Ex Officio

A Novel

Donald E. Westlake

I wish to express appreciation to John E. Longnecker, M.D., for his patient assistance, without in any way suggesting that any lapses of medical fact in this book are anyone’s errors but my own.

Contents

The Finishing Stroke

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2

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3

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6

The Last Race

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The Closing Door

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11

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The Final Glory

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ii

The Finishing Stroke

1

THERE WAS A HANSOM cab at the airport. Looking over her grandfather’s shoulder, Evelyn Canby saw the black and red cab rolling out across the tarmac toward their plane, pulled by a discouraged-looking gray horse. She looked to see, but it wasn’t Uncle Harrison at the reins. Of course not; it had been private irony to consider he might be.

Three-year-old Dinah said, “I can’t see. Mommy?” And tugged at Evelyn’s wrist.

But it was Bradford who turned around and said, “Well, of course you can’t see. And there’s a horse out here to look at. Why aren’t you up in my arms, where you belong?”

Evelyn said, “Yes, that’s a good idea, Dinah. Go with Grampa.”

Bradford Lockridge, once the President of the United States, and now at seventy an elder statesman who retained the politician’s touch, picked up his great-granddaughter in his arms and stepped out smiling and waving onto the platform at the top of the stairs. “See the horse, Dinah? Wave to the horse. Wave to the people.”

There weren’t many of them. A chain-link fence separated the tarmac from the airport building, and a thin line of people stood waving and calling along the other side of that fence. There were so few of them that they gave the impression of not having come out to greet ex-President Bradford Lockridge at all, but of being merely the earliest arrivals for something of more importance that would occur later on this afternoon.

Evelyn watched Bradford’s back, still straight and lean, saw his arm up in the characteristic wave that used to be parodied so much on television, and marveled that her grandfather could still treat the smallest gathering like an assemblage of thousands. He couldn’t have—and wouldn’t have—given a heartier greeting if all of California had come out to meet him.

They were the only passengers, Colonial Airport not yet having any regularly scheduled flights in from Los Angeles—or anywhere else—and this privately owned Lear jet having been borrowed by Uncle Harrison for the occasion from one of his business friends.

The hansom cab had come to a stop at the foot of the stairs, and Evelyn now could see that it was driven by a bored young man dressed in what somebody must have thought was a colonial manner. His shoes and trousers, both brown, were undoubtedly his own, but his jacket, a flaring black affair with brass buttons and broad lapels and broader cuffs, carrying with it a vague reminiscence of Benjamin Franklin, had undoubtedly come from the same costumer who had furnished the tri-cornered hat.

As to the cab itself, one would have thought Bradford Lockridge was running for president all over again. Pictures and posters and slogans were thumbtacked all over it, in the inevitable red and white and blue. BRADFORD LOCKRIDGE. WELCOME OUR GREATEST PRESIDENT. GEORGE WASHINGTON, CALIFORNIA, WELCOMES THE GEORGE WASHINGTON OF THE 2OTH CENTURY.

Remaining a minute longer inside the shadow of the plane, looking out at the poster-bedecked hansom cab and the waving people, Evelyn found herself feeling again that same half-embarrassed excitement she’d always felt while accompanying Bradford during his campaigns. The first Presidential campaign, when he’d won the office, she’d been thirteen years old, in fact her fourteenth birthday had come two days before the election, and that whole summer and fall had passed in a glittering confusion of bands and bunting, airplane trips and speeches and hotel rooms and cheering crowds. She supposed now that Bradford had brought her along so often mostly for political reasons, for the points to be gained by displaying the attractive children in his family, but at the time her reaction had been pure delight, undimmed by any questioning of motives.

When she thought about the happy times of campaigning these days, it was always that first election that came to her mind, and not entirely because Bradford had lost the second one, four years later. That second campaign had been uneasy and troubled throughout. There had been a feeling of defeat in the air all through it, which no brave speeches could quite hide. There had been the fight at the convention at the very beginning—an incumbent President very nearly denied his party’s re-nomination!—and the ever-present pickets throughout the campaign, and the trouble in Los Angeles when so many demonstrators had wound up hospitalized. There had been all the bickering among the managers and speech writers and advertising men. And there had been Bradford himself, without his famous sense of humor, marching grimly through the paces of the campaign, frequently not even recognizing family members or close friends standing right in front of him.

And of course Evelyn herself had changed by then. She’d been seventeen that fall, the arguments at home were at their very worst around that time, and the campaign trail had not been something joyous she was moving toward but simply a means of escape from the intolerable situation at home. Climaxing not in the disaster of election night, but on the Friday three days later when she’d walked out on the birthday party her mother had organized, a party consisting exclusively of relatives—all still depressed from the lost election and not at all in a party mood—and with her own friends completely excluded.

That was the first time she’d actually stayed at Bradford’s place outside Eustace, Pennsylvania. Of course, Grandma Dinah was still alive then, and there’d been no question of Evelyn’s moving in on any kind of permanent basis. It had taken several deaths to affect that. That first time, Bradford had roused himself from his own post-election lethargy and arranged a reconciliation between Evelyn and her parents. She could still remember him, after he’d taken her home, showing a thin crooked smile and saying, “It seems I am a peacemaker, after all.” And she’d known he was thinking of the picket signs that had been waving in his face the last year or more.

But that was nine years in the past now, and there were no more pickets. Not for Bradford Lockridge, at any rate. No more pickets, no more campaigning, and very little enthusiasm from the mass of people, most of whom these days would rather stay home than go out to the airport and wave at Bradford Lockridge. Bradford Lockridge? He still up and around?

Which made the gaudy hansom cab something of a cruel joke, though Evelyn knew Uncle Harrison hadn’t meant it that way. It had just been his own particular brand of insensitivity at work again.

Out there in the sunlight, Bradford had stopped waving and had started down the stairs, still carrying Dinah. Evelyn followed after them, squinting in the direct sunlight, sorry she hadn’t put her sunglasses on. But she didn’t want to fumble in her bag for them while going down the stairs, so she just squinted and felt her way. I’m becoming a fussy old maid, she thought. A fussy old maid at twenty-six. A fussy old maid with a child.

Bradford had reached the bottom of the stairs. He now swung Dinah up into the hansom cab and followed her up, moving with the litheness of a man twenty years younger. The cab jounced with every movement, and Dinah was pleasurably alarmed.

Bradford turned back to give Evelyn his hand. It was only at moments like this, when the past had been evoked, that she realized how astonishingly fit he still was for a man seventy years of age. His grip was firm, and she felt the strength of him as he lifted her up into the cab.

Dinah insisted on a seat to herself, so she sat facing the rear, with Bradford and Evelyn in the seat facing front. The driver had been watching them with a kind of expressionless gloom, and now Bradford said to him, “All ready, young man.” The driver nodded, and turned front to cluck at the reluctant horse.

“This is all so silly,” Evelyn said. She felt embarrassed, riding away from an airport in a hansom cab.

Bradford reached over to pat her hand. “It’s just Harrison,” he said. “We’ll indulge him, shall we?”

ii

GEORGE WASHINGTON, CALIFORNIA, WAS a new community northeast of Los Angeles, beyond Angeles National Forest. A new road had been built across the scrublands from route 395, and housing had been erected in a large north-south oval, with shopping centers toward both ends and municipal buildings in the middle. The town was built on five large tracts of land previously owned by separate interests, who had formed George Washington Planned Community Enterprises, Inc., in order to construct the city and attract residents.

From the beginning, it had been decided to affect a colonial atmosphere in the town, and all private homes and homesites had to be approved for colonial appearance before construction. The shopping centers existed without neon signs or other glaring anachronisms from the twentieth century, except for those which were absolutely necessary, such as parking lots. The five large tracts had been re-divided into thirteen sections, each named after one of the original Thirteen Colonies, and streets within those sections were named after cities and towns in the original colony. The high school—still under construction in the municipal area—was to be named Continental Congress High School, and the shopping centers were known respectively as Betsy Ross and Molly Pitcher.

Construction had begun five years ago, and the first residents had moved in nearly two years ago, but today, February 22nd, George Washington’s birthday, the town was to be officially christened, in ceremonies organized by Harrison Lockridge, one of the community’s founders, and featuring the presence in an honorary capacity of Harrison Lockridge’s eldest brother, former President Bradford Lockridge.

The ceremonies would begin in front of the temporary City Hall at 2:00 P.M. The public and press were invited.

iii

RIDING ALONG BESIDE BRADFORD in the hansom cab, seeing his gracious wave and smile to the trickle of spectators along their route, Evelyn remembered what her cousin Howard had said, in refusing to come along on this trip: “Supermarket openings are demeaning to an ex-President.” He had been quite angry that Harrison had even made the request, and even angrier that Bradford had gone along with it.

But Bradford had been untroubled by any implications of lost dignity. “It’s always nice to go somewhere sunny for a day or two this time of year,” he’d said. “You sure you wouldn’t like to come with us?”

Howard had remained sure, leaving Evelyn to wonder if she too should have refused to make the trip. Would Bradford have come anyway, even alone?

Looking at his profile, watching him nod to a walking family group that had paused to wave, she was pretty sure he would have. Not only because Harrison had asked him to—and Harrison, at sixty-three, managed somehow to still be the baby of the family—but also because he expected to enjoy himself. Southern California was a pleasant change from snow-covered Pennsylvania, and a supermarket opening might after all be fun. How would he know until he’d tried it?

The town itself was surprisingly pretty, in a skimpy Disneyland way, with few trees and little grass, the pseudo-colonial houses rising out of khaki dirt, the blacktop roads winding among them. The airport—an added inducement built by the developers—was to the north of town, and they were traveling southward now through the most completely settled section. Houses were up on nearly two-thirds of the lots, and roughly one house in three gave evidence of occupancy. The occasional blue Plymouth or green Ford station wagon on the blacktop driveways was, in fact, a kind of anachronism in reverse, a visitor from another time.

Not that George Washington, California, really looked at all like anything in the original American Colonies. The land was too large, too flat and too brown for that. But it was a careful imitation in the process of being put together, and the automobiles and television aerials were a repeated discord.

They passed one of the shopping centers, about one-third of the storefronts occupied, a lot of hanging colonial-type signs and colonial-type lettering and the word shop invariably spelled with an extra pe. Evelyn noticed one small store that, in a fine lather of image confusion, called itself The Boutique Shoppe.

“Well,” Bradford said, “there’s our supermarket. Looks open already.”

“Maybe we can open The Boutique Shoppe,” Evelyn suggested.

“The what? Where?”

She pointed it out to him, and he laughed, and then Dinah insisted on seeing it, too. Evelyn carefully pointed at the proper sign, though Dinah had shown no real interest yet in learning to read, and Dinah duly laughed, looking to Bradford for approval. But Bradford was looking up at the sky, contemplating its blueness.

iv

EVELYN SAW HARRISON AT once, and immediately her tension returned. She’d put on her sunglasses at the beginning of the ride, and she was grateful for them now; they would help to hide her expression.

The cab came to a halt before the bunting-covered platform in front of City Hall, and Uncle Harrison came out from the group of men and women waiting there, his face smiling, his hand outstretched, his eyes for Bradford alone. “Brad! Good to see you! Have a good flight?”

“Yes, it was fine, everything fine.”

Harrison was an extremely distinguished looking man. Older members of the family said that Harrison had always been handsome, and he had aged beautifully. The slight stockiness of his figure, the thickness in his face and neck, the iron-gray hair, none of it had detracted from his good looks but only added an aura of dignity and self-confidence and reliability.

It was only beside his older brother that one began to see the flaws in Harrison. Bradford Lockridge was a strong personality and a strong character and it showed in his face and in his every gesture. Seeing the two brothers together—or seeing Harrison with their third brother, Sterling—one was surprised to notice the weakness in Harrison’s pale blue eyes, the slight betrayal of uncertainty in the line of his jaw, the hint of falseness around his mouth. But even then, the indications were very slight, and could be easily overlooked or forgotten.

Harrison wanted to lead Bradford right away from the cab, but Bradford turned back for Dinah. “You coming, honey?”

“That’s all right, Bradford,” Evelyn said. “I’ve got her.”

“Come along, Brad,” Harrison was saying, not quite grabbing his brother’s arm. “We’re all waiting here.”

Bradford gave Evelyn a quick smile and a private wink, and turned away, allowing Harrison to lead him to the platform. Evelyn stepped down from the cab and helped Dinah down, and Dinah said, “Who’s that man?”

“That’s your Uncle Harrison,” Evelyn told her, trying to keep her voice absolutely neutral. “He’s your Grampa’s brother.”

“He isn’t very nice,” Dinah said.

“How can you say a thing like that? You don’t even know him.”

“I know he isn’t very nice.”

Evelyn felt she should argue the point, but knew she’d lack conviction if she did, so merely let the subject lapse. She took Dinah’s hand and walked over to the platform, where she knew Harrison would not bother to introduce her to any of the smiling businessmen standing there.

And he didn’t. He was too involved in showing off Bradford, like a trophy he’d captured, and Bradford was good-naturedly smiling and shaking hands and nodding to the compliments. The men on the platform were the developers, the founders of George Washington, California.

There was only one person up here that Evelyn knew, and that was Aunt Patricia, Harrison’s wife. She stood against the rear railing of the platform, a tall and stocky fifty-eight-year-old woman dressed in severe and expensive black. Aunt Patricia was always dressed well and expensively and conservatively, and yet her hair was always terrible. She did it herself, at home in Brentwood, in a fiercely compact and ringletted style that had been out of date since the Second World War. Her hair, and the permanently grim expression of her face, distracted from her clothing and ultimately gave her a look of dowdiness. Howard had once said that Patricia Lockridge looked like the sort of woman who hits bus drivers with her purse; put such a woman in a two hundred dollar original dress and he was right.

Evelyn couldn’t have said she liked Patricia, but she did respect her, which was more than she could say for Harrison. Still, respect was not enough to make her want to endure Patricia’s forbidding manner, so Evelyn kept to herself, back near the wooden steps up from the ground, holding Dinah in close to her legs. Toward the front of the platform, they were finally getting ready to start.

The ceremony was boring, but not very long. Bradford gave a speech, a few stock paragraphs about progress and an ever-growing America. Two other men made speeches. Perhaps two hundred people stood around on the brown dirt where some day the City Hall lawn would be, and they clapped politely at the end of each speech, the sound of their applause frail in the clear sunlight, barely reaching across the open space to the platform. Bunting flapping in the slight dry breeze sounded more clearly on the air. The people were mostly family groups standing there, with children who grew restless and began running around amid the patient pillars of the adults before the ceremony was finished.

There had apparently been some trouble deciding what the symbolic act should be at the climax of the ceremony. Cutting a ribbon would have seemed somehow inappropriate, and there was nothing to break a bottle of champagne against. For a finish, therefore, they asked Bradford to raise an American flag on the temporary flagpole attached to the platform. He smiled his agreement, and pulled the rope, and the flag fluttered up the pole. When the breeze took it at the top, Evelyn saw that it had thirteen stars.

v

AFTERWARD, THERE WERE DRINKS in the manager’s office in the temporary City Hall. The businessmen and their wives who had been on the platform stood joking together and holding drinks. Bradford was naturally the center of attention, and sooner or later everyone in the room managed to assure him they had voted for him both times, and to announce fervently that the country was a worse place for his having lost that second election. Bradford was long since used to this sort of thing, and went on smiling and nodding and making small talk throughout. He’d told Evelyn once, “I just go on automatic pilot. Inside there, my mind is fast asleep.”

So was Dinah. The excitement of the day had finally become too much for her, and Evelyn had had to carry her down from the platform after the ceremonial flag raising. There was a brown leather sofa in the manager’s office, and Evelyn sat there now with Dinah stretched out beside her, the little girl’s head cradled in her lap.

From time to time one or another of the businessmen came over to chat, being curious about her, not sure whether she was Bradford’s relative or secretary or mistress. Of the choices, relative was the most boring, naturally, so no one chatted very long. Evelyn didn’t particularly care. Bradford had brought her a gin and tonic—the one justification for this trip, she could have her favorite summer drink in February—and she sat there sipping at it and stroking Dinah’s hair and watching the faces.

The little party lasted less than an hour. This was a Thursday, after all, a business day. The couples trailed out, only two of them bothering to detour to the sofa to say goodbye to Evelyn. And the wife of one of those gushed over Dinah till she woke her, and Dinah awoke cranky. The woman glanced sympathetically at Evelyn, as though to say, “Too bad you have one of those.”

“She didn’t have her nap today,” Evelyn said defensively.

“Of course. Poor little thing.”

Finally they were all gone, leaving only members of the family. Harrison was seated behind the manager’s ornate desk, leaning back in the swivel chair, hands folded on stomach, pleased smile on face. His wife, the silent grim Patricia, stood at the windows behind the desk, looking out at the dusty brown landscape and its mock-New England buildings. Evelyn and Dinah were still on the sofa, and Bradford had seated himself in a matching brown leather chair in front of the desk.

