the terminal status of the virus infection. However, he appeared not to be getting much worse; his rate of decline was far slower than had been anticipated. The doctors would not by any means pronounce the disease arrested; they were simply confused. As the pathologist in Denver phrased it, 'Let's say on a scale of one to minus ten—minus ten being check-out time—the old guy's hovering around minus six and won't move down.'
'But the virus is still there,' said Kendrick as he and Khalehla walked with the doctor in the grounds of the Colorado house out of Manny's earshot.
'It's rampant. It's just not incapacitating him to the degree that it should.'
'It's probably the cigarettes he cons and all the whisky he steals,' stated Rashad.
'He doesn't,' said the pathologist, surprised and even more bewildered.
Evan and Khalehla nodded their heads in resigned confirmation. 'He's a bellicose survivor,' explained Kendrick, 'with more wisdom and larceny in his head than anyone I've ever met. Also, since the prognosis was severe in terms of time, we haven't exactly kept our eyes wide open every minute we've been with him.'
'Please understand, Congressman, I don't want to give you any false hope. He's a terribly ill eighty-six-year-old man—’
'Eighty-six?' exclaimed Evan.
'Didn't you know?'
'No. He said he was eighty-one!'
'I'm sure he believes it, or at least has convinced himself.
He's the sort who when they turn sixty, the next birthday's fifty-five. Nothing wrong with that at all, by the way, but we wanted a complete medical history, so we went back to his days in New York City. Did you know he had three wives by the time he was thirty-two?'
'I'm sure they're still looking for him.'
'Oh, no, they've all passed away. Atlanta wanted their histories, too—possible latent sexually related complications, that sort of thing.'
'Did they check Los Angeles, Paris, Rome, Tel Aviv, Riyadh, and all of the Emirates?' asked Khalehla drily.
'Remarkable,' said the pathologist softly, but with emphasis, a medical mind apparently pondering, perhaps envying. 'Well, I should be leaving, I'm due back in Denver by noon. And Congressman, thank you for the private jet. It saved me a great deal of time.'
'I couldn't do anything less, Doctor. I appreciate everything you're doing, everything you've done.'
The pathologist paused, looking at Evan. 'I just said “Congressman”, Mr. Kendrick. Perhaps I should say “Mr. Vice President”, as I and, indeed most of the country, believe you should be. In truth, if you're not in the running, I don't intend to vote, and I can tell you I speak for the majority of my friends and associates.'
'That's not a viable position, Doctor. Besides, the issue hasn't been resolved… Come on, I'll walk you to the car. Khalehla, check on our sybaritic adolescent and make sure he's not taking a bath in Scotch, will you?'
'If he is, do you think I'm going to walk in there?… Sure, I will.' Rashad shook hands with the pathologist from Denver. 'Thank you for everything,' she said.
‘I’ll know you mean it if you persuade this young man he really must be our next Vice President.'
'I repeat,' said Kendrick, leading the physician across the lawn to the circular drive. 'That issue is far from resolved, Doctor.'
* * *
'The issue should be resolved!' shouted Emmanuel Weingrass from his reclining chair on the enclosed porch, the congressman and Khalehla sitting in their accustomed positions on the couch so that the old architect could glower at them. 'What do you think? It's all finished? So Bollinger and his fascist thieves are out and there's no one to take their places? You're that stupid?'
'Cut it out, Manny,' said Evan. 'There are too many areas where Langford Jennings and I differ for a President to be comfortable with someone like me who might possibly succeed him—and the
