door,' she was saying, and Troyca fleed his wet left hand and flipped the electronic button that enclosed them in that perfect brief moment of ecstasy. Both tumbled to the floor in a graceful dive and she had her long legs wrapped around his neck, and he could see the long milk-white thighs and they climaxed together in perfect unison, Troyca whispering ecstatically, 'Ah, heaven, heaven.'
Then miraculously they were both standing, rosy cheeked, their eyes flashing with delight, renewed, jubilant, ready to face the grueling long hours of work together. Gallantly Troyca passed her the gin and tonic with its joyful tinkling of ice cubes. Graciously and thankfully she wet her parched mouth. Sincerely and gratefully Troyca said, 'That was wonderful.' Lovingly she patted his neck and kissed him-'It was great.'
Moments later they were back at the desk studying the computer sheets in earnest, concentrating on the language and the figures. Janet was a wonderful editor. Sal felt an enormous gratitude, and murmured with genuine courtesy, 'Janet, I'm really crazy about you. As soon as this crisis is over we got to have a date, OK?'
'Umm,' Janet said. She gave him a warm smile. A friendly smile. 'I love working with you,' she said.
CHAPTER
12
TELEVISION NEVER HAD such a glorious week. On Sunday the assassination of the Pope had been repeated scores of times on the networks, on the cable channels, on PBS special reports. On Tuesday the murder of Theresa Kennedy had been even more continuously repeated, her murder floated through the airways of the universe endlessly and endlessly.
The face of Yabril, hawklike in the desert, hovering over the hostages, flew through every home in America. He became the mythical monster goblin on the late evening news, an ever-recurring nightmare to haunt the dreams of America. Messages of sympathy by the millions poured into the White House. In all of the great cities the citizens of America appeared on the streets wearing black arm bands. And so when the television stations climaxed late Wednesday with the leaked news of President Francis Kennedy's ultimatum to the Sultan of Sherhaben, great mobs congregated all through the United States in a wild frenzy of jubilation. There was no question they supported the President's decision. Indeed the TV correspondents who interviewed citizens on the street were appalled at the ferocity of the comments. The common cry was 'Nuke the bastards.' Finally orders came from the top TV network news chiefs to stop covering the street scenes and to halt the interviews. The orders originated from Lawrence Salentine, who had formed a council with the other owners of the media.
In the White House President Francis Kennedy didn't have time to grieve for his daughter. He was on the hot line to other heads of state to reassure them there was to be no territorial grabbing in the Middle East and to plead for cooperation and make them understand his own stance was irrevocable: that the President of the United States was not bluffing, that the city of Dak would be destroyed, and that if the ultimatum was not obeyed the Sultanate of Sherhaben too would be destroyed.
Arthur Wix and Bert Audick, together with Ambassador Waleeb, were already on their way to Sherhaben in a fast jet passenger plane not yet available to the civilian aircraft industry. Oddblood Gray was frantically trying to rally Congress behind the President and by the end of the day knew he had failed. Eugene Dazzy calmly dealt with all the memoranda from Cabinet members and the Defense establishment, his Walkman firmly set over his ears to discourage unnecessary conversation from his staff. Christian Klee was appearing and disappearing on mysterious errands.
Senator Thomas Lambertino and Congressman Alfred Jintz held constant meetings through Wednesday with colleagues in the House and Senate on the action to impeach Kennedy. The Socrates Club called in all their markers.
True, it had to be admitted that the interpretation of the Constitution was a little murky in the assertion that Congress could designate itself as the deciding body, but the situation warranted such a drastic action- Kennedy's ultimatum to Sherhaben was so obviously based on personal emotions and not on reasons of state.
By late Wednesday the coalition was set. Both houses, with barely two thirds of the vote assured, would convene on Thursday night, just hours before Kennedy's deadline to destroy the city of Dak.
Lambertino and Jintz kept Oddblood Gray fully informed, hoping he could persuade Francis Kennedy to rescind his ultimatum to Sherhaben. Oddblood Gray told them that the President would not do so. He then briefed Francis Kennedy.
Francis Kennedy said, 'Otto, I think you and Chris and Dazzy should have a late dinner with me tonight. Make it about eleven. And don't plan to get home right away.'
The President and his staff dined in the Yellow Room, which was Kennedy's favorite, though this made for a lot of extra work for the kitchen and waiters. As usual the meal was very simple for Kennedy, a small grilled steak, a dish of thinly sliced tomatoes and then coffee with a variety of cream and fruit tarts. Christian and the others were offered the option of fish. None of them ate more than a few bites.
Kennedy seemed to be perfectly at ease, the others were awkward. They all wore black arm bands on their sleeves, as did Kennedy. Everyone in the White House, including the servants, wore identical black bands, which seemed archaic to Christian. He knew that Eugene Dazzy had sent out the memorandum ordering this to be done.
'Christian,' Kennedy said, 'I think it's time we share our problem. But it goes no further. No memorandum.'
'It's serious,' Christian said. And he outlined what had happened in the atom bomb scare. He informed