There was a little silence, as though the echoes of the strangers’ voices had to be allowed to fade completely away before family members could converse, and then Harrison said, “You know how I appreciate this, Brad. It’ll do us a world of good.”

“I hope so,” Bradford said, and Evelyn looked at him in sudden interest, because his voice all at once had that slightly hesitant quality that meant he had something on his mind and was about to bring it into the open. But not directly, that had never been his way. He would approach the subject, whatever it was, on a long curving line.

Harrison apparently hadn’t noticed the change of tone, because he went right on with the conversation, saying, “I know it will. You saw them taking your picture, they were from the Los Angeles papers.”

“Yes, I noticed them,” Bradford said. He’d given up cigars five years ago, but occasionally he still forgot and dipped into his jacket pocket for one. He did so now, and frowned in brief self-annoyance, and said, “You know, we still get reporters at home sometimes.”

“Well, of course you do.” Was Harrison really presuming to condescend? “You’re still an important man, Brad.”

“Had a reporter just yesterday,” Bradford went on. His hand, without a cigar, was resting again on the wooden chair arm. “From out here, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh?” Harrison was only pleased, still not wary. “Wanting to know about this place? We didn’t make any secret about you coming out here, you know.”

“He did ask me about it, yes.” Bradford glanced over at the nearest window, then looked back at Harrison. “Asked me about water, mostly,” he said.

Harrison sat up, suddenly frowning. He put his hands on the desktop. “No matter what you try to do,” he said angrily, “there’s always some damn fool spreading rumors. I hope you put him in his place.”

“I wasn’t sure exactly what his place was,” Bradford said quietly. “Particularly since he told me there’s talk the state may look into the situation here.”

“That’s poppycock. The county government has checked this whole—”

“I believe,” Bradford said, his voice quiet but nevertheless effective in shutting Harrison off, “I believe most of the county government was just in this room.”

Harrison’s eyes shifted, and his hands came up to make vague gestures, palms up. “Not most,” he said. “Naturally, there are some—”

“The strength of the county government,” Bradford said. “Shall we say the clout?”

Harrison was very much on the defensive now. “That only stands to reason, Brad,” he said. “You know that better than I do, for God’s sake. My partners were the chief land owners in this county, and anywhere you go the chief land owners are going to tend to be involved in local government. Look at Dad, back in the old days in Pennsylvania. The fact that a man is a county commissioner and a successful businessman doesn’t necessarily mean he’s a crook, you know.”

“Harrison, tell me the truth. Will the state find things the county government for one reason or another didn’t notice?”

“The state!” Harrison said in contempt. “Let them stay in Sacramento, let them do something about the welfare rolls! The Mexicans! Let them do something about the real problems in this state!”

“Will they find anything?”

Patricia had turned around from the window when Bradford’s questioning had begun, and had watched with an increasingly grim expression on her face. Now, before Harrison could splutter out a reply, she snapped, “Bradford, that’s none of your business.”

Harrison twisted around in the chair in sudden irritation. “Dammit, Patricia, don’t you go making things worse!”

“He isn’t God,” she told her husband angrily. “He isn’t even your father. He’s just a man, like anybody else.”

Harrison wasn’t meeting anybody’s eye. “Nobody said he was anything else,” he cried desperately. “Naturally, he’s concerned, Patricia. Naturally, if it looks like there’s any kind of static going to come out, Brad wants to know about it, he wants to be in a position to help.”

“Help?” Patricia glared at her husband’s profile. “Is that what you call it?”

“Of course!”

Bradford, still speaking quietly, said, “Patricia, if Harrison is involved in selling homes to people in a community that doesn’t have the natural water supply for the number of families contemplated, I think he needs help. And so do the people who are buying the houses.”

Harrison was on his feet, slapping his palm on the desk. “Dammit, nobody has the right to say such things! The county itself paid for a study of the water table, the county cleared our plans, there’s never been any question—”

“There is now,” Bradford said.

Patricia glared at him. “Only from you,” she said.

“Not just from me. The state is asking—”

Harrison, in a sudden rush, leaned over the desk, staring at Bradford, and said, “That can be taken care of, Brad. Do you think the men I’m dealing with are fools? That can be taken care of. There’s publicity-hungry little twerps up there in Sacramento, but they’re only twerps, Brad. Don’t you think we can handle them?”

Bradford looked sad. He shook his head and said, “What about the first time someone in this town turns on his cold water faucet and nothing comes out? Can you handle that?”

“If it happens,” Harrison said, straightening again and holding a finger up in a declamatory posture, “and I say if it happens, there’s always water elsewhere in this state. Water can be piped in from a reservoir, it’s done all over the—”

“Water from where? There isn’t a water source for three hundred miles that isn’t already spoken for, mostly by Los Angeles. Harrison, you know I do my homework, so don’t try to kid me. What are you going to do when this town runs dry?”

Patricia, half-hidden behind Harrison now that he was standing, said, “That’s none of your business.”

“Patricia, please!” Harrison, looking pained, spread his hands and said to Bradford, “Excuse Patricia, she’s just upset.”

“What are you going to do, Harrison?”

Harrison glanced around the room, as though looking for an answer, or an escape, and when for a second his eyes met Evelyn’s she was startled at just how much fear was looking out from in there. She felt suddenly very nervous, as though she had all unknowingly entered a dark cave where there was something moving.

Bradford wouldn’t let go. He never would, that tenacity was part of what had brought him the Presidency. And part of what had lost him the Presidency again four years later. He would never let go. He said, “Harrison?”

Harrison stopped his trapped search, and met his brother’s eyes again. “I swear to you, Brad,” he said, “I swear to you there’s water for ten years. A minimum of ten years. I swear that, by all that’s holy.”

“And ten years from now?”

“Brad, ten years from now none of us may be alive.”

“The people who bought the houses will be alive. And let’s say you are, too.”

“Brad, I’ll be so far out of all this ten years from now, nobody will even mention my name. Herbert and I need capital, that’s all it is, that’s the only reason we’re in this.” Then, in a much calmer tone, “Herbert’s sorry he couldn’t make it today.”

Bradford ignored the aside. He said, “Harrison, you’re selling garbage and calling it gold.”

“Well, that’s the American way, isn’t it?” Harrison’s attempt at humor was brittle, nearly hysteric. “Put a pretty package on and jack the price, isn’t that how we do it?”

“This isn’t soap, Harrison, it’s homes. People’s homes. You can’t knowingly do this, Harrison.”

Harrison flung his arms out in exasperation. “What am I supposed to do, will you tell me that? This chance came along and I grabbed it, and so would you if you were in my position. You think you’re the only one that lost, nine years ago? You think the Defense Department likes me as much now as they did when you were in office? In the last four years, Brad, I haven’t sold a slingshot to a boy scout. I’m hurting, Brad, the civilian market just won’t support the kind of operation Herbert and I had set up. We need the money, I need the money. This thing came along, and I leaped in with both feet. What do you want me to do, give these cretins their pennies back and go live on the beach?”

“I want you to get out,” Bradford said quietly.

Patricia, still back by the window, snapped, “That isn’t for you to say. All you have to do is keep out of our business.”

This time both men ignored her. Harrison, lowering his voice, said, “If you want me out, why’d you come here? Why go through the opening?”

“Because,” Bradford told him, “this way you can still maybe get out with clean skirts. I obviously have no axe to grind here, no money to make. And no one would believe my brother would knowingly use me for a shill in a con game.”

Harrison flinched, and put a hand up as though to protect himself from a thrust. “Brad, it isn’t—”

“This way,” Bradford said, over-riding him, “it can look as though you knew nothing about the truth. A week from now, or two weeks from now, you can announce a temporary halt in the selling of new homes, while rumors about the water supply are checked out. There’s enough water for the people already here, and maybe some more. You scale down the operation, scale it right down to fit the water supply.”

“My partners wouldn’t go along with that for a minute, Brad, and I wouldn’t blame them. You know, two of the principal land owners in this project haven’t realized a penny in plot sales yet, we’ve been concentrating on the north end of town. People don’t like to be isolated, so we’ve been building and selling one area at a time.”

“It’s a lucky thing you did.”

“Brad, these men have money sunk in this. In the shopping centers, in the high school, in construction and publicity and salaries. They won’t stand for it, Brad.”

“You can walk away from it, Harrison.”

“Not broke. I can’t walk away broke.”

Patricia came forward at last, to stand beside her husband and glare at Bradford. “Do you want to give us a million dollars? That’s what we need, you know. And why? Because you lost. It wasn’t Harrison who lost, it wasn’t me, it wasn’t anybody but you. You were too pigheaded, you couldn’t do what you had to do to win, you had to shoot yourself down in flames.”

Harrison clutched at her arm. “Patricia! For God’s sake!”

“Well, it’s true! Whose fault is it we need money? Is it ours? It’s his, and now he sits there, holier than thou, and tells you to walk away from the one thing that can save us. He doesn’t care, he’s well off, he’s got your father’s estate, he’s got all the money he needs. He can afford to be noble.”

Everyone had been looking at Patricia, listening to the harsh sound of her voice, so neither Evelyn nor Harrison saw exactly what happened. But in the echoing silence that followed her outburst, they both looked at Bradford, to see what he would have to say, wondering why he hadn’t yet spoken. And Bradford, eyes squeezed shut, was toppling forward off his chair.

2

FRIDAYS WERE THE WORST. No matter how early he managed to leave, the traffic was already impossible. And it didn’t matter what route he took, over 33rd or down St. Paul or what, getting out of Baltimore on a Friday afternoon would try the patience of a saint. And, Dr. Joseph Holt told himself, I’m no saint.

Of course, he didn’t really have to go through it every week. He was attached to Johns Hopkins on a purely consultative and more or less voluntary basis. He could simply rearrange his schedule and not come down to Baltimore at all on Fridays.

But he was hesitant to do that, and the reason was, it was too easy. There was no requirement that he come to Johns Hopkins at all, ever. In fact, there were practically no true requirements of his time or training or talent, and at times that frightened him. It’s hard to maintain a belief in one’s worth when one isn’t actually needed anywhere, and in a professional sense Dr. Joseph Holt was one of the world’s least necessary medical men, or at least that’s the view of himself that he held. The closest thing he had to a purposeful function in this world was his position as Bradford Lockridge’s personal physician, a role he’d held for thirteen years, ever since Bradford won the Presidency, and even that wasn’t so much the result of his ability as of the fact that Bradford Lockridge was his sister-in-law’s father. He’d been thirty-eight when he’d been given the post of chief White House physician, very very young for the job, and how the cries of nepotism had gone up. And properly so, of course, though Bradford hadn’t given a damn. Bradford had always been lush about spreading his luck around to the rest of the family, and if outsiders complained that was their tough luck.

Holt, for the thousandth time, wished his own skin were that thick. Did Bradford ever worry about his self-image? Did he ever think of himself as useless, as parasitical, as a complete waste of self? Joseph Holt doubted it, he really doubted it.

But of course, what Bradford had done he’d done on his own initiative, while what Joseph Holt had done had been handed to him by his uncle-in-law. And that was why Holt spent time at the clinic in downtown Philadelphia, and offered his services in humanitarian causes, and was a consultant at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore. And why he would not rearrange his schedule to avoid the Baltimore Friday traffic jam.

After trying a wide variety of routes in his first several months of commuting, Holt had finally given up all hope of beating the traffic and had resigned himself to joining it. These days, he drove down St. Paul and over North Avenue and Sinclair and Erdman to 95. After that, it was a straight run on superhighway all the way.

This Friday he had a passenger with him, a student going home to Philadelphia for the weekend. The student was one of the severe new youngsters coming along as a reaction to the radical-hippie syndrome, these new ones being the antithesis in every way, from their strict crew-cuts and clean jaws to the rigid conservatism of their clothing. As Howard Lockridge had said recently, “Even at their most relaxed, they look like a bunch of poli sci majors taking a tour of a steel plant.”

And yet, the conservative youngsters were not really very different from the radicals. Youth tends to be self-righteous and autocratic, whatever its political beliefs, and people past their first youth tend to be made irritable by the sound of a loud self-confident young voice, even if it is agreeing with them.

Fortunately, this young man was not of a missionary type, and except for an expression of gratitude at having been given the lift he kept silent while Holt negotiated the gauntlet of St. Paul Street.

In fact, it was Holt himself who broke the silence, just after making the turn onto North Avenue. “I tend to think of this route,” he said, “as a visual cautionary tale for doctors.” He glanced at his passenger. “And doctors-to-be.”

“Sir?”

“You’ll see what I mean.”

They drove a few blocks in silence, the young man looking alert, and then Holt said, “On our right, chapter one.”

“The cemetery?”

“Green Mount Cemetery, yes.”

The young man waited, but Holt said nothing more yet, so he looked curiously out at the cemetery instead, obviously hoping to find some sort of explanation there, and just as obviously failing to find it.

Holt was all at once feeling embarrassment. This was the first time he’d mentioned his Baltimore-cemetery theory to anyone, and bringing it out in the air like this it suddenly looked absurd. Particularly given the blank expression on the young man’s face. Youth is notoriously literal and unimaginative, and it was more than likely a grave mistake for a fifty-one-year-old man to try to share a private conceit with a twenty-year-old.

Still, he’d started it now, there was nothing to do but go on with it. A few blocks later, therefore, he said, with somewhat less conviction, “And on our left, chapter two. Holy Cross Cemetery.”

This cemetery was smaller and more quickly passed. The young man studied it the whole time they were going by, and then said. “You said, especially for doctors?”

“A visual cautionary tale for doctors,” Holt said, but by now he’d lost the feeling so completely he had to start undercutting himself. “You know, when you’re stuck in traffic jams week after week, you start looking for meanings in the things around you. And all these cemeteries along here, it seemed to me they had something to say. And since I’m a doctor—at any rate, I call myself a doctor—I took a sort of lesson for doctors out of what they said. Here comes chapter three, by the way. Dead ahead, you might say.”

Baltimore Cemetery was directly in their path, and their route took a jog to the left, then a half-right onto Sinclair Lane. Baltimore Cemetery was now on their right, and Holt said, “With chapter four on our left. Hebrew Cemetery. You can’t see it, but chapter four has a footnote just the other side of it. Saint Vincent’s Cemetery, in Clifton Park.”

The young man said, “Do you mean doctors should be careful what they do, or their patients will end up here?”

“Not exactly,” Holt said. He was strongly regretting all this by now, but there was no longer any choice. He was kicking himself for not having kept his mouth shut in the beginning. “In fact,” he said, maintaining a cool and confident exterior despite himself, “I think it means just the reverse. I think it means, no matter how careful a doctor is, no matter how brilliant or learned or devoted, his patients will end up here anyway.”

The young man frowned in disapproval and surprise. “That’s an awfully negativistic attitude, Dr. Holt.”

“Not at all. I’m simply saying that doctors are human, just like everybody else. We aren’t gods. Our cures aren’t miracles, our failures aren’t cosmic defeats. We are men and women, frail and prone to error. If we start believing our diplomas, we are in serious trouble.” He had warmed to the thought after all, losing his self-consciousness in the explanation. “Those cemeteries,” he said, “serve to remind me that doctors aren’t perfect, because nobody is perfect. The thought helps me keep my equilibrium.”

The young man studied Holt’s face, blinking slowly as he made an obvious attempt to understand, to fit Holt’s cemetery observation into the pattern of everything he’d been taught before this. Because Holt’s idea had a different shape, and was angled in a different direction, the young man couldn’t absorb it, and the struggle deepened his frown until he discovered a possible relationship between what Holt had said and something he did know. “Still,” he said, the frown relaxing somewhat, “we all have to do our best.”

“Naturally,” Holt said. He let it go at that, and was relieved when the young man also showed no inclination to carry it further. He had just been reminded again of something it was easy to forget; that aside from simple memory items like numbers and names, no one can be taught anything they don’t already know. Some day the fist of experience would thud Holt’s thought into the young man’s head, but until then he could not effectively be told it.

And would he, when it finally did occur to him, suddenly snap his fingers and exclaim, “So that’s what Doctor Holt meant!”? Unlikely.

Ahead at last was the on-ramp for route 95, John F. Kennedy Memorial Highway. Frequently, when he saw that name, Holt found himself comparing the Presidencies of Kennedy and Lockridge, and he believed it was not entirely familial bias that left him with the conviction that Lockridge had left the greater legacy of accomplishment. But it was Kennedy’s name that filled the road maps, and all because Kennedy had managed the supreme achievement of any American President; he had died in office. Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it.

Holt knew the thought was unworthy, but he also knew it was true. No President could ever accomplish any act, any feat, any dream that would be as hailed and rewarded and commemorated as his failure to survive his term of office. The mass of people preferred sentiment to accomplishment any day.

Come to think of it, that was why the young man’s mind had been forced to reject Holt’s parable of the cemeteries. It was anti-sentimental in the worst way, and the young man had been unable to digest it until he had reduced it to an old sentimental standby: “We all have to do our best.”

