Irving Wallace - The Man

Dilman picked worriedly at a corner of the blue vellum folder. “What if I don’t remember some figure or-”

“You’re not expected to be a memory expert, Mr. President,” Talley said. “Tim will be seated beside you with that folder, and you can always turn to him for some elusive fact or number.”

“Won’t that look amateurish on television?” he asked.

Flannery shook his head. “Not a bit. It’ll make you appear fallible and mortal, serve to put viewers at ease.”

Dilman did not feel reassured. There had been several hours of debate on how his first press conference should be presented to the public. Dilman had turned down a huge televised press conference from the New State Department Building auditorium as being too impersonal, and as demanding histrionic talents that he knew he did not possess. He had considered an informal gathering in the Indian Treaty Room across the street. Flannery had been against this, arguing that Dilman had yet made no contact with the American public or with the majority of the press, except through brief, impromptu remarks or dictated statements, and that full exposure was now a necessity. A compromise had been reached only two days before. Forty to fifty members of the press would be admitted to the Cabinet Room. The television networks would cover the event. The atmosphere would be comfortable and unstaged. Dilman would make a series of news announcements, and then answer questions for perhaps twenty minutes.

Dilman opened the folder. On the first page there was typed in capital letters:

FOR THE PRESIDENT-MORNING BRIEFING ON PRESS CONFERENCE

As he turned the page, he heard Tim Flannery saying, “One thing, Mr. President.” He looked up, and Flannery went on, “You’ll notice a star in the margin, and the name of a newspaper or wire service beneath it, alongside several questions. There are not many, but those are the ones we planted to be sure they were asked. They’re the ones we feel you have good replies to and can come off well with.”

“I knew it was done,” said Dilman, “but how do you manage it? Don’t the reporters resent it?”

“Not at all,” said Flannery. “It gives them added news, even if canned or controlled, as they may think. These are men we can depend upon. They do us a favor, and at the right time we repay them with an exclusive lead. It’s not too obvious. Yesterday I called in one of the bureau chiefs representing a New York paper, handed him a written question, and I said, ‘Look, if you ask the President this question, in your own words, you might get an interesting answer. I’m just tipping you off.’ He looked at the question and said. ‘You mean, he’d like to get an official policy statement on this off his chest?’ I said, ‘I think so. It won’t be pap. It’ll be solid and definite.’ He said, ‘Okay, Tim, good enough.’ ” Flannery smiled at Dilman. “It’s the way we’ve worked in the past, with excellent results.”

“Fine,” said Dilman. “You two do whatever you wish until I’ve gone over this. If I have any questions, I won’t be reticent. I’ll need every bit of direction I can get today.”

Dilman studied the second page in the folder. Under the heading, YOUR OPENING REMARKS, there was a concise list of the subjects that he would cover in his reading of the mimeographed text. Next, under the heading, QUESTIONS ON OPENING REMARKS AND OTHER MATTERS (IF ASKED), there were fourteen short queries. Turning the page, Dilman found the heading, YOU MAY RESPOND AS FOLLOWS, and here each possible inquiry was repeated, followed by a suggested reply, severely condensed to one paragraph. This ran almost two pages. The last heading read, BACKGROUND, with numbers keyed to the questions and answers, and tight paragraphs filled with authoritative quotations and statistics from government departments elaborating upon the suggested responses.

Flipping back to the second page, Dilman quickly went over the outline of the prepared statement already in his briefcase, which he was to read to the reporters and television cameras. The general tone was humble and conciliatory. He was to begin by saying that he welcomed the opportunity to meet with the men and women of the fourth estate upon whom the electorate depended for all information concerning their government. He was to say that he felt they would perform with the same sense of responsibility with which he would try to perform. Never in our history, he would say, was a President or the public more dependent upon news media for accuracy and reliability. There would be the quotation from Thomas Jefferson: “The press is the best instrument for enlightening the mind of man, and improving him as a rational, moral, and social being.” Tim Flannery had calculated that these remarks, this initial flattery, would soften the cynical reporters, make them preen with self-importance, make them know that here was a Chief Executive who would cooperate with them. Remembering the writings of Reb Blaser and his kind, Dilman felt less confidence in the uses of flattery, but he liked Flannery too much to disagree.

After that, there was the repetition of all of Dilman’s press statements of the past month. He had not sought the Presidency, he had not wanted it, but since it was his duty by law to undertake the office, he would do so to the best of his ability. He had, he was to say, only a short time-short time was underlined-to be the caretaker of T. C.’s ideals. As a senator, he was to say, he had always admired and supported T. C., and he was to cite his voting record as a congressman. The country, he was to say, need expect no drastic detours from the peaceful and prosperous road along which the former President had been leading it. Had he not already given evidence of good faith in retaining every member of T. C.’s Cabinet and personal staff of advisers?

Troubled, Dilman looked up. Talley and Flannery were across the Oval Office, leaning against the fireplace, smoking, whispering. He considered telling them that he did not like these opening remarks. They seemed too humble, as if he were apologizing to the press and the 230 million Americans for having a Negro in the wrong place, as if reassuring everyone that the fact that he was a member of a minority race would not destroy them. Yet he had no courage to bring it up this late, for he realized that these were not Flannery’s words but the language of politically expert white men like Talley, Eaton, and the Cabinet members, and perhaps they knew what was best for him.

He concentrated on the rest of his opening remarks, mostly official news announcements: he had met with the National Space Council and agreed that within three months the advanced Apollo rocket would catapult a team of three astronauts into orbit; he had given assurances to Brazil and India that A-11 flights would not be continued over their embattled borders; he was being kept closely informed of Secretary of State Eaton’s meetings with Russian Ambassador Rudenko, and could reveal now only that progress had been made, and it was likely that the interrupted Roemer Conference with the Premier of the Soviet Union would be resumed at another site, probably on the European Continent; he had sat in on one meeting with labor leaders, heads of the steel industry, and Secretary Barnes, and he was confident the impending strike would be averted; he had been informed of the exclusive story in the Chicago Tribune that Frank Valetti, second-in-command of the Turnerite Group, was a member of the Communist Party, and he had already urged the Justice Department to investigate; he had written a letter to Annapolis, appointing T. C.’s young son, Fred, to the Naval Academy when he became eligible.

Dilman unwrapped a cigar, bit off one end, and lighted it. Although his opening remarks were filled with news, he knew that they would not be enough, and that Flannery and Talley knew it, too. Puffing the cigar, Dilman went down the possible questions that he might be asked, and then he examined the answers offered to him.