Preserve and Protect (39 page)

“I hope that no one thinks it is my doing that this sort of precaution should be necessary. But I also hope that no one, at this particular point in our history, is so naïve as to think I should not take the precaution.

“Murder and civil disturbance stalk our streets. In this city alone, four deaths yesterday, sudden, mysterious, horrifying, attest to the fact that things are sadly amiss in America. Still another mysterious and horrifying death, eleven days ago, has brought us to this spot. Riots, terrorism, threats against the country and against some of us in this room, have occurred, are occurring, and in all probability will continue to occur.

“We meet, with a heavy responsibility, in a tragic and ominous time.

“It is not for me to say”—and he pauses and stares thoughtfully down upon Roger P. Croy, straight-backed and attentive at his desk—“where the loyalties lie of those who are behind these things. There are some”—Roger P. Croy stares impassively back—“who are perfectly loyal to the United States. I think this is probably true of the great majority of misguided citizens who let themselves be persuaded into a type of protest which is very far from decent, democratic dissent. It is probably also true of that sizable segment of the press”—and he pays no attention to the little stirring that runs along both sides of the room—“which consistently condemns and obstructs every attempt the United States makes to protect freedom by opposing Commufascist imperialism. It is probably also true of candidates who fail to make clear that they dissociate themselves from violence whose ultimate aim, I am convinced, is the destruction of the Republic.”

(“Probably
true!” Esmé Stryke hisses to her fellow Committee member from California, Asa B. Attwood at his adjoining desk.
“Oh!
I could
scream!”)

“But there are those,” the President goes on, “who are not loyal to the United States. There are those who have as their plan and final goal the conquest of America—first by destroying our society, and then by taking it over. Some of these are native-born. Some are not native-born, and come here, or are sent, to stir whatever disruption and destruction they can.

“Nearly all have been inflated by press and television to an influence out of all proportion to their personal value or their original weight in this land. They are creations of news story and tube, and those who created them, if they have a conscience, must have them on it.

“All of this little inner group who prey on the emotions and ideals of the naive, the innocent and the foolish,” the President said quietly, “I believe to be actively working in conjunction with a worldwide conspiracy to destroy this nation.”

(“Christ!”
Newsweek
murmurs to the
National Observer.
“How antiquated and reactionary can you get!” “No limits, apparently,” the
National Observer
smiles back. And from outside, coming faintly to the room like the distant howling of a fetid wind, 100,000 voices scream their derision in a prolonged and bitter, “Booooooo!”)

“We cannot, in this Committee,” the President continues calmly, “ignore the fact that what we do here will have a very direct bearing upon what happens to the stability and safety of the United States. At the moment, things are quiet outside”—a slight ironic line touches his lips—“relatively quiet, outside, and generally over the country today, they are quiet. But that is only because the cold-blooded strategists in charge think that it is in the best interests of the candidate they favor that it be quiet. They will be in the streets in an hour if we do something they don’t like.”

(“Honest to
God!”
the
Post
hisses with an infinite disgust to Walter Dobius. “He is senile,” Walter says flatly.)

“Does that frighten you?” the President asks quietly of the intent faces looking up at his, the faces plain, earnest, simple, clever, shrewd, honest, crafty, decent or corrupt, as America has sent them here out of all her diversities. “Does that mean that you are going to be afraid to do what is right? I hope not, because if that is the case, then the destroyers have won and America as we have known it is not going to be here much longer.

“If you honestly favor their candidate,” he says slowly, “and I am perfectly well aware that some of you honestly and sincerely do, then by all means vote for him. If he wins, it will be his problem to handle, and more power to him. But I beg of you, do not vote from fear, because if you do that, you might as well not vote at all.…And now, I have perhaps presumed too long on my advantage in being chairman, so I shall soon conclude. Perhaps I shouldn’t have spoken at all—”

(“You can say that again, you old fool!” Patsy whispers viciously to Valuela Jason Randall.)

“—but there are no precedents for this situation, so we have to feel our way. And I do have some responsibility now”—he smiles somewhat wryly—“to try to tell you what I think best for the country.