And it’s never good enough, Holt thought, and drove north on John F. Kennedy Memorial Highway.

ii

NEAR BETHAYRES, NORTH OF Philadelphia, the houses are large, old, rambling, but in excellent repair, set on plots of four or six or ten acres, frequently set far enough back from the road, and so screened in any case with trees, that people driving by, on their way up to New Hope or down to Philadelphia, can never be sure there’s a house there at all. Only the trees, perhaps a stone or iron fence, a blacktop driveway winding in amid the trees, a rural delivery mailbox with a name or just a number on it, and almost invariably some variation on the sign PRIVATE ROAD—NO TRESPASSING.

Holt was alone in the car now as he made the slow turn into his driveway and brought the Lincoln to a stop. He’d dropped the young man off in town, after having recouped from the cemetery error by engaging in an animated discussion on the professional football season just past, a subject in which they both had a true interest. Holt was one of the last true believers in the eventual arising from the grave of the Philadelphia Eagles, and the young man had wanted to know if it was really true what he’d heard of the Green Bay Packers while Vince Lombardi was the coach. “Before he went to Washington,” the young man said, but whether with disgust for the city or the football team it was hard to say.

Holt thought it was both sad and funny that he’d reconstructed himself in the young man’s estimation via football, and he’d mused on the subject most of the way from the city home. Now he stopped the car just in the entrance of his driveway and got out to see what mail had come today. It would have been lying in the box since noon, but Margaret knew how much pleasure he took in finding the mail for himself, and always left it there no matter how late he was due to come home. Margaret indulged him, she humored him, and he was aware of it in a slightly guilty way, and he was delighted by it.

The Fellowship of Reconciliation was after him again. There was an appeal for Haitian relief, this one putting its squatting starving child-with-bowl right out on the envelope, apparently acting from the realization that most of these envelopes would be thrown out unopened. There were bills. There was a letter from Gregory, wonder of wonders! A medical journal he usually found unreadable was there in its brown paper sleeve. And Sears & Co—didn’t they used to be Sears Roebuck?—wished to announce its Spring Sale. On February 23rd?

Holt carried it all back to the car and drove on to the house, which couldn’t be seen until one was almost on top of it, sitting as it did among dense shrubbery and in a slight depression, the cause of a perennially damp basement. Today, when he rounded the last curve and saw the house—two-story, large, white clapboard and fieldstone—he saw also a dark green Ford Mustang parked on the blacktop in front of the door.

A Mustang? Holt frowned at it, his diagnostic instincts aroused. Who would be here in a Mustang? Not a workman, no carpenter or plumber or electrician would drive a Mustang. Not a member of the family, the family’s cars were invariably either big or foreign, Holt himself driving this Lincoln while Margaret had the MG. No friend he could think of.

An Avon lady! The idea came to him with the force of revelation, and he could actually see her in the front room, perched on the edge of the gray sofa, nyloned knees together. A beige suit, some lace at the throat, and one of those hats that even women who know better buy at Eastertime.

Holt was so delighted with his deduction that he nearly forgot the mail in his haste to go indoors and have his diagnosis proved correct. He remembered it halfway, and trotted back to get it, then hurried to the front door. In some silly way, he was very happy.

Margaret met him in the entrance hall, and didn’t respond to his smile. She looked somber, and she said, “Evelyn is here.”

“Evelyn?” For just a second his mind was a blank, he couldn’t think of anyone he knew named Evelyn. The image of the Avon lady was still too central in his imagination.

“Evelyn Canby,” Margaret said. “From Brad.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, of course!”

“She’s in the front room,” Margaret said. “She phoned first, and I told her you’d be here around five.”

“When did she get here?”

“Twenty minutes ago.”

Holt looked at his watch. Not quite ten past five. He said, “What’s the problem? Something with Brad? Or Dinah?”

“She said she preferred to tell you.”

“A female complaint,” Holt said, and raised his eyes to heaven.

“No, she said she wanted to talk to you about Bradford.”

“Oh. All right, I’ll go see her.” He took a step, then remembered the mail he was still carrying, and turned back to hand it to her. “There’s a letter from Greg, believe it or not.”

Her mood lightened at once. “Oh, good! Did you open it?”

“Of course not. I get to bring it into the house, you get to open it. That’s what makes this a working marriage.” He kissed her on the cheek, and went in to see his niece Evelyn.

iii

SHE WAS SITTING IN the dark. Outside, daylight was clinging on in its pale February way, but the front room was in semi-darkness. Why hadn’t the girl turned on a light? The switch beside the door controlled several lamps around the large room. Holt pressed it, and the room leaped into sudden yellow definition, with pockets of shadow. Evelyn, who had been seated near the window and apparently lost in thought, started, then got to her feet and came toward Holt across the Persian carpet.

Something in her face and mood—and in the darkness in which she’d chosen to wait for him—told Holt the current problem was more serious than he had at first supposed.

“Hello, Evelyn,” he said. “Margaret said you wanted to talk to me about Brad.”

“Yes.” She stopped a few feet from him, her expression troubled and uncertain. “He doesn’t know I came,” she said. “He didn’t want any fuss.”

“He wouldn’t. Sit down, sit down. I’m losing my manners. Would you care for a drink?”

“No, thank you.” But she did sit down, in the green wing chair, and folded her hands in her lap.

“If you don’t mind,” he said, “I will. I’ve had two hours of weekend traffic, and I need to unwind.”

“Of course,” she said.

The bar was to the left. Turning to it, he said, “I don’t mean to interrupt you. If you drove all this way, and particularly without Brad’s approval, it must be important.” He put ice in a short glass and reached for the bourbon.

“I’m not sure whether it is or not.” When he wasn’t looking at her, her voice sounded too frail, almost the voice of an invalid. “He fainted yesterday.”

Holt was already pouring the bourbon. He half-filled the glass, recorked the bottle, and turned to look at her. “Fainted? Brad?”

“In California. You knew we were going out for Uncle Harrison.”

“The supermarket opening,” Holt said, remembering Howard’s description of it. Howard had been opposed to the expedition, to the point of asking Holt to forbid Brad to go on medical grounds. There had been no medical grounds, though, and Brad would have ignored him in any case, and he really didn’t take the affront to Brad’s dignity as seriously as Howard, so he’d refused.

“Afterwards,” Evelyn was saying, “we were sitting around talking with Uncle Harrison—Brad was arguing with him, really, about some things that might not be right about the town—and all of a sudden he just fell out of the chair. Fainted, right out of the chair.”

Holt put his drink down again untasted. “What was the temperature out there? Very hot?”

“Not really. It was sunny, but not bad. About seventy-five. And this was afterwards, when we were indoors.”

“How long was he unconscious?”

“Less than five minutes. It seemed terribly long, but it was only two or three minutes.”

“Then he woke right up?”

“Not really.” She frowned, trying to get the description right. “He woke up, all right. I mean, the faint was over and he could stand and everything, but he was still a little fuzzy.”

“What do you mean, fuzzy?”

“Well, he seemed confused about everything. Not amnesia or forgetting about things, just a little confused. As though he was distracted. And he was stuttering a lot.”

“Has the stuttering continued?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “He’s perfectly all right today. It was only for about ten minutes after he woke up that he was confused and stuttering. After that he was fine.”

“Any other symptoms after the faint? Anything besides the confusion and the stuttering?”

She gave him a quick glance, and said, “You think it’s something serious.”

“I think it could be a lot of different things,” he said, “some serious and some not so serious. I’ll have to know a lot more before I can narrow it down.”

“There wasn’t anything else,” she said. “Not connected with the faint, anyway.”

“Not connected with the faint? I don’t understand.”

“Well, I told you he fell out of the chair, and he apparently hurt his leg when he fell. But it wasn’t bad, it’s fine today.”

“What did he do, cut himself? Bruise himself?”

“Well, I didn’t see it, exactly. He just had a little limp afterwards. But it was gone by the time we got off the plane in Hagerstown.”

“When was that, last night?”

“Yes. We flew right back, last night. It was after midnight before we were home.”

“Did Brad seem unusually tired?”

Evelyn offered a small smile. “We were all unusually tired. We’d crossed the continent twice in one day.”

Holt returned her smile. “Pedaling all the way,” he said. “And you say Brad is all right today?”

“He was when I left.”

“You asked him to talk to me about the faint?”

“Yes. He said it was nonsense, it was the result of the plane trip and the bad speeches, at his age he had to expect an occasional unauthorized absence. That’s what he called it, an occasional unauthorized absence.”

“Did he mean it had happened before?”

“I don’t know.” She sounded surprised, as though it hadn’t occurred to her to put that interpretation on his words. “I don’t think so,” she said doubtfully. “That isn’t what he seemed to be saying.”

“You haven’t seen any of these symptoms before, in him? Not just the faint, but any of the others. The stuttering, the confusion, the limp.”

“The limp? But that happened when he fell off the chair.”

“Even so,” Holt said. “Has he limped before?”

“Not that I remember. None of it before, the limp or anything else.”

Holt nodded. “All right. He doesn’t know you’ve come here, is that it?”

“That’s exactly it.” The brief lovely smile flashed again, and she said, “He’s going to be quite upset.”

“Are you driving back there now?”

“Oh, no. The idea was, I’m going to New York for two days. Shopping and visiting and so on.”

“You’re driving back Sunday.”

“Yes. Why, do you want me to drive you out there?”

“No, not at all.” Holt smiled and said, “Not if you want to maintain security. If we can avoid letting Brad know you’ve come to see me, so much the better.”

“Agreed,” she said.

“I have a free day tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll drive out and see what the situation is.”

“Thanks, Joe. It’s probably nothing to worry about, but I’ll feel better after you say so.”

“Stop by here on your way back Sunday, and I’ll say so then.”

“Fine.”

Holt hesitated, then said, “Did Margaret invite you to dinner? If not, allow me.”

“She did,” Evelyn said, smiling, “but I really do have a dinner engagement in New York.”

Holt tried to stop himself, but couldn’t help saying, “A nice young man, I hope.”

Evelyn laughed and said, “That depends on your attitude toward George.”

“Your brother George?”

“The same.”

This time he did stop himself, refraining from saying, What’s a nice-looking girl like you having dinner with her brother for? Advice only when requested, he reminded himself, and then limited to the medical. He said, “My best to George. And to Marie, of course.”

They both had the same attitude toward Marie. Evelyn’s smile was ironic as she said, “Of course.”

iv

IT WAS THREE HUNDRED twenty-two miles, door to door. Holt had clocked it one time. From the house it was just a quick jog through Willow Grove to the Turnpike, then due west for nearly three hundred miles across the bottom of the state to the Willow Hill exit, south on state road 75 to Metal, then back east on county road 992 to Eustace.

Saturday dawned bright and clear and cold, perfect driving weather. If he left in the morning and returned in the afternoon, he would have the sun at his back in both directions, which was perfect.

He had told Margaret about it at dinner last night, of course, and had asked her if she felt like making the trip with him, but she had something to do with the League of Women Voters today, so he traveled alone. Fortunately he liked to drive—when not in Friday afternoon traffic—and didn’t mind driving alone. It gave him time to think, to muse on this and that, to evolve ideas like that cemetery notion that had fallen flat on its face yesterday. He would spend much of today’s driving time dissecting that failure from various points of view; the generation gap, romantic vs. realist, religious-based political conservatism vs. humanistic-based political liberalism, on and on. It was his form of solitaire, and didn’t even require a deck of cards.

He got to Eustace at just about one-thirty in the afternoon. He drove through the town—a shopping street backed up by a few rows of residences is all it was—and just on the other side he made the right turn onto the unmarked gravel road. He was immediately on Lockridge land, though it was a quarter mile before he reached the chain-link fence and the gate and the guard, an elderly man with a Swedish accent who’d held this job for nearly twenty years now.

He recognized Holt at once, and nodded and waved to him as he walked flat-footed in his heavy boots to open the gate. He was saying something, but Holt had the window closed and couldn’t hear it. From the guard’s manner, it was merely some sort of greeting, so Holt contented himself with a smile and a nod in return.

It was another mile and a half to the house, with woods on the left while on the right the trees gave way to the stables and exercise yards and then a part of the apple orchard, everything now under a lamina of clean white snow.

Brad’s house was much more sensibly situated than Holt’s, being built on a low rise in the middle of a clearing. Holt had never asked, but he doubted Brad had trouble with a damp basement.

The house was three and a half stories and mostly stone, a large house to begin with that had been added to in the hundred twenty years of its life with various ells and projections, all in the same architectural style and general appearance, so that by now it looked more like a castle than a house, even to a lone turret in the front left corner, added on by Brad’s father, who had numbered astronomy among his hobbies. All it needs is a moat, Holt thought, and parked the Lincoln where the moat would be if there were one.

He was shown into the east parlor, a bright room but without direct sunlight at this time of day. He stood at the window looking out at Dinah’s garden, nothing at this time of year but a few black stalks and vague outlines under the snow. Brad had no real interest in a formal garden, but it had been Dinah’s abiding passion and Brad had continued to maintain it since Dinah’s death. That is, he had hired someone to maintain it, not being himself a man with a naturally green thumb.

“So Evelyn’s been snitching on me, eh?”

Holt turned around, for just a moment at a complete loss. He had worked out an elaborate story to cover his having dropped in unexpectedly this way, and he became hopelessly entangled in the choice between giving that story and acknowledging the truth. He could do neither, being unable to think clearly enough for a few seconds to come up with a decision, so all he did was offer a weak and confused smile as he watched Brad walking across the room toward him, smiling, his hand outstretched.

But on a different level of his mind, Holt was perfectly aware and sensible. He noted Bradford’s walk, his face, his eyes, his stance. He saw that there was no limp, that there was no immediately noticeable change in the appearance of Brad’s face, that both eyes seemed clear, that there was no visible immediate difference to be noted of any kind. So it wasn’t a bad one, he thought. At least, not yet.

Which conclusion at once unblocked the other part of his mind, and he smiled broadly, taking Brad’s hand as he said, “Hello, Brad. I don’t suppose there’s any point telling you the story I made up.”

Brad’s handshake was as firm as ever. “If you think you can get it past me,” he said amiably, “go right ahead.”

“No, thanks,” Holt said. “I’ve never seen anybody get anything past you. But let Evelyn think we pulled the wool over your eyes, all right?”

Brad grinned. “I still go for intrigue,” he said. “But nevertheless, the trip was a waste.”

“Not if it puts my mind at ease,” Holt told him.

“Because I fainted? Come on, Joe, I’m an old man, I’m entitled to a faint every now and then. Have you had lunch?”

“Of course not. I know your cook, remember.”

“Come along, then.”

The dining room was on the other side of the house. As they walked, Brad said, “I ate an hour ago, but I’ll have a bite with you.”

“Fine.”

Brad stopped off to put in the order, and then they walked on to the dining room, a smallish green and white room with a wall of tiny-paned windows overlooking a good part of the orchard, the rows of pear and peach and apple trees now naked black stick figures against the snow, like an assembly line of impressionistic spider sculptures. Sunlight streamed in on this side, gleaming on the white tablecloth between them.

Brad repeated his question. “Do you really need your mind put at ease simply because I fainted?”

“Not entirely,” Holt said. “There was another element of it that bothered me more.”

“What other element? The fact that I hurt my leg?”

“No. Do you have a bruise on your leg, a cut, anything like that?”

Brad shrugged. “I haven’t noticed. I don’t think so, but I just haven’t noticed.”

“That’s the element,” Holt told him.

“The fact that I don’t have a bruise?”

“No, the fact that you haven’t bothered to look.”

A maid came in with table settings, and they both waited till she was done and had gone again. Then Holt picked up the salad fork and watched his fingers turn it as he said, “Have you ever heard of a thing called anosognosia?”

“Good God, no. Sounds like an Arabian perfume.”

Holt was surprised and amused. “It does?” He glanced at Brad, and saw that he was frowning at him in some concentration, so he said, “No, it’s a symptom, a very peculiar kind of symptom.”

“Yes, I suppose it would have to be. A symptom of what?”

“Let me tell you what the symptom is first, and then I’ll tell you what it’s a symptom of.”

“You’re the doctor,” Brad said, smiling.

Salads were brought, a large one for Holt and a small one for Brad. Neither man started to eat. Holt said, “Anosognosia is a refusal or an inability to recognize the existence of one’s other symptoms. It can be a very difficult thing for a doctor to have to deal with.”

Brad frowned. He picked up his fork, poked it into the salad, then put it down again. “That sounds like a symptom of mental illness, not physical illness,” he said.

“The two can be related,” Holt told him. “Look,” he said, “don’t get overly worried about this. You’re obviously healthy right now. Have some salad.”

“You,” Brad said.

So Holt obediently ate some salad, and then Brad followed suit, eating one forkful, and after it was swallowed saying, “Now we get to part two of the answer. What is this symptom a symptom of?”

“It can indicate a stroke,” Holt told him.

“I was hoping you weren’t going to say that word,” Brad said, “but I had the horrible feeling you were. I’ve known men who went out by way of stroke.”

