Irving Wallace - The Man

And now, for the first time, the unpredictable: Dilman had rejected their speech in favor of one he had written, was writing, himself. He had displayed his first evidence of decisive action, of individuality, of independence, of ignoring advice from his betters-no, not his betters-his more experienced advisers.

Eaton had tried to penetrate the President’s motivation for this silly and small rebellion. It did not mean that Dilman was opposing their wishes, the wishes, in fact, of Congress, the country, his own race, in regard to the important bill. No, one unaccountable action did not imply or indicate a more drastic one to follow. All Dilman was doing was demanding to write their speech his way. A sensitive colored man was asserting his rights. That was it. Eaton could see it more clearly now. By overlooking consideration of that one dimension of President Dilman’s color, Eaton had almost erred in anticipating his behavior. Dilman’s color had been largely responsible for his quick servility, his readiness to come along, his indecisiveness. This same color, Eaton saw, must occasionally drive him into some action of immature self-assertion, as if to remind the whites around him that he was their equal, a man with a mind of his own. That was it, of course, the complete explanation. Dilman was doing their bidding, whatever his secret qualms, on the Minorities Rehabilitation Bill, but was reminding them that although he must do what he was being told to do, he still would not allow himself to be held in utter contempt. In short, Eaton saw, the President must at least be permitted to say in his own words what his advisers wanted said.

Eaton told himself that his analysis made sense. He congratulated himself on clearing up the enigma. Yet, he realized, he was still unnerved. Why? Well, dammit, what President of the United States had ever shielded the contents of a vital domestic policy speech-in this case the most vital one in a decade-from everyone around him?

Tired of trying to solve mysteries with insufficient clues, impatient to learn the details of Talley’s encounter with Dilman, or with the protective Miss Foster, Arthur Eaton left his office. He proceeded through his stenographer’s office-reminded, those moments, that he was to have met Sally Watson in his home shortly after the speech, resenting the fact that he might now be delayed, and had better phone her to come later-and then he entered the small reception room and went on into the main reception room. The desk there, too, was empty. He noted the time. It was eleven minutes after six o’clock. Everyone had gone home.

Yet not quite everyone, Eaton realized. Two clerks passed busily through the corridor. Assistant Secretary Stover, in his shirt-sleeves, carrying a dispatch, waved at him. The sight of such activity pleased Eaton. At least here, in his dominion, there were no mysteries, and nothing was unknown to him. Under his exacting rule, guided by his cool intelligence and supported by a five-hundred-million-dollar annual budget, his army of seven thousand foreign affairs specialists toiled, and one thousand of these worked through the night. It gave him pride that his palace, the Department of State Building, was never dark-as, so suddenly, the White House had become dark.

Restlessly, to kill time, Arthur Eaton wandered into the corridor. He turned right, made his way across the rich blue carpeting, absently glanced at the framed pictures of the nation’s previous Secretaries of State on the wall, then came to a halt before Room 7228, the corridor entrance to his own office. He studied the two words lettered on the walnut panel of his door. They read simply: the secretary. He thought of the many persons who saw these two words daily, and how few understood the encompassing, far-reaching nature of his responsibility, reaching back to T. C., reaching ahead to every American citizen everywhere, reaching now into that suddenly secretive Oval Office at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

It was time for Talley to arrive, he decided.

Quickiy he went to his private elevator, found and inserted his special key, observed the arrow light up red. Once inside, he was whisked to the eighth floor, a treasure house of history visited by no one except himself, his luncheon guests, and those he invited to attend diplomatic functions and State Department dinners during the evenings.

Leaving the elevator, Eaton hastened through the lounge, past the bar, and pulled open the two doors that led into the small, dimly lighted Madison Dining Room, the private hideaway where he ate lunch almost daily. None of the dozen chairs around the center table, nor the chairs drawn up before the television set, were occupied.

Annoyed, Eaton crossed the room, entered the adjacent dining room, also empty, and then he continued through this room and made his way to the outside terrace. The night air had turned cold, and he shivered. He went to the cement rail, kept his balance by holding onto a metal pillar, and peered down into E Street, studying the area between the parked automobiles and the green canopy that covered the walk to his private elevator. There was no one to be seen.

He looked up, and in the distance he could make out the Lincoln Memorial and the mass of the Pentagon Building behind it. Tonight he wished that he could see the White House half so clearly. He became aware that as he exhaled, his breath was condensing into visible clouds of vapor. Why the devil was Talley being so slow? Well, he told himself, it was not worth risking pneumonia to catch sight of his arrival.

He left the terrace for the heated interior of the eight floor, and then returned to the Madison Dining Room. As he entered, he saw Wayne Talley bustling in from the lounge, tugging off his camel’s hair overcoat, and dropping it and his hat across a chair.

“My God, Wayne, it’s about time.” Eaton tried to keep the peevishness out of his voice. “Where have you been?”

“The traffic,” said Talley breathlessly. “Even Moses couldn’t have made that sea of cars part, let alone a White House limousine.”

They met at the dining table. “What happened?” Eaton demanded. “Try to remember everything.”

“I wish there was much more to tell you besides what I told you on the phone, but there isn’t,” Talley said. “When I gave him the draft of the speech last night, I assured him I’d be waiting to consult with him on any changes. He said he was grateful, and I thought he was. I waited around in my office all morning, and not a word from him. After lunch I dropped in on Edna Foster and asked if the President had been looking for me. She said no, he was tied up. I asked if he had the speech on his desk. She said she thought she had seen it there. I told her to be sure to tell him I was standing by for any last-minute changes or modifications. She said she’d tell him. Well, the whole afternoon passed and not a word-”

“Didn’t you see Dilman at all today? I mean, on anything else?”

“Not even a glimpse of him.” Talley complained. “I think this is the first day that’s ever happened Well, about an hour ago I couldn’t stand it any more, so I went back to Miss Foster’s office and again I asked if he’d been looking for me. She said no, not as far as she knew. That was too much, so I said, ‘Edna I’d like to see the President.’ And she said-you know what she said?-she said, ‘I’m sorry, Governor Talley, but he canceled every one of his appointments and left strict orders not to be disturbed.’ How do you like that, Arthur? Well, I didn’t, not at all, so I said, ‘What in the heck is he so busy with?’ She said, ‘I really don’t know, except he’s been writing the entire morning and afternoon.’ Writing? That exasperated me-”

Eaton looked up from his watch crossly. “Governor, do you mind skipping your feelings and traumas, and sticking to what happened? In a few more minutes, we won’t be alone.”