“In any event,” he remarks, and his tone becomes businesslike, “there are just a couple of things I want to place before you before I conclude. The first is a letter, addressed to me as chairman, from a lovely lady—”

(“Oh, oh,” Dolly whispers to Beth. “Here it comes.” In front of the television set in the den at Dumbarton Oaks, a wild, fantastic, sickening thought suddenly hits the Governor of California so hard he actually thinks for a second that he may be physically ill.)

“—whom many of us know, love and admire. She writes:

“‘Dear Mr. President:

“‘I have been giving a great deal of thought in recent days to the choice which confronts the National Committee. I thought at first I would not say anything, but then I decided that my husband would have wanted—’” (At Dumbarton Oaks the Governor sits back in his chair and expels, with a long, whistling sound, the breath he was not even aware he was holding) “‘—me to speak.

“‘I believe the issue to be simple: a continuation of the policies of firmness and steadfastness that my husband always tried to uphold during his time in the White House, or a surrender to all the enemies who are attacking our beloved country abroad and at home.

“‘I have honestly tried to decide which of the two men you are going to consider is better equipped and more deserving to be President—which would be braver and more honest. Because I think America needs a brave and honest man in the White House more than she needs anything else.

“‘I do not believe Governor Jason to be this man. I think Orrin Knox is. I believe Secretary Knox would carry on firmly and with great integrity the policies my husband believed best for America.

“‘I hope he will be nominated.

“‘Sincerely and affectionately yours,

“‘Lucille (Mrs. Harley M.) Hudson.’”

For a moment, as the President quietly concludes his reading, there is such a stirring and movement in the room that it seems some Jason supporter must jump to his feet and shout an angry protest. But Roger P. Croy, the logical one to do it, the one to whom others quickly look for some indication of the course they should follow, is curiously silent, an oddly impassive, almost waiting, expression on his face. So the protest dies in dismayed rustles and murmurs, and the President briskly continues.

“One other thing, and then we will proceed, in any way the Committee deems best to bring the issues and candidates before it.

“I have been notified by the Secretary of State, who this morning has received official confirmation from General Kroner in Gorotoland of word we first began to receive yesterday, that the rebel government has collapsed and is suing for surrender—”

(“Oh,
no!”
the
New York Post
exclaims in an anguished tone to
The New Yorker.
“What can you do?”
The New Yorker
says with a sad shrug. And from the fetid wind outside comes a long, sighing groan.)

“Prince Obi has fled to Tanzania and apparently intends to go from there to Moscow and then to Peking to seek support for renewing the war. But in actual practical fact, the war is over. And,” he adds with a calm bluntness, “the policies of President Hudson, myself, and the Secretary of State, have been proved correct.

“We are informed that the Soviet Union, Britain and France have demanded an urgent Security Council meeting tomorrow to discuss this sad event, and Panama. But on that, too,” he adds with an equal bluntness, “the actual practical fact of it is that we have indicated our position with three vetoes so far, and will, if necessary, indicate it again.”

(“The arrogance of it,” Raoul Barre murmurs to Lord Maudulayne. The British Ambassador shakes his head with a sad and worried look.)

“And now it would seem to me,” the President says, once more businesslike, “that perhaps the best way to proceed would be to have nominations immediately, to be followed by a roll call. We know the men. We know the issues. We need a candidate, and we shouldn’t delay. Perhaps if someone would like to make a motion—”

And now Roger P. Croy does hold up his hand, a long, flowing, imperious hand at the end of a long, flowing and imperious arm. The President looks a little amused, as though he had expected this.

“The distinguished National Committeeman from Oregon,” he says, and Roger Croy rises and turns gracefully so that he is half-addressing the chair, half-addressing the cameras, microphones and pencils eager to record something at last that will bring a little balance back into these sickeningly one-sided proceedings.

“Mr. President,” he says graciously, “I rise for the purpose of requesting a small delay. Since we are cut off here completely from the outside world—is there even a telephone in here?”

“Are you asking me?” the President inquires. “Yes, there is, up here on the stenographers’ desk. And there are three more in private booths we’ve had set up backstage. I’m sorry, I didn’t know anyone wanted to call. No one has called in,” he adds with a smile, and a little wave of amusement breaks the tension somewhat.