“It can hit in different ways,” Holt said.

“But once it hits,” Brad said, “it doesn’t let go. Am I right?”

“If I’m right,” Holt said, “what you just had was not a full-fledged stroke but a kind of dress rehearsal. You could call it the coming attractions of a stroke. It’s called a transient ischemic attack, meaning a stroke slight enough and brief enough for the damage to be only temporary and either completely or mostly reversible.”

“Why do you think it was a stroke? Or a what-do-you-call-it attack? Simply because I paid it no attention?”

“Not entirely,” Holt said. “It has the right pattern. You were briefly unconscious. When you awoke, you experienced a brief period of confusion and dysarthia. You developed—”

“Wait a minute. Confusion and what?”

“Oh. Sorry, I’m running through this in my own head, too. Stuttering. It’s called dysarthia.”

Brad snorted. “Why isn’t it called stuttering?”

“I’ve never been quite sure, to be honest with you. Nevertheless, you had a brief period of stuttering.”

“Is it ano—whatever if I don’t remember that?”

“Do you remember it?”

Brad hesitated, then shrugged in brief annoyance and said, “No.”

“That’s anosognosia.”

“But I was fuzzy-minded,” Brad said. “I know that for the first few minutes after the faint I had the devil of a time concentrating my mind on things. I had a problem to discuss with Harrison, and I never did get back to it. If I did stutter, and I suppose you got that from Evelyn so I must have, couldn’t it just have been a part of the fuzzy-mindedness?”

“It could have been,” Holt agreed. “At this stage, we have alternate explanations for everything. But we have enough symptoms pointing in the same direction to make it worth our while to try to make sure.”

“What about the leg? That isn’t a symptom, is it?”

“Definitely it is.”

“My head is up at this end,” Brad said, pointing at it.

“Of course it is. But it affects the running of the rest of your body. If there was a temporary blood clot in the left hemisphere of your brain, it would be quite natural for it to have an effect somewhere on the right side of your body. If you have no sign of a physical injury to your leg, then we have to include that among your symptoms.”

“I see.” Brad turned his head to frown out the window at the snow and the bare trees and the sunshine, and Holt said nothing more, just letting him gradually get used to it at his own pace. Holt was truly very hungry, having breakfasted before eight o’clock, so he went back to work on his salad, and the main course—haddock, in a butter sauce—came before he’d finished the salad or Brad had finished his musing.

The maid had a large portion for Holt and a small, token portion for Brad. She wasn’t sure whether to take Brad’s uneaten salad or not, and her hand hovered uncertainly over it until he became aware of her and made an abrupt nodding motion and a dismissing wave of his hand. He was frowning more deeply now, and when the girl had left the room he looked at Holt and said, “You called it coming attractions. A dress rehearsal.”

“They frequently are, yes. If that’s what this was, a transient ischemic attack.”

“Let’s assume that for the moment,” Brad said. “I’ve always taken it for granted you know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m flattered,” Holt admitted, “but I don’t necessarily agree.”

“Yes, I know, you downgrade yourself, it’s probably hurt your career more than once. But for the moment, let’s talk about me.”

Holt was taken aback once more. Every once in a while Brad threw one of those pocket analyses of his into the middle of a conversation, like a comic throwing away a one-liner, and Holt never knew quite what to do at those moments. Fortunately, Brad wasn’t one to linger with that sort of topic, so it was only afterward, when alone, that Holt would be able to study the latest message and take from it what he could of succor or advice.

In the meantime, he said, “Of course we talk about you. You’re the patient.”

“And my question is, dress rehearsal for what? Coming attractions for what?”

“For a stroke. For the real thing, I mean, and of a specific kind. A cerebral thrombosis.”

Brad frowned. “I’ve heard of coronary thrombosis,” he said.

“Yes. A blood clot in the heart. This is a blood clot in the head. Not quite as fast, but just as sure.”

“And they come with practice sessions?”

“Frequently.”

“How many?”

“Any number, one to a hundred, even more.”

“For how long?”

Holt shook his head. “No set time. Usually a few months.”

“Then the real thing.”

“Usually. Sometimes there is no real thing, just a series of these temporary attacks. They come to an end, and nothing else happens at all.”

Brad offered a thin smile. “I’ve never bet the long shots,” he said. “Eat before it gets cold.”

“Right.”

The haddock was delicious, but already starting to cool. There was white wine on the table, and Holt poured himself a glass, then raised an eyebrow at Brad, who said, “Can I now?”

“Certainly. The only illness where wine is contra-indicated is alcoholism.”

Brad laughed, and watched Holt pour. “In that case,” he said, “I’m glad I’m not an alcoholic. I like to drink too much.”

Holt ate some more of the fish, washed it down with wine, and said, “I’ll want to do some tests.”

“Naturally. You always want to do tests anyway, this is a perfect excuse.”

“You’re probably right. When can you enter the hospital?”

“Hospital? What sort of tests are we talking about?”

“EEG, ECG, possibly a spinal tap. I have my bag in the car, remind me to take your blood pressure before we go. If it’s high, and it may well be, we’ll want to do something about bringing it down. We may also want to give you some anti-coagulants, see if we can keep that blood of yours flowing.”

“Remind you to take my blood pressure.” Brad was smiling and shaking his head. “You’d be likely to forget, you would,” he said.

“You’ve never heard of medical miracles?”

“That’s what it would be, all right,” Brad agreed, then said, “Is that what it would take, Joe?”

“What, to keep away from a stroke?”

“Yes.”

“Not at all.” Holt swallowed wine and said, “I’d guess we’ve caught it about as early as we can, and that’s in our favor. Have you had any other attacks like this recently?”

“Not that I remember,” Brad said doubtfully. “But if I have—dammit, give me the word again.”

“Anosognosia?”

“That’s it.” Brad repeated the word aloud three times, reminding Holt once again of the reputation Brad had won during his Presidency for always having done his homework, for carrying off ad-lib press conferences with at least as much assurance and factual command as any other President, and possibly more. Brad had always hated the thought that there were things he didn’t know, and he’d always read voraciously, pumping facts into himself like a McCormick reaper gathering wheat. Now, after having finally committed anosognosia to memory, he said, “If that’s what I have, I wouldn’t remember any other attacks, would I?”

“You’d remember if you fainted. You might remember if you’d had problems with your right leg before.”

Brad shook his head slowly. “I don’t believe so,” he said. “Ask Evelyn, she knows everything about me there is to know.”

“I shall. And when do I book you into the hospital?”

“Christ, Joe, I hate that hospital routine. Turn on the television set and see nothing but bulletins about my own condition. That can get creepy after a while.”

Holt laughed, saying, “I bet it can. If you want, this time we’ll let you announce the statements yourself. Then, when you go back and turn on the news, you can watch yourself telling you how you are.”

“What an idea! Joe, you’ve been reading that fellow Whatsisname, the Canadian. You know.”

“McLuhan?”

“That’s the one.” Brad was beaming, shaking his head, pleased, and then he stopped and frowned and said, “Is that another symptom? Forgetting that man’s name?”

Holt paused with a final forkful of haddock halfway to his mouth. “Let’s not worry about any more symptoms,” he said. “We have enough to keep us going for a while. And will you give me a hospital date? Stall all you want, but I won’t forget it.”

Brad grimaced, and shook his head. “You get much above fifty, Joe,” he said, ignoring the fact that Holt was above fifty, “a hospital becomes a grim place. Any time you go into it, you can’t help but feel this is the time you come out feet first.”

“I don’t ever lie to you, Brad. This would be for tests only. And even if we decided you’d had a full-fledged stroke, and not a transient attack, you’d still be out in a few days. So when do you want to make it?”

“I don’t know, what’s today? February twenty-fourth. I have a speech in Cleveland next week, there’s a Look reporter coming around for some damn reason—Make it some time in early March.”

“First week in March?”

“I’d have to be out by the fifteenth. They want me around for a party conference in Washington.”

“You’ll make it,” Holt promised. “So I’ll put you down for the first week in March.”

“I suppose.”

“Done,” Holt said, and put that last forkful of fish into his mouth, and it was ice cold. He added wine, which was supposed to be cold, and sat back to say, “You still have the world’s best cook.”

“She stays with me,” Brad said, “because she gets to do a series in a woman’s magazine after I die.” Then he shook his head, and said, “I can see what’s going to happen now. Name a subject, any subject, and it will go straight into a morbid reference.”

“How about my boy Gregory?” Holt said. “We got a letter from him yesterday, first one in a month or more. He asked to be remembered to you.”

“I remember him,” Brad said, grinning. “How does he like the Navy?”

“According to the letter, he hates the Navy, but not as much as he hates the Mediterranean. And he loves his family, but not as much as he loves Audrey White.”

“Audrey White. Isn’t she related to somebody somehow?”

“I think she’s a cousin of a fellow that married a niece of Sterling’s wife,” Holt said, Sterling being Brad’s other brother.

“Of course, Jim White! Didn’t he die?”

Holt gave a rueful smile and said, “I’m afraid he did, yes.”

“There, you see? We just can’t talk about anything. Come take my blood pressure and go home to your wife.”

Holt had had no coffee, but he didn’t protest. Then, on their way out of the room, they met the maid, coming in with the coffee. Brad looked surprised, and said, “My God, you never got your coffee!”

“That’s all right,” Holt said, nodding to the girl to take it away again. “When I’m going to drive, I’m better off without coffee.”

Brad looked at him sharply, saying, “It is another symptom, isn’t it? Forgetting things.”

“Possibly,” Holt admitted.

“And not a good one, either. It’s lingered. Are there any books on this subject?”

“Strokes? There are some, yes.”

“Do you have any?”

“One or two. You want to borrow them, I suppose.”

“Know your enemy,” Brad said, smiling, but with an edge to his smile.

“Evelyn is stopping in tomorrow,” Holt said. “I’ll give them to her.”

“Fine.”

v

EVELYN ARRIVED AT ABOUT three, and Holt had no doubt that her always seeming to show up just at the wrong time to be invited to a meal was not haphazard, but deliberate, a part of that self-effacement that threatened to make the girl completely invisible before long. Holt, who was still ruminating on that instant character analysis given him by Brad yesterday, wondered why Brad didn’t stick a couple of those darts under Evelyn’s skin, get her moving again. But perhaps he did, and they just had no effect.

In any event, it was another sunny day, and this time Holt saw to it that he steered the girl into a room with sunshine in it. He had strong feelings that she should be kept from dark corners as much as possible. He browbeat her into taking tea, he forced Margaret to join them in order to give the occasion as social a patina as possible, and then he told her the situation:

“Brad more than likely has had either a slight stroke or a lesser form of the same thing. His blood pressure is up a little, but it isn’t bad. He seems to have had no permanent effects from this one except a very slight tendency to forget things, and that will probably disappear in time.”

Evelyn, sitting there as prim and plain as though she really were an Avon lady, knees together, holding her teacup in one hand and the saucer in the other, said, “You said, from this one. You expect it to happen again?”

“It can. There’s a fifty-fifty chance. I want to run some tests on him. I’ve booked him into the hospital for three or four days starting Tuesday, the sixth of March. That’s a week from this coming Tuesday, will you tell him that?”

“It’s quite serious, then,” she said quietly.

Margaret, who hadn’t wanted to be present because of her tendency to be overly receptive to other people’s pain, said, “I asked Joe about it last night, Evelyn, and he promised me it’s really unlikely to be serious.”

“It can be serious,” Holt said, he felt he had to say, “but we’ve caught it early and we should be able to protect Brad from the worst effects of it.”

“From dying, you mean,” she said.

“That, too,” Holt said, and immediately regretted it when he saw Margaret give him a quick disapproving look.

Evelyn had caught it, too, and she looked at him in bewilderment, saying, “What else did you mean?”

“Well, any illness, I meant,” he said lamely.

“Oh,” she said faintly, her eyes widening. “This is the sort of thing that can paralyze people, or make them drooling idiots, or drive them insane. Isn’t it?”

“If we don’t protect ourselves against it,” Holt said, trying to reassure her.

“Can we protect ourselves against it?”

An over-simplification would have settled the discussion right there, at least for the moment, but Holt was unable to do that condescending sort of reassurance. “We’re coming to it early,” he said, “which is always good. And there are things we can do.”

“But we can’t be sure.”

“As with everything else in life, Evelyn,” Holt said, “we can’t be sure, no.”

Evelyn looked from Holt to Margaret, her face even paler than usual, her cheekbones more prominent. “God help him,” she said.

3

THE THEATER WAS BAD enough, but Evelyn knew that dinner afterward, in a restaurant with a bordello motif, would be worse. And she was right.

“How many?” the captain asked, and George answered, “Six.” A large enough group to be cumbersome, but too small to hide in.

Marie, naturally, made trouble about the table. They were such a large and conspicuous group, and Marie had such a large and conspicuous voice, that Evelyn would almost have wished at that second for a bulletin from the hospital to whisk her away. Perhaps a nice false alarm?

Marie had said, a few days ago, “Of course you’ll stay with us,” so there was nothing to be done about it, even though Evelyn would have preferred to be alone, to stay at a hotel these four days in New York. She’d wanted it for no real reason that could be defined or justified, but only because if one were alone there was still some faint possibility of something happening. Something vague, unpictured, unplotted for. Unlikely, too, of course, but nevertheless possible. Staying with George and Marie defeated all possibility.

But argument had been out of the question. Marie was not to be denied, not by anyone, certainly not by her husband or her sister-in-law. The only times Evelyn ever felt any true kinship these days with the odd gawky grown-up her brother George had turned out to be was when one or the other of them was being bullied by Marie, who handled them both with the same briskness, like a Red Cross lady handing out doughnuts at the scene of the flood.

So Evelyn had come obediently over to George and Marie’s apartment today after seeing Bradford settled into the hospital for Uncle Joe’s tests, and when she’d gotten here it had turned out Marie’d decided a show and late dinner would be the best thing under the circumstances for poor Evelyn. Evelyn disagreed, and was as usual irritated at being classified “Poorevelyn” eternally in Marie’s mind, but Marie chose to hear none of Evelyn’s objections, and so they’d all gone out to see some terrible musical comedy full of shiny men and women wearing fierce smiles as they ran and danced and sang and struck poses and yelled their confident smart-aleck lines at one another.

And now they were in the restaurant, giving their drink orders, sitting around the table of Marie’s choice. The three other members of the party consisted, one and two, of a couple Marie knew because she’d gone to Bryn Mawr with the wife, and three, of a man from George’s office who’d recently been divorced. The man was painful to be around, partly because the divorce had obviously not been his idea and partly because he didn’t give a damn about Evelyn but clearly felt he should go to bed with her in order to prove to his ex-wife he could get along on his own.

Evelyn found it impossible to retain the names of any of these people in her head, but it didn’t really seem to matter. They knew who she was, and that was all that counted. Marie had announced at the beginning of the evening that Poorevelyn was in town because her grandfather was in the hospital for a few days for a check-up, and of course Poorevelyn’s grandfather was Youknowwho. (He was George’s grandfather too, naturally, but George was a known quantity and therefore to be discounted; besides, Poorevelyn actually lived with The Great Man.)

The couple, Marie’s friends, were ravenous for anecdotes they could retail to other people on other occasions, and the man from George’s office tried valiantly but unsuccessfully to convert his self-pity into the appearance of concern for Evelyn, the result being that he kept talking as though Bradford were at death’s door, an implication that didn’t help Evelyn at all.

Evelyn never liked to be rude, but there were times when it was physically impossible to be anything else, and her only defense at the restaurant was to answer the couple in monosyllables and the pseudo-sympathetic man not at all. It still took them far too long, though, to begin to leave her alone.

But they finally did, not so much because of Evelyn’s lack of cooperation as because Marie got bored with the conversation and switched it to other channels. It turned out that she and the other wife were involved together in a broad array of charitable concerns, mostly taking place in what they called “disadvantaged” parts of Brooklyn and Queens, and their efforts with “these people” had produced an inexhaustible fund of condescending anecdotes, at each of which the three men dutifully laughed, and all of which served to reinforce the notion that “these people” were charming in their outlandish way but desperately needed discipline. Evelyn picked at her food and waited for it all to be over.

The maneuverings after dinner were unsubtle to the point of caricature, and ended with George and Marie going off by themselves, leaving Evelyn to be taken home by the other man. In the cab, his desperate search for subject matter led him into further doleful sympathizing about Bradford, Evelyn finally having to rescue them both by asking him about his work, about which she cared nothing. She knew that her brother worked for a company that made film for television, mostly documentaries, plus commercials, and that his title there was Producer, which seemed to mean that he decided whether or not other people would do such-and-such. He himself appeared to do nothing, but only to make decisions about the activities of others. The whole movie/television world that George had drifted into made Evelyn nervous, at least partly because vague gentle George seemed too ill-equipped to survive in it, and she wanted to know no more about it than was absolutely necessary.

