Irving Wallace - The Man

“Maybe he did,” said Dilman. “He knows what is going on here.”

“Dammit, I’m sorry, Mr. President.”

“You’ve done your best. Now I’ll do mine. You see that I have a memorandum waiting for me at the White House, reminding me to order that all the astronaut trainees on the Cape henceforth, whatever their wish or anyone else’s, live in the same quarters, receive the same food and teaching, without discrimination or favoritism. You can bet I’ll act on it.”

Jaskawich’s eyes were bright. “You’ll have that memo. Thank you, Mr. President.”

“To everyone else I may be a groundling, but you and I know, General, I’ve been up there and returned.” Dilman started to go, then had an afterthought and stopped. “Tell me, General Jaskawich, are you permanently assigned to Cape Kennedy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What do you do here?”

“I’m supposed to teach,” he said, and then he grinned. “I don’t really. There are a hundred men who can handle that better than I can. I’m not a teacher, I’m a doer type. I was supposed to direct the Apollo operation, but that was just publicity. I’m really based here to guide eminent visitors around, like congressmen, especially the ones on appropriation committees, or columnists, who can give us the right public image. I’m reduced to the profession of being an animated monument or showpiece. I make commencement addresses, too. Very good ones, I might add.”

“Are you going to be sent up again?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. President. I’m past my thirty-fourth birthday, and the limit for men going into space is now thirty-five.”

Dilman took out a cigar and busied himself with it, and then remembered to offer Jaskawich an Upmann. “Allowed to smoke?”

“Absolutely,” said Jaskawich. “But no, thanks, that cigar is too much for me. Mind if I have one of my own?”

“Go ahead.”

Jaskawich took out a slender cheroot and his crested lighter, hastily lit the President’s cigar first and then his own cheroot. He inhaled. “Good,” he said.

“Tell me,” Dilman said, “do you like Washington?”

“I like any place where there’s action and challenge, and I guess that describes Washington.”

“It certainly does,” said Dilman. He resumed walking, with Jaskawich keeping in stride beside him. “I was thinking,” Dilman went on, “how much we could use-in the Pentagon, maybe even in the White House-the judgment of a person who has been a little closer to heaven than any of us are ever likely to be.” He cast the astronaut a speculative glance. “Think you’d be interested?”

“Mr. President,” said Jaskawich fervently, “you signal retrofire-and Washington’s where I’ll land.”

“All right,” said Dilman, “you stand by, and when I-”

Dilman came to a jarring halt, teetering for a moment, waiting, as he stared straight ahead. He could see Tim Flannery rushing up the dormitory corridor toward him. At once, discerning the upset expression twisted across the press secretary’s usually pleasant countenance, Dilman’s heart began to hammer. Gone were his cheer and high hopes of the past minutes.

“Mr. President, I wanted to catch you before you went outside,” Flannery said breathlessly. “The reporters and photographers are piling up out there, waiting for you. I had Fortney order guards to hold them in line a few minutes. It’s just happened, Mr. President-goddamit-” The redhead’s freckled face became contorted, and Flannery looked as if he might weep. “The vote in the House, it’s over-” he said brokenly.

Curiously, Dilman suffered no pang of fear, and no hurt. He said quietly, not as a question, as a flat statement of fact, “I’ve been impeached.”

“Yes-goddamit, it’s terrible-I don’t know what-”

Dilman’s hand touched Flannery’s shoulder. “Easy, Tim. Details are unimportant, but-was it close?”

“The vote was 287 for impeachment, 161 against it.”

Dilman nodded. “I see. The voice of the people.”

“The voice of bigotry!” Jaskawich exclaimed fiercely.

Dilman licked his lips, and was embarrassed by his uncontrollable Adam’s apple. “Well,” he said, with a slight shrug. His eyes moved from Jaskawich to Flannery. “What next, Tim?”

“According to the radio, an announcement just came from the Senate Office Building-no wonder they call it SOB-it came from Senator Hankins. He said the Senate will be convened as a High Court, and be ready to try you a week from now. Mr. President, about those newshounds yelping outside the door-”

Dilman’s knuckles crept to his forehead. He felt dizzy and displaced. “I-I can’t see them yet, Tim. Get me out of it.”

“What can I do?” Flannery said wretchedly. “They’re fifty feet deep outside the front door and even in back. There’s no-”

Jaskawich clutched Dilman’s arm. “I can help you. There’s a fire exit at the side of this building-no one’ll know-we can slip out of there-give you a two-or three-minute jump on them before-”

Immediately Jaskawich started off, with the President and press secretary following him.

Five minutes later, dusty and panting, Dilman reached the Cadillac limousine behind Jaskawich and Flannery, as the surprised Secret Service agents and Cape security guards closed in from either side.

Quickly Dilman shook hands with Jaskawich. “Thanks for everything, General. Too bad, but I don’t expect I’ll have the authority, very soon, to send for you. You’d have liked Washington.”

“I don’t like it now,” said Jaskawich angrily. “That’s why maybe I’ll show up whether you send for me or not. You’ve still got a big chance-”

“I don’t know,” said Dilman. “I just don’t know.”

As Dilman settled heavily into the back seat, then made room for Flannery, he could observe, through the curving surface of the car’s bubble top, the herd of reporters and photographers on the run in the distance, hurrying to assault him again.

“Patrick Air Force Base,” Dilman ordered the chauffeur, as two Secret Service agents slammed into the limousine. Up ahead, the motorcycles were forming a protective wedge. The Cadillac moved, wheeled right, and pointed toward the exit gate.

“Mr. President, I was just thinking,” Flannery began earnestly, “when you make your last speech in St. Louis tomorrow, you’ll have a chance to answer the impeachment. The minute we get to St. Louis tonight, we can sit down and revise-”

Dilman had been immersed in thought. While the car sped through the gate, leaving the Cape Kennedy missile site, he suddenly said, “Tim, there’s going to be no St. Louis. No St. Louis. Do me a favor, do you mind?” His limp hand indicated the radiotelephone beside Flannery. “Ring the airport for me, and notify the crew we’re changing our flight plans. Have them get clearance to take me straight to Sioux City, Iowa. Then locate Noyes in Washington and have him cancel the St. Louis speech, the whole visit. Tell him to make any excuse. Tell him I’m sick. I am sick.” He alleviated the press secretary’s instant concern with the faintest smile. “Not the way you think, Tim.”

Dilman pointed to the mobile telephone unit again. “Book me into a Sioux City hotel for overnight. No engagements, not that anyone except the reporters would want to see me. I’ve got no patronage to hand out now. I’m nothing more than a politician under criminal indictment, and that’s like being a typhoid carrier. I think we’ll have our privacy in Sioux City.”

Flannery had heard this out with unconcealed anguish. “Mr. President, please reconsider the St. Louis speech. You’ve still-”

“No. I need time to think, and I know what must be done first. After you’ve finished the other calls, get The Judge for me. He lives outside Sioux City somewhere-”