“Oh, I don’t,” Roger Croy says. “Everything is in order, I believe. It’s just that I would like to know exactly when the U.S. marshal is going to be here—”

“What U.S. marshal is that?” the President asks in an ominous tone, and over the little room a sudden rush of excitement and renewed tension surges.

“Bearing the order, I believe—” Roger P. Croy begins gently, but doesn’t finish, because suddenly, so suddenly that it makes many in the audience gasp, the phone on the stenographers’ desk does ring, shatteringly loud and insistent.

“Get that,” the President orders, his voice beginning to show a little strain in spite of him. One of the stenographers, looking frightened, does so.

“It’s for you, Mr. President,” he says, and holds it out at such nervous arm’s length that the President can’t help but look amused. Again the tension eases a little. But the amused expression doesn’t last long as he listens carefully and then snaps, “Let him through!” He replaces the receiver and returns the phone to the still apprehensive stenographer. Then he turns back to the lectern, places his hands firmly upon it and leans forward to stare directly down at Roger P. Croy.

“Very well, Governor. Your man is on the way. I don’t think we need a formal recess—”

“Oh, no,” says Roger Croy graciously.

“So,” the President says, still staring down at him with an ironic and quizzical expression, “we shall just wait. It shouldn’t be more than two minutes, ladies and gentlemen.”

And just about two minutes it is, long enough for a fearful tension to build again. Then there is a stir at the door. Committee, guests, press, television, cameras, microphones, lights and all, swivel around as though moved by the same mechanism. In the doorway stands an earnest little man, wearing a salt-and-pepper suit (“What, no ten-gallon hat and six-shooter?” the
New York Times
has time to murmur with a wild irreverence to the AP) and a nervous but grimly determined expression. In his hand he holds high a folded piece of paper. And there he stands, paralyzed, until the President says, impatiently yet not unkindly, “Come in, marshal. It’s quite all right, you’ve got your duty to perform. Come ahead.”

“Yes, sir,” the marshal says, starts down the aisle, almost trips in his excitement, catches himself and hurries forward.

“Right up here,” the President says, waving him up the steps and holding out his hand. The marshal thrusts his paper into it, and suddenly and quite genuinely, the President laughs.

“I just wanted to shake hands, first,” he remarks. “But thanks anyway.”

At this there is a burst of laughter, also quite genuine, from the room, and for a moment they are all chortling together, friends and enemies alike. Then the marshal steps back, the President opens the paper, and abruptly all is silence again.

“This appears to be”—the President says slowly, “—it is—a temporary restraining order—a preliminary injunction—from the District Court for the District of Columbia. It purports to be”—he stares over it once more at Roger P. Croy, bland and attentive below “—it is—issued pursuant to a suit filed at ten a.m., just about an hour ago—how clever you have been. Governor, how clever—by attorneys for the distinguished National Committeeman from Oregon and the distinguished National Committeewoman from California, Mrs. Stryke, joined by attorneys for the National Antiwar Activities Committee. The suit seeks a permanent injunction that would prohibit further proceedings of this Committee to select a nominee for President and/or Vice President, and directs the Committee to reconvene the convention—”

“My
God!”
somebody says from the press benches, loud and clear.

“—with instructions to select the nominee for President and/or Vice President.

“The preliminary injunction directs that this meeting be suspended until the case has been decided.”

For quite a few minutes after that, there is pandemonium in the room, and on the wind from outside, faint but distinct, there comes a great rushing sound of cheers and jubilation. In the room, reactions run from Krishna Khaleel, who is practically hugging himself with excitement—what
will
these Americans think of next!—to Cullee Hamilton, who tries to remain impassive but cannot prevent an annoyed and disgusted scowl from crossing his face. Temporarily, at least, the Knox forces are in obvious dismay and disarray, the Jason forces are quivering with excited triumph and anticipation. Into the hubbub Roger P. Croy once more raises a graceful arm and the President once more says, this time with a considerable irony in his voice, “The distinguished National Committeeman from Oregon.”