But more premature condolences about Bradford were even worse, so in the cab Evelyn steered the conversation to work, and happily the man took the bait. Men forced to talk with women they feel they should seduce but don’t really want to usually wind up talking about their jobs anyway—probably because they wish they were doing them at the moment—so it was a relief to both of them to have him earnestly explaining to her the difference between above-the-line and below-the-line costs.

He insisted on riding up in the elevator with her, full of pseudo-gallantry and a kind of forlorn desperation, and his attempt to kiss her outside George’s apartment door was clumsy and ill-timed. Evelyn fended him off, but then he became blindly determined, his expression nothing but grim as they grappled in the small vestibule outside the apartment door. His patent lack of interest in her made him more determined to feign or create interest, and he became more difficult to get rid of than someone who honestly lusted after her. She finally had to ring for the elevator herself and tell him she would ask the operator—an elderly Puerto Rican with steel-framed spectacles—for assistance if he didn’t stop.

He shifted at once to contrition, and then to explanation, his apologies blending into the beginning of a long meandering hopeless story about his ex-wife. The arrival of the elevator at last cut the story off without any sort of point having been reached, and he asked if he might call her. Knowing it was safe to say yes, that he wouldn’t call her ever, she told him he might, and he backed aboard the elevator with a complex rueful embarrassed smile and was taken away.

It was now shortly after two, and the people at the hospital had told her she could visit Bradford at ten, so she set her small travel alarm for nine and went straight to bed, where she lay sleepless a long while, thinking of death and Bradford and her parents killed together in a plane crash and her war-killed husband Fred and how the options narrow when all around one the important people keep dying off. And now Bradford was in the hospital, and the suggestion of life without him too was out in the open and had to be looked at. It was true that Uncle Joe had assured her this hospitalization was for the check-up only, but it was nevertheless also true that Evelyn was twenty-six and Bradford was seventy, and some day he would die and she would go on living.

She heard George and Marie tip-toe noisily in at three-thirty, and not long after that she fell asleep at last, and when the alarm shrilled at nine o’clock she struggled up out of sleep as though from a drug, her mind confused and uncertain, her body heavy and sluggish and unwilling to obey her commands.

Dressing and washing took longer than usual, it remained very difficult to focus her attention or make her body move with any speed. It was quarter to ten when she was at last ready, and she went through the apartment to find no one else about. George was off to work, of course, but where was Marie?

Still in bed. Evelyn pushed their bedroom door open a foot or two, and there she was, sprawled on her back across the king-size bed she shared with George. She was only partly covered by the sheet and blanket, and she was sleeping in the nude, her rather small breasts both exposed.

What was there about the room, or the air, or the posture of the sleeping woman, that cried out the fact of recent intercourse? Whatever it was, there was no doubt in Evelyn’s mind that Marie and George had finished their evening with sex, nor that Marie had found it exciting and satisfying. It seemed strange to think of her gawky brother stretched out atop that long slender body, but he must perform acceptably. George and Marie would be married four years next month, and whatever their problems—Marie tended to bring them up with witnesses present—sexual incompatibility didn’t seem to be among them.

Abruptly, Evelyn felt such a violent envy of Marie and such an urgent impersonal sexual craving that her hand trembled on the doorknob and she teetered on the brink of losing her balance and falling forward onto the pale green bedroom carpet. She clutched at the doorjamb, and stood blinking and swaying a few seconds, until her equilibrium returned. Then she shut the door again, quickly and silently, and moved away to lean against the wall and give herself up to the trembling, which all at once became tears.

She pressed her hands to her face and turned to the wall, leaning hard against it. “Oh, Fred, Fred,” she murmured, in bitter reproof, in hurt and disappointment. “Oh, Fred.”

ii

IT WAS TEN PAST ten when Evelyn walked into the private room at the end of the long corridor, and Howard was already there, his papers spread all over the bed and the tray and the table and the second chair. Bradford and Howard were deeply involved, the way they always were when working on the memoirs, and Howard looked up with distracted eyes to say, “Oh. Let me clear off a chair for you.”

“No, that’s all right,” she said. “As long as Bradford has somebody to be with him, I’ll go get myself some breakfast.”

Howard jabbed a casual thumb at Bradford, saying, “They’re supposed to take him away at ten-thirty. I’ll come down and join you.”

“Fine,” she said, and smiled brightly at Bradford. “How are you this morning?”

“Bored. How do you expect a man to be?” Inactivity always strained Bradford’s sense of humor.

“That means you’re healthy,” Evelyn told him, and went away to take the elevator back down to the first floor, where there was a cafeteria half full of nurses and interns and Gray Ladies, making Evelyn almost the only one in sight not in some kind of uniform.

It was possible to order bacon and eggs but not, as it turned out, a good idea. Evelyn was still picking at her plate a quarter of an hour later when Howard came down. He waved to her as he went over to get something to eat, and she pointed at her empty coffee cup. He nodded.

Howard Lockridge was Bradford’s nephew, the younger son of Bradford’s brother Sterling. Howard was thirty-seven now, a tall and stocky man with a prematurely balding head that gleamed ludicrously in all lights. His glasses had round wire frames, and the lenses also gleamed, making his head predominantly a triangle of reflected light, glasses and brow, with a slightly chubby face lost beneath it.

Howard was a senior editor at Random House, which was publishing Bradford’s memoirs, in seven projected volumes. The first three volumes had already been published, and all had received generally good reviews except for the inevitable few critics who took the opportunity to criticize Bradford’s political record rather than the book he had written. The first volume was called The Grass Roots of Power, and told about Bradford’s father, Solomon Lockridge, who had been a politician of some import on the local level in Pennsylvania in the first two or three decades of this century, and told also of Bradford’s own entrance into politics, winning a seat in the House of Representatives early in the Depression.

The second volume, The Politics of Hunger, concerned itself with the New Deal years of the thirties, during most of which Bradford was a Congressman from Pennsylvania. The book ended with his first winning a Senate seat on the eve of the Second World War. The war itself, and the first part of Bradford’s Senate career, were covered in the third volume, The Trumpets of War, which had been published just two months before.

Now they were at work on the fourth volume, The Temporary Peace, concerning the postwar years of the late forties and early fifties. Bradford had still been a Senator then, and had seen much of the turbulence of that period from the inside, since the various Congressional committees had become all at once the most important single factor in setting the tone of national life. This volume was late, one deadline having already been missed, not because Bradford had grown tired of the work but because he considered that split decade after the war perhaps the most important and crucial era in American history. “Everything that’s wrong with us today,” he said once, “comes from that decade, and everything that’s right with us today comes from before that decade.” He also believed the nation was more and more returning to the attitudes of that time, which he feared would be a disaster, and therefore he wanted to be sure he got the message of The Temporary Peace absolutely right.

The three projected volumes were The Coming of Winter, concerning the Cold War in its endless phases, The Servant of the Nation, concerning his own controversial Presidency, and finally Toward Tomorrow, which was to be both his summation of events since he’d left office and his projection of the future. There was a body of material already done on each of these books, notes and general outlines, but the real writing of each book was being taken in order, with Bradford dictating a first draft into a tape recorder, then going over the typewritten transcript to make what changes he thought proper, and then Howard putting the whole thing through the typewriter all over again, polishing the prose and straightening out Bradford’s occasionally over-convoluted sentences. The final step was for Bradford and Howard to argue their way line by line through Howard’s revised version, then agree together on the order of the chapters, and send a copy of the once-more-retyped manuscript to Sterling for one of his students at Lancashire to do the index.

Bradford wasn’t Howard’s only author, of course, nor even the most profitable one, but he was—in addition to being his uncle—the most prestigious name on Howard’s list, so he seemed always to have unlimited time to spend with Bradford. He’d been known to move out to Eustace for weeks at a stretch, sometimes with Grace and the kids but more often by himself, and it was no surprise that he was now taking the opportunity of Bradford’s presence in New York to work with him some more. The Temporary Peace was overdue, and even ex-Presidents have to meet their deadlines.

Howard now came over to Evelyn’s table carrying a tray full of sandwiches and coffee cups. He gave Evelyn her fresh cup, and that left two for himself, plus three sandwiches, all white bread and wrapped in clear plastic. He sat down opposite Evelyn and said, “Joe says he should be down by twelve, so take your time.”

“I wish I’d brought Dinah,” Evelyn said, thinking of the little girl at home in Eustace with only the servants. “To keep me company.”

“Thanks a lot,” Howard said. He was unwrapping one of the sandwiches, which turned out to be two slices of bread and one slice of American cheese. Howard studied it gloomily and said, “Why do I always buy this stuff? I know what it’s going to be like, why do I do it?” He took a huge mouthful and sat moodily chewing it.

Evelyn sat there stirring her coffee. Howard made her nervous, and never more so than when she met him on neutral ground, away from the safety of Eustace. He had never been anything but kind to her, though at times impatient, but she lived in fear of his saying something brutal to her. He could be incredibly caustic, and it seemed inevitable that some day he would turn that verbal knife loose on her. Why did it seem inevitable? She had no idea.

Howard shoved bread and cheese into one bulging cheek and said, “You were there, weren’t you?”

“What?” She had no idea what he was talking about, and that increased her nervousness.

“When it hit him,” Howard explained. “Out in sunny California.”

Evelyn remembered how strongly Howard had opposed Bradford’s going out there, how he had characterized it as a “supermarket opening,” and she supposed now he would blame that trip for Bradford’s condition no matter what Uncle Joe and the other doctors decided. She said, “Yes, of course, I was sitting right beside him.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Howard, I really don’t like to go over it and over it. It was very frightening.”

“I’m sure it was,” he said, and washed down sandwich with coffee. “I’m not on a curiosity binge,” he said. “I’m Brad’s editor—face it, I’m his biographer—and I want to know what happened. I wouldn’t ask Harrison, and I wouldn’t believe his answer if I did, so that leaves you.”

Evelyn looked at him in surprise. “You’re writing a biography of Bradford?”

“Naturally,” Howard said impatiently. “Doesn’t the Boswell in me stick out all over? Tell me what happened.”

“Does Bradford know you’re doing it?”

“Yes. We don’t talk about it, but he knows. Enough of that, tell me about it.”

So she told him about it, the suddenness of the attack, the conversation that had preceded it, the symptoms that followed it, and he sat chewing his sandwiches and drinking his coffee and nodding until she was finished. Then he said, “This land deal of Harrison’s. Has Brad talked to him about it since?”

“I don’t think so. He mentioned it the other day, that he wanted to talk to him, but I’m pretty sure he hasn’t.”

Howard frowned at the one sandwich he had left, then looked at Evelyn and said, “Has he seemed forgetful since it happened? Distracted?”

“I don’t know,” she said, her expression troubled. “I suppose so, some. Uncle Joe said he might be for a while, but it would pass away.”

“I can hardly wait,” Howard said, his expression sour.

“Is there trouble with the book?”

“I get the damnedest feeling,” Howard said, “that Brad can’t remember what the hell he’s writing it for. I don’t mean amnesia, I don’t mean anything I can put my finger on at all. He just doesn’t seem to be—there, if you know what I mean.”

“That could be because of being in the hospital,” Evelyn said. “I know I’d be distracted, under the circumstances.”

“I hope you’re right,” Howard said. “In the meantime, The Temporary Peace is becoming a permanent pain in the ass.” He looked at his watch and said, “I’m not doing anything useful here except ruining my stomach. Tell Brad I’ll see him this afternoon.”

“All right.”

“You want this sandwich?” He held it up. “Still in its little shroud and everything.”

She smiled, shaking her head. “No, thanks.”

He grunted and said, “I’ll give it to my secretary, she loves little treats.” He tucked the sandwich away like a puffy square envelope in his inside jacket pocket, and got to his feet. “Expect me out to Eustace this weekend,” he said. “For an indefinite stay.” His expression was sour.

“With Grace?”

“No, as a solitary sinner. I’ve got to drag that book out of Brad’s head. I suppose you’ll be here when I come back this afternoon?”

“Probably.”

“See you then,” he said, and nodded, his forehead and glasses gleaming in the overhead lights. He made a little wave motion with his right hand and went away.

Evelyn watched him till he passed through the doorway and out of sight, and then she looked at her watch. Five past eleven. Bradford wouldn’t be back in his room until twelve.

Evelyn shifted position on the plastic chair, rested her elbows on the plastic table, sipped at her lukewarm coffee. Nothing happened.

iii

MARIE SAID, “I’M AFRAID you didn’t have a very good time in the big city, poor dear.”

They were standing in the foyer, Evelyn’s suitcase on the floor between them as they waited for the elevator to come up. Marie had propped the door of the apartment open and Spanish guitar music wafted out, pale shadows on white walls, mysterious eyes in the semi-darkness, lust in the afternoon. Marie was wearing large hoop earrings and tight green slacks, and it occurred to Evelyn for the first time to wonder if Marie had ever been unfaithful to George.

She answered Marie’s remark without reference to its condescension, saying, “Well, with Bradford in the hospital and all, I didn’t expect to have much of a good time.” She’d begged off, pleading tiredness, when Marie had tried to repeat Tuesday night’s fiasco on both Wednesday and Thursday nights, and had spent both evenings in front of the television set instead.

“Well, you’ll have to come in again,” Marie said, “under happier circumstances, and we’ll see if we can find a nice man to squire you around. That fellow George came up with Tuesday was incredible, wasn’t he? If I hadn’t known better, I’d have sworn he was a mortician.”

Evelyn smiled despite herself, as she frequently did with Marie, and said, “He wasn’t that bad. He’s just very unhappy, that’s all.”

“You’re too good, Evelyn, that’s your problem,” Marie said dismissingly, and the elevator arrived. Marie looked at the operator—not the elderly Puerto Rican but a young man in his twenties, with a ferocious moustache—who simply stood at his controls and looked back at her, until Marie said, “There’s a suitcase here.”

Evelyn had been just about to pick it up herself, but now, embarrassed, she stood to one side while the elevator operator came out in sullen haste to pick up the pale blue bag and carry it into the elevator.

Marie was a proponent of overkill. “If this were Christmas week,” she said loudly, “he’d carry you on. Smiling all the way.”

“It’s all right,” Evelyn mumbled. She hated to go to restaurants with Marie for the same reason; sooner or later the woman got into an argument with one of the help. The fact that she was usually right didn’t make things any easier for Evelyn, who preferred public appearances to be smooth and quiet and unobtrusive.

“It is not all right,” Marie announced, glaring at the elevator operator, who was once again at his controls, facing neutrally front. But then she abruptly switched tone, laughing and saying, “Never mind, he’s my problem, not yours. Our love to Brad, and we’re sorry we couldn’t get over to see him, but you know what our schedule was like this week.”

“Yes, I already explained to him. He said it was all right.” In fact, Bradford had said, Thank God for small favors.

“But we’d love to come out to Eustace,” Marie went on. “What is it, four hundred miles? We’d love to drive it, when the weather gets a little nicer. Perhaps in May.”

“That would be nice,” Evelyn said, knowing Marie would never come. She could be induced by George to leave New York only when the destination was some equally cosmopolitan city: London or Paris, San Francisco or Tokyo.

“And write us about Brad’s health,” Marie said, her expression momentarily serious.

“I will.” Evelyn felt that she was delaying the elevator operator. She stepped aboard and said, “Thanks for everything. I did appreciate it.”

“The least we could do,” Marie said, smiling cheerfully as the door slid shut. Evelyn’s last view was of her smiling and waving, calling something Evelyn didn’t catch, with the word love in it.

The limousine was out front, a black Cadillac with a separate chauffeur’s compartment and bearing New York license plate BL-1. Evelyn had carried her suitcase through the lobby, but as soon as she emerged onto the rain-wet sidewalk—it was a lazy, windless, steady March downpour—the chauffeur leaped out and came trotting around to take it from her and open the rear passenger door. Evelyn got in, the chauffeur shut the door and stowed the suitcase in the trunk, and then he got behind the wheel and drove them down Fifth Avenue and east to the hospital, on York Avenue.

Bradford was not quite ready when Evelyn arrived, so she waited in the office the hospital had given Uncle Joe during his temporary stay here, sitting alone at first because Uncle Joe was in another room talking with reporters.

There were two kinds of men who formed a kind of invisible background wherever Bradford went, and since Evelyn almost invariably traveled in Bradford’s company they formed her invisible background, too. They were security men, it being normal government policy for Secret Service agents to guard all living ex-Presidents as well as the man currently in office, and reporters. The security men tended to be neater though more conservative dressers, but other than that Evelyn had never found any way to distinguish at once which breed a man might be. If he hovered around in the corner of one’s eye, he was either a guard or a reporter, that was all she knew for sure.

Anything becomes normal, if it goes on long enough, and the guards and reporters had existed in the periphery of Bradford’s life almost as long as Evelyn could remember. She thought nothing now of the fact that Uncle Joe was out talking to reporters, and she would think nothing of it when their limousine was trailed all the way out to the airport by a Pontiac containing two anonymous men in black raincoats. It was simply the way life was.

Uncle Joe came in about five minutes after Evelyn arrived. “That’s that,” he said. “I didn’t want those fellows draped all over Brad’s neck when he came down, so I gave them all they wanted and now they’re gone. Excuse me while I give Brad the all-clear.”

Evelyn waited till he was done on the phone, and then said, “Is he really all right now?”

He looked up at her in some surprise. “Well, of course,” he said. “If I’m half as healthy as Brad at his age I’ll consider myself lucky.”

“Was it a stroke he had?”

“From the evidence, it seems to have been,” he said. “A little stroke, a temporary thing. No permanent blockage, no apparent damage.”

“And it’s all over.”

“Well, there are diet things he should think about now, and we’ll want to keep an eye on his blood pressure. Brad has sense enough to do what he’s told, though, so he should be home free.”

“It’s awful to be old,” Evelyn said, and the door opened.

It was a nurse, in crisp white. “Excuse me,” she said, not sure whether she should enter or not.

Uncle Joe looked over at her. “Yes? What is it?”

“Dr. Holt, Mr. Lockridge is going out the back way, through the emergency entrance. His car has been sent around, they wanted me to tell you.”

“What was the problem?”

“I believe there’s a television truck out front,” she said. “Mr. Lockridge didn’t want to be filmed leaving the hospital.”

“I don’t blame him,” Uncle Joe said. “He’s on his way down now?”

“Yes, Doctor. He may be there already.”

“Thank you.” He got up from his desk as the nurse left. “Come along, Evelyn. I thought I’d satisfied those boys, but apparently not.”

They took an elevator down one flight and then walked through endless green halls until they abruptly arrived at a busy little white tile corner with half a dozen worried people sitting in the corridor on wooden benches and quick glimpses of muddled hurried movement taking place in the open-doored rooms to either side. The waiting people looked at Evelyn and Uncle Joe in open curiosity, and Evelyn wasn’t surprised when a gray-uniformed guard approached and said in a stage whisper, “He’s already in the car, Doctor.” The people on the benches had recognized Bradford, of course, so now they would be speculating about who she might be. Her face had appeared hundreds of times in the corners of photos of Bradford, but no one ever recognized her, and every time there was a situation like this Evelyn felt again the same inadequacy at having nothing to offer the world but a blood relationship with a famous man.

The limousine was just outside the wide double doors, under a sign reading AMBULANCE PARKING ONLY. Uncle Joe held the rear door open for Evelyn to get in, and she saw Bradford already seated in there, looking slightly irritable, a black attaché case like a Cubist lap rope on his lap. She got in and sat beside him and he said, “Did you want to be on television?”

“Not at all,” she said, unconsciously touching her hair. The limousine was under a roof, but there was still the rainy dampness all around, and she could feel her hairdo eroding away like a sand castle.

Uncle Joe stuck his head in. “You’ve got my little list of do’s and don’ts,” he said to Bradford.

“Yes, and I suppose Evelyn has a carbon copy.” He was being very surly.

“As a matter of fact,” Uncle Joe said, “she doesn’t. But it might be a good idea for me to send her one.” He grinned at Evelyn and patted her knee and said, “Don’t let him get you down.”

“Bradford couldn’t,” she said, smiling, nervous as usual to be made the center of attention when Bradford was around. He was supposed to be the center of attention.

The spotlight didn’t last long. Uncle Joe said, “See you in a few weeks,” and backed out of the car again, shutting the door.

“Won’t he, though?” Bradford grumbled, and called to the chauffeur to drive on.

iv

THE LAST LEG OF the trip always seemed the longest, and with Bradford still in the bad mood it seemed this time even longer than usual.

The first leg had been driving through the rain to LaGuardia Airport, which meant over the East River via the Triborough Bridge and out Grand Central Parkway to the airport. Bradford had been immersed in the contents of the attaché case all the way, it turning out to contain sections of Howard’s re-write of The Temporary Peace, which Howard had flatly insisted Bradford approve by next Monday, threatening to have the book published without Bradford’s final corrections if he didn’t get to work at once. Evelyn didn’t mind being left to her own devices. New York is an ugly but fascinating city, and it was enough to simply look out at it, to see how its appearance changed in the rain, becoming both softer and more bedraggled and somehow two or three centuries older.

The second leg had been the flight to Hagerstown, in the plane the government made available to Bradford as required. Bradford was still grumpily involved in his work, but there were magazines aboard the plane, and the stewardess prepared a meal for them all, mostly out of frozen food packages. Also, one of the security men, a new one, tried to flirt with her slightly, which was both pleasing and displeasing, the former because being flirted with was always good for a woman’s ego and the latter because there were unspoken distinctions between the Lockridge family and the government employees around them, and in ignoring those distinctions the security man was in a way insulting her. Bradford looked up from his work long enough to scowl at the security man, after a while, and that was the end of that. In a way it was too bad (trying not to remember the feeling that had passed through her in George and Marie’s apartment the other morning), but in another way it was just as well. Without regret, Evelyn returned to her magazine.

They ran out of the rainstorm over mid-Pennsylvania, about twenty minutes before landing at Hagerstown. It had been raining there, but had stopped about half an hour before. It was very cold after the rain, a wet cold that cut right through to the bone, and Evelyn shivered as she walked across the tarmac beside Bradford from the plane to the car, another black Cadillac limousine, twin to the one they’d left at LaGuardia except that this one had a Pennsylvania license plate. The same number: BL-1. (During Bradford’s Presidency, the press had habitually referred to him by his three initials, BGL, Bradford Gregory Lockridge, but that was only a journalistic tradition, suffered by every President since Roosevelt with the sole exception of Eisenhower, who had a handy three letter nickname instead. Bradford himself never used his middle name nor its initial.)

From Hagerstown it was a short thirty miles to Eustace, most of it north on Interstate 81, out of Maryland and into Pennsylvania. Then off 81 to Chambersburg and seven miles west on county 992 to Eustace. It was done and over in twenty-five minutes.

And yet to Evelyn it seemed the longest part of the trip. The day was gloomy, Bradford continued silent and grouchy, and there was nothing to occupy her mind. She’d traveled this road a hundred times, and though much of the scenery was green and pleasant even at this time of the year, she had seen it too often to be intrigued any more. She was also impatient to see Dinah again, and to be home.

Bradford was still absorbed in his work for part of the time, muttering to himself and making notes on a yellow legal pad, but as they neared Chambersburg he dozed off for a few minutes, which Evelyn didn’t notice until a dozen sheets of manuscript slid off the attaché case on his lap and fell to the floor amid their feet. She glanced at him in surprise and saw that he was asleep, head tucked back into the corner, mouth slightly open.

She gathered up the fallen sheets, carefully opened the attaché case, trying to make her movements small enough and silent enough not to disturb him, and put all his materials away. She left the case on his lap, and then noticed that a little trickle of saliva was coming from the right corner of his mouth. She knew how easily that could happen when one took a daytime nap sitting up, and how embarrassed Bradford would be if he woke up and discovered he’d been drooling in his sleep. She took a tissue from her bag and gently patted his mouth dry. He moved slightly at the touch, but didn’t wake up, and after that there was no more saliva.

The car’s rhythm changed when they switched from the Interstate super-highway to the two-lane blacktop county road, and the change awoke Bradford, who sat up blinking and swallowing and making faces as though he were tasting something foul. “I fell asleep,” he complained.

“Just for a few minutes,” Evelyn told him. “I felt like falling asleep myself. This part is always so long.”

“Where are we?” He squinted out at the cloud-dark day.

“Just past Chambersburg. Almost home.”

He looked at the closed attaché case on his lap. “Don’t tell Howard,” he said, “but I’m through with this for an hour or two.”

“I won’t tell him,” she promised.

Ten minutes later the limousine pulled to a stop in front of the house and they both got out. “Stiff,” Bradford commented, and stretched and yawned.

“God, yes,” Evelyn said. “Let’s not go anywhere else for a year.”

“You’re on,” he said.

They walked up into the house, and he was limping slightly, favoring his right leg. “My leg must have gone to sleep,” he said.

“I should have taken the case off your lap,” she said, immediately contrite.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “It’ll go away.”

4

ROBERT PRATT STOOD LOOKING out the window at the thin oval of picketing students in the main parking area. With the window closed and the air conditioning on, it was impossible to hear what they were chanting, so that except for the words on the signs what they looked most like was an advance publicity stunt for a circus or a movie or some such attraction. But the signs made it clear that this was serious business, which in some way made it more comic.

Sterling must have been feeling the same, standing beside Robert and looking down at them, because all at once he murmured, “Poor things.”

Robert looked at him in surprise, not expecting that sort of empathy from a man whose name was being so mistreated on signs twenty feet away, and saw that Sterling had made the comment more to himself than to Robert. He was looking out the window with a brooding, pitying, somehow sad expression on his face, as though watching something die.

Which they were, in a way. The great student demonstrations of just a few years ago, the captured buildings, hostage deans, firelight marches, all the brave panoply of the bloodless revolution of the affluent young, had withered in a very short time down to this rump remnant: two dozen shaggy students shuffling in a long oval defined by gray police sawhorses. There were two ovals of sawhorses, forming a thick long letter O, with the protesters marching between the lines. Was it an accident that the oval of sawhorses was so much larger than the protesters available to fill it, making their ranks seem even thinner and more ineffectual than they were, or was it conscious police mockery?

The police themselves were there in merely token strength: two uniformed and helmeted patrolmen leaning in boredom against the side of their car, one riot gun waiting negligently atop the car’s white roof in the sunlight. In that gun would be a lone tear gas projectile, and everyone participating understood that one movement beyond the permissible would result in that projectile being lobbed over their heads and into the middle of the oval.

It had been nearly two years since tear gas had actually drifted across the Lancashire University campus.

In those two years, a lot had happened to the student protest movement, but it could all be brought down to two terms: diffusion and extremism. When the movement merely had the twin goals of international peace and racial justice, there was a certain amount of confusion and contradiction inevitable but not enough to destroy the movement entirely. But when the goals became more diffuse, and less morally secure, the effectiveness of the protest movement began to wane. And with diffusion came the steadily increasing influx of extremism, the movement being taken over more and more by nihilists who claimed to see no possible way to repair the inequities in American life except by destroying American life and hoping something better would rise from the ashes. This vague hope lost the movement much of its membership, as did the proliferation of causes. A student interested in racial justice tended to be discouraged when rallies were taken over by destroyers on the one hand and cultists for drugs or sex on the other.

When the shake-out was done, there was almost nobody left. The truly concerned and productive students had retired from the fray and were back to concerning themselves exclusively with themselves, as had their predecessors of the fifties. The extremists, their power waning, had grown more and more shrill and provocative, and most of them by now were in jail for one thing or another, usually some symbolic and silly gesture of destruction. The twin touchstones of this group had become Joseph Conrad’s The Secret Agent, with its suggestion of the purest revolutionary act being the blowing up of the Greenwich Observatory (the murder of time), and the trio of real-life revolutionaries who had, in the early sixties, actually attempted to blow up the Statue of Liberty.

Who were left? The cultists, growing wilder and less relevant every year. Looking out now at the two dozen chanting shuffling protesters, Robert Pratt saw on their signs slogans for over a dozen different causes, LEGALIZE MARIJUANA said one, possibly the staidest of them all. FREE ABORTIONS demanded another, and a third cried out LET MY FAGGOTS BE. The Free Speech Movement was there, with its sophomoric acronyms, which had reached their peak at the very beginning, at Berkeley, a decade before, when the movement was known as Freedom under Clark Kerr, Kerr at that time having been president of the university. The struggle to put together words whose initials spelled something obscene had never come close again to attaining the beauty of that first slogan, probably because an obsession with obscenity so rarely has been found in combination with strong imaginative powers.

Not all the signs declared for specific causes, however, some being more general insults, PIGS OFF CAMPUS, for instance, didn’t refer to student behavior in town but called on the police to leave the school. And ONE LOCKRIDGE IS ENOUGH was obviously meant to be insulting not only to Sterling, the president of Lancashire University, but to his older brother Bradford Lockridge as well, one-time President of the United States.

Nodding at the bearded bearer of ONE LOCKRIDGE IS ENOUGH, Robert said, “Do you suppose he has any clear idea who Bradford Lockridge really was?”

Sterling smiled and shook his head. “Since he was probably seven the year Brad was elected,” he said, “I beg leave to doubt it. But if you ever meet Brad, you’d better not use the past tense. He’s still very much alive, thank you.”

“I think of everybody historically,” Robert said. “He lives not too far from here, doesn’t he?”

“About a hundred miles. Near a little town called Eustace.” Sterling looked at him thoughtfully and said, “I could arrange for you to meet him, if you want.”

Surprised, Robert said, “Could you really?”

Sterling grinned and said, “I do have a certain influence.”

It wasn’t a joke Robert could take well. He was always too aware in any case that it was his own influence, as the college roommate of a nephew of Sterling’s wife Elizabeth, that had gotten him his instructorship at Lancashire. His mediocre scholastic record and lack of a doctorate would have condemned him to something much farther down the scale than an Ivy League university if it hadn’t been for the accident of friendship.

Robert Pratt was, in his own eyes, a failure. He’d started life as a spectacular success, and for a while it had seemed as though success were to be a permanent part of his equipment, but all at once a plug had been pulled and success had drained away and now there was nothing left—at least in his own estimation—but failure.

The first success had been in track. He was tall and lean and fast, and as a high school freshman he had no trouble making the junior varsity as a runner in the intermediate distances. His sophomore year he made the varsity track team and All-City, and the football coach urged him to come out for football the next fall. He did, made end on the offensive varsity team, and was voted Most Valuable Player by his team-mates both his junior and senior years. In sixteen games in the two years he’d caught two hundred four passes, twenty-seven for touchdowns.

The college scholarship offers came from everywhere. Robert took over twenty plane trips at no expense to himself, was shown campuses, dormitory rooms and team records, talked with coaches and admissions directors and football-playing seniors, and sat up nights leafing through the letters and the catalogs. (His high school scholastic record was average, just barely above a straight C, but no one cared much about that.)

He chose his college for exclusively football reasons—it was a huge southwestern university almost always in the top ten, with any number of alumni in the pro ranks—and he chose his scholastic major for the same reason. He didn’t want physical education, that was too much like faking, and besides, his father had talked him out of it. “What if you don’t make the pros?” he’d asked. “Phys ed instructors are a dime a dozen, and it’s one kind of college degree that won’t do you much good in the business world. Pick anything else, Bob, from anthropology to zoology, and corporation personnel directors will simply accept you as a man with a college education. But pick physical education, and you mark yourself as brawn without brains.”

Well, there didn’t seem to be much chance of his failing to make the pros after graduation, but it wouldn’t hurt to be on the safe side, so Robert chose the second easiest major, history, with a specialization in American history. The scuttlebutt was that history was nothing but reading, and Robert had always been a heavy reader, so it looked to be a major that wouldn’t get too much in his way.

Nor had it. History was fun, in a quiet way, and he got moderately good marks in his courses. He would have done better, but football was even more fun.

Though not as much as in high school. The competition was fiercer here, he was no longer the big fish in the little pond. It was his senior year before he made first-string varsity, and even then his accomplishments were overshadowed by the other offensive end, an incredibly tall, thin, fast black boy who was also a star of the basketball team in the winter and the track team in the spring.

Still, Robert was on the team, and he was ultimately first string tight end, and that seemed pleasure enough. It also got him Kit McGraw, a slender beautiful girl from Atlanta, two years younger than he and devoted to his every wish. Administrative permissiveness about co-ed housing hadn’t quite become popular yet at that time, but Robert and Kit managed to share a quiet apartment off-campus with no outcry from the college officials. Whether that was because they didn’t know about it or because of Robert’s football status he never did know for sure.

There wasn’t very much pro interest when Robert graduated from college, but there was some, and he turned out to be the Boston Patriots’ twenty-seventh draft choice. With that for security, Robert and Kit married immediately upon Robert’s graduation, spent a three-week honeymoon in Montego Bay, Jamaica, and then Kit went home to her parents and Robert went off to training camp.

And football stopped being fun. The pros weren’t boys any more, they were men, and team spirit—at least in training camp—came in a far second, after self-preservation. There were already two men on the Boston Patriots team who had the job Robert had been hired for, and one other rookie looking for that assignment, too. Before the season began, the four aspirants would be reduced to two, and Robert knew by the second day of training camp that he wouldn’t be either of the two. The men who already had the jobs were older and smarter and tougher than he was, and the other rookie was leaner and hungrier than he was, and Robert knew the only thing left to be decided was which of the four cuts would lop off his head.

It was the next to the last, and by that time Robert was as nervous and miserable as he’d ever been in his life. His digestion was poor, his temper was short, and his depression was unrelieved by the fact that Kit, when she finally learned that he hadn’t made the team, was convinced that in some way he’d let them both down, that he could have made it if he’d only done something differently. The truth was that he wasn’t quite good enough, and he knew it, but Kit couldn’t accept that. He was good enough, she insisted, and he had failed only because of ineptitude in handling the situation.

That was their first really violent fight, and if it hadn’t been for the Army their marriage might have ended right there. But the draft, which both the university and the Patriots had held at bay for him, now descended into the middle of their raging squabble, and with another separation looming up they decided to patch up their differences and be friends again. But not partners. From that point on, they never seemed to be moving quite in the same direction any more.

Robert’s two years in the Army were spent half in various dusty camps in the United States and half in Vietnam. His football background got him assignment to Special Services, and his Vietnam tour was spent in an office in Saigon that coordinated USO shows and other entertainment packages. He and Kit got along much better via letter than they did in person, but they stopped getting along at all after his Army tour was over and there didn’t seem to be anything specific for him to do.

That was when teaching first suggested itself, or that is to say, when it was first suggested to him by John Bloor, his onetime roommate in college and continued friend, to whom he confided his rootlessness and the recent lack of direction in his life. Bloor talked to his aunt, Elizabeth Lockridge, wife of Sterling, and if Robert wanted it a place could be made for him at Lancashire University. The GI Bill would cover him while he did his post-graduate work, and once he had a masters degree there would be no problem finding him an instructorship.

He took it, mostly because he couldn’t think of anything else to do. The troubles with Kit were continuing, and in fact getting worse, and he couldn’t really blame her. It wasn’t merely that she had married a football hero who had stopped being a football hero. She had married an exciting winner who had somewhere along the line lost his excitement and turned into a loser. He knew he carried a sense of failure around with him the way some men carry a sense of mission, or a sense of identity. It colored everything he did. It even induced him to become a history instructor at Lancashire, out of a conviction that there was nothing else for him to do.

The two years of post-graduate work ground slowly along, and only afterwards did Robert understand that Kit had never accepted this as a permanent resting place. Robert had come to Lancashire prepared to spend the rest of his life here, whereas for Kit it was a campsite, a place to rest and catch one’s breath and decide what one was really going to do with one’s life.

Her final disillusionment with Robert was really a long time in coming. He could remember her look of disbelief when he’d gotten his master’s and showed no inclination to spend that summer looking for something better to do with his life. “You’re going to stay here?” “Of course. That was the idea all along, wasn’t it?”

But it hadn’t been. Not her idea, anyway. That was the summer he was twenty-six, and the marriage lasted two years longer, ending in June three years ago, nine days shy of his twenty-eighth birthday, twenty-seven days shy of their sixth wedding anniversary.

It ended sloppily, which was unfortunate. But Kit, though she needed a strong man, was not strong enough in herself to strike out on her own. She’d had to wait until there was someone to take Robert’s place, and he had turned out to be another faculty member, married, with five children. He and Kit had a semi-clandestine affair going for several months—it seemed to have required the under-cover collaboration of half the faculty at one time or another—but at the end of the school year that became unsatisfactory, and they wrote notes to their respective spouses and headed for New York.

The man came back that September, rejoined his wife, and was still teaching at Lancashire. Kit never came back at all. From New York she went to Nevada for the divorce, then home to Atlanta, and the following June married an executive of Delta Airlines.

As for Robert, the sense of failure that had been growing in him since college reached its fullest flowering when Kit left, and he’d been living with it ever since. In the three years since, he’d had no involvements with other women, he’d continued to live on alone in the small rented house he and Kit had shared in town, and he had made no plans to do anything ever with his life but go on teaching history at Lancashire University.

It was at the time of the divorce that he first got to know Sterling at all well. Previously, there had been little social contact between them, partly because of the differences in their ages and stations, but also because Robert had to a great degree avoided Sterling, plagued in this way too by his sense of failure.

But with the campus scandal of Kit’s departure, Sterling had sought Robert out, and what had begun as a tentative meeting between strangers faced with a difficult social problem to be straightened out had soon deepened into friendship. Sterling too was a solitary man, though it didn’t seem to be a sense of failure that did it in his case. What it was Robert didn’t know, only that he and Sterling seemed to comprehend something in one another, some kinship that had nothing to do with familial relationships. They could relax with one another.

Now Robert thought of Sterling as his closest friend. The two of them lunched together frequently on campus, as often as their schedules permitted, and in fact they had just come back from lunch today when their comments about the protesters herded into the parking lot had led to Sterling’s offer to arrange a meeting for Robert with ex-President Bradford Lockridge.

Now Robert said, “I’m sure he has better things to do than explain himself to a history teacher.”

“Quite the contrary,” Sterling said. “If I know Brad, and I do, he’d enjoy every minute of it.” Then he glanced in sudden concern at Robert, as though belatedly realizing he might be pushing into areas where Robert would prefer to be left alone, and he said, “Of course, it’s up to you. If you want, I can ask him. If not—” He shrugged, to mean that it wasn’t important.

Next month I’ll be thirty-one, Robert thought. It wasn’t an entirely irrelevant reflection. “Why not?” he said aloud. “If he’s willing to risk it, I certainly am.”

ii

SATURDAY WAS HOUSECLEANING DAY. All week the little five-room house on South Donnally Street was allowed to go its own way, accumulating dust and dirt, garbage and unwashed laundry, while Robert saw to his classes and corrected assignment papers, drank beer with his few bachelor faculty friends and sat up too late watching television, and by Saturday the house was always a complete mess. So Saturday was housecleaning day, and by late afternoon the house was always bright and clean and neat again. Except during football season, when the job took two days, all the odd moments available between the televised weekend games.

But this wasn’t football season. This was May 12th, and one of the softest and warmest springs in memory, and Robert did his housecleaning today with every window flung wide.

He was on his knees in the bathroom, de-ringing the tub, when the phone started to ring. He looked at the green cleanser suds all over his hands and grimaced, of half a mind not to answer at all. But there’s something about a ringing telephone that very few people are strong enough to ignore, so Robert sighed, rinsed his hands under the running cold water, and heaved himself to his feet.

He was still a tall man, and he was heftier now than in his football-playing days, and when he stood up he filled the small bathroom the way he filled every room in the little house. He had a strong, commanding, self-confident look that didn’t jibe at all with his self-image. He’d started wearing his brown hair in a crewcut in the Army, when long hair was the style, and now with crewcuts proliferating on campus it looked as though fashion had circled all the way around to meet him. Unfortunately, the short hair styles had their political implications just as had the long, and there were those who now took it for granted on seeing Robert that he was a Bircher, which bothered him a bit, but not enough to change his hair style.

He trotted now across the hall and into the bedroom, drying his hands on the front of his T-shirt, and picked up the phone beside the bed. “Hello?”

The voice was instantly recognizable as Sterling. “Robert? We’ll be there in about five minutes. Are you ready?”

For just a second his mind was a blank, and then a chute opened inside his head and the trip to meet Bradford Lockridge came popping out into the open.

For God’s sake, he’d forgotten all about it! Monday there’d been the apparently casual conversation with Sterling, and Bradford Lockridge had been mentioned, and Sterling had offered to arrange a meeting between his brother and Robert. On Wednesday Robert had been surprised when Sterling said, at lunch, “Well, it’s all set.”

“What’s all set?”

“We’re driving down Saturday to see my brother. You and Elizabeth and me. Saturday’s all right, isn’t it?”

He’d said sure, Saturday was all right, and Sterling had said he’d come by for him about eleven, and now here it was about two minutes to eleven on Saturday and he’d gotten out of bed this morning without a thought in his head. It had just been a normal Saturday, the usual routine. The plan to meet a former President of the United States had gone straight out of his mind.

“Uh,” he said. He half-turned and sat down heavily on the bed.

“Is something wrong?”

“I’m a little slow today. Could you give me ten minutes?”

“Of course, of course. Elizabeth isn’t really ready yet anyway.”

“Fine. Ten minutes.”

Robert hung up, and at first he just sat there, stunned. From this position he could see himself in the mirror on the closet door, and didn’t he look like something to go visit celebrities with. Stained T-shirt, ripped and paint-smeared and generally filthy Army fatigue trousers, and white tennis shoes without socks. He looked sweaty and dirty, and he was sweaty and dirty.

Ten minutes. He ran for the bathroom again, shedding clothing on the way.

iii

THE TRIP, ALL IN all, took an hour and a half. Their route skirted every town along the way, so that once out of Lancashire they didn’t see another populated area until they arrived at Eustace, which turned out to be a surprisingly sleepy little town that obviously hadn’t allowed the international fame of one of its citizens to alter its style and pace. Robert sat forward as they drove through town, his elbows on the seat back, and said, “Take away the automobiles and you could make a movie here and call it 1925.”

Sterling, at the wheel, chuckled and nodded, but Elizabeth said, “That’s better than calling it 1984.” At sixty-two, five years younger than her husband, Elizabeth was a tall and straight and slender woman, her face very little lined, her hair gray but well-cared-for, her mental faculties and political impatiences intact.

Robert looked at her grim profile in some surprise. “Do you really think that’s a possibility?”

“More and more every day,” she said, and turned to glance at him; he saw her eyes take in his crewcut.

“I’ll grant you we’re on a swing away from liberalism,” Robert said, “but it’s only a swing. The country is heading for conservatism again, but sooner or later the pendulum will start back. It always does. America has always had its Know Nothing party, and it’s always had its Abolitionists.”

Elizabeth’s expression was cynical. “The right-wingers want to stop the clock entirely, you know, and one of these times they’ll make it. Then the pendulum won’t come back at all. That’s what Orwell was talking about.”

“I don’t see it happening,” Robert said. “I know the political history of this country, and the whole story is summed up in the pendulum swinging between left and right.”

“The reason I worked for Eugene McCarthy,” Elizabeth said, “is because he was the only man in public life to stand up and say that kind of thinking was fuzzy-headed and dangerous. Complacency will do more harm to this country than a full-scale atomic attack.”

Sterling, humor in his voice, said, “Robert, for God’s sake don’t get her started now. She gives poor Brad enough hell every time they meet as it is, for not bringing peace on Earth during his administration.”

“If any one man on the planet could do it,” Elizabeth said fiercely, “it’s the President of the United States. He’s the only one with anything approaching the power, the public attention and the prestige. I’ve told Brad that before, and I’ll tell him again. The hour is too late for politics as usual.”

“See what you’ve done,” Sterling said, looking at Robert in the rearview mirror. “On your head be it.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll be good,” Elizabeth said. “It’s too late for him now, he’s missed his opportunity. I’ve told him that, too, more than once. Besides, this is Robert’s day. I promise I won’t hog the conversation.” She turned to smile at Robert, who smiled back, and the car slowed.

Looking out through the windshield, Robert saw that they were now on a gravel road surrounded by trees, and that just ahead was a chain-link fence with a gate closed across the road. An elderly man in a gray uniform without markings was just coming out of a small shack beside the gate. He peered at the car, and evidently recognized either it or Sterling, because all at once he began huge pantomime nods and waves, during which he stumped to the gate and slowly swung it open.

Robert said, “What if we were kidnappers? Or assassins?”

Sterling said, “He has a gun and a telephone. And there are Secret Service men up at the house.”

Elizabeth shook her head, smiling, and said over her shoulder to Robert, “It’s only Bradford up there. The moment has passed for all that, too. No kidnappers, no assassins any more.”

iv

THEY HAD LUNCH IN a second floor room overlooking the orchards, with the Tuscarora Mountains for a backdrop. They were six at table.

Bradford Lockridge sat at the head of the table, with Robert to his left. It was Robert’s first experience of being in the same room with a face completely familiar but heretofore seen only in photographs or on television, and he kept being surprised that he recognized the man.

Bradford Lockridge had a strong face, big-boned and square-jawed, almost an American Gothic face, and a long broad body to go with it. His hands were surprisingly gnarled and knobby, the hands of a farmer rather than a politician, but he moved them gracefully, he moved his entire body in a way lighter and more delicate than his appearance would suggest. The familial resemblance between him and Sterling, now sitting opposite him at the foot of the table, was very close, except that all of the features that were strong in Bradford were softer and more gentle in Sterling.

To Lockridge’s right, opposite Robert, sat Howard Lockridge, Sterling’s older son. It had been a surprise to Sterling and Elizabeth to find him here, and they’d explained to Robert that Howard was Bradford’s editor on his memoirs. He’d brought down the galleys on Bradford’s new volume, The Temporary Peace, and though he tried to be gracious about it, Robert could tell he wasn’t pleased at having his work interrupted this way. He’d managed twice before lunch to tell Robert that the book was running badly behind schedule, as though Robert wouldn’t be tongue-tied enough as it was.

To Robert’s left sat Elizabeth, enjoying life as usual, even enjoying her son’s badly dampered irritation and once or twice poking quiet fun at him for it, winking at Robert to make him willy-nilly a co-conspirator. And completing the table, sitting opposite Elizabeth and catty-corner from Robert, was a woman who looked to be about thirty, named Evelyn Canby. She’d been introduced as Bradford Lockridge’s granddaughter, and Elizabeth had explained in an aside that Mrs. Canby’s husband had died something over a year ago in Southeast Asia.

Mrs. Canby also had a daughter, a little girl named Dinah who’d just turned four last month and who was a solemn quiet little child who’d been brought in for introductions and then ushered right back out again. Usually Robert professed himself relieved that his marriage to Kit had produced no children—their emotional attitude toward one another had never stabilized sufficiently for them to feel secure about adding such a volatile third element—and of course he was right to be relieved, since the split would have had to be much more complex and un-final if there had been a child to consider, but on those rare occasions when he was introduced to a young child he invariably found himself totting up his own years—thirty-one next month, thirty-one—and thinking that the time to start a family was fast slipping away.

But a child was such a complication. As witness Mrs. Canby herself. A pleasantly attractive woman, widowed for over a year, she had obviously made no effort yet to find herself another man—burying herself away in the woods here, for one thing, and wearing such plain clothing and sparse make-up and obsolete hair styling—and that was surely, Robert thought, because she had a child. Without Dinah to occupy her time and attention, where would she be now? In New York or Washington or Philadelphia, some urban center in the BosWash megalopolis, finding herself a man.

Though that wasn’t necessarily true. He had no child to tie him down, he’d been divorced nearly three years now, and had he done very much yet toward finding another woman? Of course, the situation was different in his case, but still—

“What do you think, Robert?”

He looked up, startled, to see that they were all looking at him, and that Elizabeth had just asked him a question. A conversation had been going on around him while he daydreamed, but he had no idea even what the subject had been. “I’m sorry,” he said. “My mind was wandering.”

“I said,” Elizabeth repeated, “that NATO today is totally useless, simply a drain of resources that could be better used elsewhere. That even by the time of Brad’s term NATO was nothing more than an appendix, not useful for any good purpose but perfectly capable of suddenly turning bad and killing us all.”

What a rotten question! Robert gave her an aggrieved look, his face turned so his host couldn’t see, and then he said, “I don’t think it’s ever been that bad, really. I think it had two values, and probably still does.”

Bradford Lockridge said, “What would those two values be, Robert?”

Robert turned to see that Lockridge was amused behind his stern features. “Well, sir,” he said, “in the first place, NATO coordinated Western military policy, which was certainly a good idea. Each country was going to have its army and air force anyway, so it was safest to have a central control. Otherwise, one nation could have made a bad decision all by itself and dragged the rest of Europe right in after it.”

“Right,” said Lockridge, nodding emphatically. “And what’s the other?”

“Reassurance,” Robert said. He felt a bit nervous, talking global strategy with a man at Bradford Lockridge’s level, but if he just sat there silent all day he’d hate himself tomorrow, and that would be far worse. So he said, “The fact is, there never was a possibility for a Third World War, the atom bomb made that impossible. War at that plateau is suicidal, and national leaders just don’t tend to be suicidal types.”

“Hitler was,” Howard said sourly. Whether he was sour at the thought of Hitler, or at the thought of the time being taken from his galleys was impossible to tell.

Robert nodded. “Yes, you’re right. But you can’t defend against a Hitler, anyway, there just isn’t any defense.”

“One defense,” Bradford said, and waited till they were all looking at him before going on. But it was to Robert that he spoke directly: “A sound global fiscal policy,” he said. “If the Allies hadn’t bled Germany quite so greedily in the twenties, there would have been no Hitler at all. Money makes the mare go. Biafra was a dispute over oil fields, Vietnam a struggle for rubber plantations. Given a sufficiently sound and stable global fiscal policy, which has never yet happened on this Earth, life would become positively dull.” He smiled with one side of his mouth, and said, “Which takes us away from NATO. You said its other value was reassurance, and I’m not quite certain I understand what you mean by that.”

Robert said, “Well, you’ve heard the old saying about military men always getting ready for the war they’ve just finished instead of the one that’ll come next.”

Bradford nodded. “Not necessarily accurate, but frequently.”

“Well, it isn’t just military men,” Robert said, “it’s almost everybody. When the Cold War built up, the people wanted reassurance, and the kind of reassurance they would most easily understand was in terms of the war that had just been won. That’s why there was so much interest in fallout shelters in the fifties. If the bombs did fall, they would destroy everything for fifty miles around and fill the air with lethal radiation for seven years, and everybody knew that, but what did they do? They pretended the problem was simply a bigger version of the London blitz, because that they could contend with. They could dig bomb shelters and change the term for them.”

Bradford frowned. “You’re saying that NATO is of the same order?”

Robert felt a chill of uncertainty, with the older man’s eyes on him. He was merely a theoretician himself, but Bradford Lockridge had been there. Still, there was nothing to do at this point but go forward, so he said, “That’s the way it seems to me. NATO is a carefully planned and brilliant defense against Hitler and the German army of the early forties. Since if there were a Russian attack against the West it would bypass Europe entirely and strike first at the United States, NATO has never been anything but a beautiful window display to reassure the folks back home; to let them know if the Second World War ever comes back, we’re ready for it.”

Bradford smiled, but he said, “Is that merely a funny joke, or do you mean it?”

“I mean it,” Robert said. “At the beginning of the Cold War, the government knew it had to reassure the people that they were safe, so they—” But at that point he suddenly became aware again of who he was talking to, and faltered. “That is, the way it worked out—”

“That’s all right,” Bradford said gently. “That was before my administration.”

Robert gave him a grateful smile and said, “Thank you, sir. The point was, there was no defense against the Third World War, but the people were going to lose confidence in a government that didn’t promise to defend them, so what they were given was a perfectly adequate defense against the war we’d just won. The whole object of NATO, besides coordinating European military policy, was to give people the comfortable feeling that something was being done.”

Mrs. Canby, who until now hadn’t said a word throughout the meal, suddenly said, “Isn’t that awfully cynical, Mr. Pratt? The people I’ve met in government have tended to be more honest than that.”

Robert turned to her, both in surprise at hearing her speak up and in relief at the opportunity to get out from under Bradford Lockridge’s scrutiny for a few seconds. “I hope it isn’t cynical,” he said. “I don’t really believe that someone sat down in the White House or somewhere and cynically worked out this whole complex global con game to delude the masses. I believe the people generally were scared and worried, and their attitude communicated itself to the decision-makers—”

Bradford interposed, “Who were possibly themselves also scared and worried.”

“Of course,” Robert said, turning back to him for an instant. “People in government I’m sure have the same doubts and the same need for reassurance as people outside. More, even, because they know more about the near misses.” He turned back to Mrs. Canby, saying, “The people in charge did the best they could, but the problem was insoluble because there really isn’t any defense against the kind of weapons that now exist.” He turned to Bradford again, saying, “We aren’t too far from Pittsburgh, are we, sir?”

“About a hundred miles,” Bradford said. “Perhaps a little more.”

“Thank you.” To Mrs. Canby again he said, “Pittsburgh would be a prime target if an all-out war started. Hit Pittsburgh with one of today’s bombs, and everybody in this house would die, and no one would be able to live in this neighborhood for the next seven years.”

Howard said, “There are clean bombs.”

Robert said, “If someone were anxious enough to destroy the United States to launch a nuclear war, I really doubt they would use clean bombs. In fact, the dirtier the better. The people you don’t burn to death you radiate to death.”

Mrs. Canby said, “This is really terrible lunchtime conversation.”

“Exactly my point,” Robert told her. “You would rather believe that our World War Two defenses are adequate, because the alternative is to understand that there isn’t any defense at all.”

Elizabeth said, “But that doesn’t seem to matter, does it? You said a little while ago that there wouldn’t be any Third World War anyway.”

“I was too hasty when I said that,” Robert admitted. “Then I was reminded of Hitler.”

Howard said, “But a Hitler isn’t very likely at this point in history. Not in Russia, anyway. What Bradford said before about fiscal policy is what does it. Russia isn’t poor enough. You have to have an advanced industrial nation that happens to be very poor before you have a people who’ll produce a Hitler, and that just isn’t a description of today’s Russia.”

“I’ll tell you what it is a description of,” Robert said. “China.”

v

THEY WALKED IN THE garden, and Robert found himself thinking, She could be a good-looking woman if she tried.

There were only the two of them out here. Lunch had lasted well over an hour, mostly because of the conversation, and after it Bradford had excused himself, saying he really did have to spend some time with Howard and the galleys of his book. Sterling and Elizabeth had expressed a desire to spend some time with the little girl, Dinah, and that had left Robert with the girl’s mother, Mrs. Canby. Robert was prepared for the next hour or so to be extremely dull.

Mrs. Canby—she’d said he was to call her Evelyn, and he was trying to think of her that way—had suggested a tour of the house and its nearby grounds, and he’d agreed, mostly because it would have to be better than sitting with her in a room and trying to think of something to talk about. They’d done the house first, and it was surprisingly large and rambling, even more so than it had looked from outside. Robert didn’t say so, but the chief impression he got from the house was of age. The rooms looked comfortable and well-used, but somehow as though most of the usage was over and done with, as though the house had been empty for some time, though still cleaned and maintained. The nursery, a sun-bright toy-filled second floor room in which Elizabeth and Sterling were being an indulgent audience to a now-much-more-animated Dinah, was like an intrusion from some other house, almost from another era.

After the house, Mrs. Canby—Evelyn—took him around the outside, and here again the same impression persisted, of a place that had once been full of life and activity but which recently had declined to a merely neat museum.

Particularly the garden. The paths and beds had been laid out with obvious loving care, there were fresh plantings, new flowers, the spring beginnings of the lush beauty this spot would have by mid-summer, but somehow there was an aura of absence over it all, of meticulousness without warmth, and Robert wasn’t surprised when Evelyn told him the explanation:

“This was Dinah’s really. Not my Dinah, Bradford’s. My grandmother. She used to do most of this garden herself, she really loved it.” She stopped to look around at the neat spring plantings, the fat buds, the greenery, the first swatches of summer’s patchwork quilt of color. “Bradford has people to take care of it now,” she said. “For Dinah’s sake, not for his. He doesn’t particularly care about gardens and things like that.”

“I’m surprised he lives so far out in the country then.”

“Oh, he likes the orchards and the woods. He likes the feel of land around him. It’s a man kind of thing, you know.”

There was a tone of voice in that last remark oddly out of place in a young woman speaking of an old man, even if he was a relative. There’d been a time when he’d heard that kind of sound in Kit’s voice, when she was describing to some third party his football exploits or some feat of strength he might have done; a kind of delighted pride in the manifestations of masculinity in her man. Robert looked at her, thinking, Is that it? Does she have a crush on her grandfather?

It would be understandable, in a way; Bradford Lockridge was still an impressive man, with an impressive background, but there must be forty years between them. Did Lockridge understand why his granddaughter had buried herself here in the middle of nowhere with him, or had it all happened too gradually for any of the participants to notice?

They walked on, Evelyn pointing out items of interest, Robert making appropriate comments, and at a later stage he said, “Elizabeth told me your husband was killed in Asia. I’m sorry.”

They had left the garden by now, and had just entered the apple orchard, the short trees all elbows and stooping, like frozen contortionists in long swooping rows. Evelyn stopped and glanced back at him. “That was over a year ago,” she said. “Just before Christmas, the year before last.”

“If one time of the year is worse than another to lose someone you love, I suppose Christmas is the worst time of all,”

“I suppose so,” she said, almost indifferently. “I seem to lose them at all seasons.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m sorry, that was a stupid thing to say. Have you had enough of the great outdoors?”

“That depends,” he said, since he anticipated that indoors lay nothing but endless boredom. “What else is there to see out here?”

“Oh, God,” she said, and made a rueful smile that unexpectedly emphasized her good looks. “We have just about anything outdoorsy you could ask for, except a painted desert. There’s a branch of Conodoguinet Creek that runs through the property about a mile that way. Back up the road you came in there’s the stables. Off that way—”

“Stables? You have horses?”

“Didn’t you notice that on your way in? It was on your right, stables and exercise yards and all the rest of it.”

“I saw some buildings, but I didn’t pay any particular attention.”

“Do you ride?”

“Infrequently, but I like to.”

“What about your suit?”

Robert looked down at himself and said, “It doesn’t matter, it’s an old suit anyway.” He didn’t add that he had no new suits. He’d lacked much interest in clothing the last three years.

“I’ll change,” she offered, “and meet you around the other side of the house.”

“Done.”

She was faster than he’d expected, coming out in less than ten minutes, in tan jodhpurs and brown riding boots, a white blouse and a tan jacket. He’d spent the time strolling around the nearby area, looking at the cars in the eight-car garage to the left of the main house, poking his head into a storage shed full of motorized gardening equipment, trying to read a slightly tilting sundial in the grassy oval surrounded by the circular gravel drive. He looked up from the sundial—it seemed to be claiming it was ten o’clock, probably A.M. and certainly inaccurate—and saw her come out to the sunlight, cool and trim and impersonal, and he was instantly reminded of Kit in the last stages of their marriage. Except that this woman was a few years older than Kit had been. And where Kit had given an impression of a fire suppressed, Mrs. Evelyn Canby gave no impression of containing any fire at all.

She came over and said, “A delivery truck hit that once, don’t ask how. It hasn’t been too accurate since.”

“I noticed.”

“Come along,” she said. “I’ll show you our ghost town.”

Robert half-smiled, not sure if she was kidding or not.

“No, really,” she said. “I told you we had everything. Just wait and see.”

“I’m ready to be shown,” he said.

One thing they definitely had was an astonishing number of employees. He’d seen half a dozen servants at one time or another inside the house, and now when they reached the stables there were at least four more men working there, all of them looking to be at least in their fifties. Old family retainers, no doubt. There was something faintly feudal about the whole thing that made Robert uncomfortable.

But the stablemen were contemporary Americans, after all, without the good old-fashioned forelock-pulling manner. Robert might be a guest of the master of the house, but he had entered their domain and there was no ambivalence about who was in charge. Evelyn asked politely if they might have a pair of horses to ride, and the man she was talking to considered the question thoughtfully and decided that yes, it was possible. He then gave Robert a stern no-nonsense talk about how to treat the animal he would be loaned, and Robert found himself half-grinning and half-seriously promising to treat the horse like his own child. The man was reluctantly satisfied, and went away to select and saddle their mounts.

Evelyn was smiling at him sidelong. “One of these days,” she said, “he’s going to say no, no you can’t have a horse, go away, we’re all busy. God knows what I’ll do then.”

“Go away, I suppose,” Robert said. “I know I would.”

Soon after, two horses were led out, one a handsome chestnut and the other a plodding gray beast with a barrel body. Robert suspected at once that the gray was for him and was the most docile animal they had available, and he was right in both suspicions. As he mounted—the horse stood there like a stuffed mattress, like something left over from the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade—he was suddenly put in mind of an old joke about an orange horse, and he glanced at Evelyn. But the joke was sexual in nature and the punch line was obscene, so he kept it to himself.

Riding was fun, even though the plug they’d given him could only with great difficulty be roused from its lethargy. It preferred to walk, if motion was absolutely necessary, but a fairly constant drumming of heels into its ribs could get it to shift gears up to a thump-thump trot.

Whether it was the fact of movement, or simply being away from the house, or the view of him bouncing along on the gray galumpher, he couldn’t tell, but whatever the cause Evelyn came much more to life while they rode. Her conversation was animated, and so were her expressions, and he began to revise his estimate of her age downward. He’d guessed her to be thirty when he’d first seen her, but now he thought she was probably much closer to twenty-five.

He had known that Lockridge’s estate was large, but he hadn’t realized just how various it was. They traveled through parklike forest, the ground flat and soft, and then over hilly broken land treacherous with boulders and thick with underbrush. They came to the creek Evelyn had mentioned and followed it up a dim moist ravine, then cantered up a treeless grassy hillside that cried out for a golf course. From the top of that hill, Evelyn told him, he could see most of Lockridge’s property. She pointed at landmarks defining the perimeter, and he nodded agreement but didn’t really yet have a clear idea of the estate in his head.

And she showed him the ghost town. It was in the woods again, and he might have ridden right on by it without seeing it, if she hadn’t pointed it out. “You’re on Main Street,” she called. “Hold up a minute.”

His horse was more than willing to hold up. He sat astride it and looked around and said, “Main Street?”

She had come up beside him and brought her own animal to a halt. “This used to be a town here,” she said. “A long long time ago. Too far back to be on any of the maps Bradford’s ever seen.” She pointed. “See the stone wall?”

And then he did. A few crumbling stones, a low wall no more than a foot high at any point, covered by creeper vines and years of rotted leaves. It ran about twenty feet in a straight line, then made a sharp left turn and faded away. “What was that?” he asked. “A farmer’s fence?”

“More likely a house,” she said. “That’s all that’s left around here, the foundations of some of the houses. And the cemetery over there. A few of the headstones aren’t entirely buried yet.”

Robert looked around in wonder. “You mean this was no fooling an honest to God community? Not just a farm, but a whole town?”

“A whole town,” she agreed. “A pretty big one, too, I think. I’ve come across foundations for maybe twenty houses, scattered all around here.”

Robert said, “This must go back to the Revolution, even before.”

“Probably.”

“What do you suppose did it? Indian attack?”

“Bradford says it was probably just evolution. There stopped being a need for a town here, so it died. There are hundreds of towns like this, you know, all over the Northeast.”

“That’s amazing.” Robert looked around at the trees, the underbrush, the low line of stones. Suddenly it all seemed very forlorn, very sad. “Do you suppose they had a mayor?” he asked.

To his surprise, she understood the statement behind the question. “I feel that way sometimes, too,” she said. “I come here and I imagine the houses, and children running in and out of them, with everything seeming so sure and permanent. And the women keeping everything clean.”

“And now we don’t even know what name they had for the place,” he said. He gave her a doleful smile. “What a cheery treat you had for me.”

“I’m sorry, I hadn’t realized it would affect you that way. It does me sometimes, but most people just think it’s curious. Come on, there’s open meadow over this way.”

vi

WHEN THEY GOT BACK to the stables, the man there said, “They phoned down from the house for you, Mrs. Canby. About twenty minutes ago.”

Robert was surprised at how white she got. She dismounted hurriedly, saying, “Did they say what was wrong?”

“No, just asked for you.”

“Excuse me,” she said over her shoulder to Robert. “I’ll have to phone and see.” She hurried away to the stable office.

Robert dismounted and the man came over to pat the gray horse on the side and say, “Well, what did you think of Beulah?”

“Oh, is this Beulah? Well, she’s pretty flighty, but I managed to keep her from running away with me.”

The man gave him an understanding grin and said, “Well, maybe next time we’ll give you something a little quieter.”

“I’d like to see that,” he said, “something a little quieter.”

The man nodded and went away, Beulah plodding fatalistically along behind him, and a minute later Evelyn came back out to the sunlight and said, “I think we should go back to the house.”

“Of course. Something wrong with the little girl?”

“What, Dinah?” Her surprise was genuine, and he was surprised himself to see that it hadn’t even occurred to her the call might be about her daughter. “No, it’s Bradford,” she said.

They started walking toward the house, she setting a brisk pace. He said, “It’s nothing serious, I hope.”

“We all do,” she said. “About three months ago, he had an attack. We were in California. Uncle Joe said—that’s his doctor.” She looked at him doubtfully. “You don’t know him, do you? Dr. Joseph Holt. He’s my uncle.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Well, he said it was what they call a little stroke. Not a real stroke, because it doesn’t do any permanent damage. He explained this all to me, but I’m afraid a lot of it just sank into my head and disappeared without a trace.” She was walking briskly and talking in hurried spurts, telling him this more out of a nervous need to talk than for any other reason. “He said there could be others like it,” she said. “Or Bradford could have a real stroke, and then God knows what would happen. He might even die.” Her voice grew suddenly faint on the word die, and he looked at her in alarm. Her face was white still, with patches of color on the cheeks, but she didn’t look as though she was going to collapse.

He said, “Is that what happened now? Another attack?”

“Yes. A little one, thank God, he was only unconscious for a very few minutes. In fact, I talked with him on the phone.”

“That’s good, then,” he said.

“Oh, if I lost him, too,” she said, but didn’t say any more, and when he glanced at her he saw that that had been the complete sentence. She was walking grimly, staring at the house as they neared it.

Sterling and Elizabeth were in the front room, and Robert stopped off with them while Evelyn went on. He said, “Evelyn told me about it.”

“It seems he had one once before,” Sterling said. He and Elizabeth both looked helpless and worried, and he imagined the same expression was on his own face.

“Yes, I know,” he said. “Do you suppose we ought to go?

“Not without saying goodbye,” Elizabeth said. “Brad wouldn’t like that at all.”

But then there didn’t seem to be much of anything to say. Sterling and Elizabeth sat in chairs near one another, occasionally saying a word or two to each other, but Robert found it impossible to sit. He went over to the window and looked out at the front of the house, Sterling’s Lincoln parked there next to Howard’s white Mercedes-Benz 28OSE, the Mercedes sports car. Beyond the gravel driveway and the cropped lawn stretched the woods. Somewhere in there was the dead town, and he found himself regretting not having looked at the gravestones there, because he wanted to know if the names could still be read on them.

He heard Bradford’s voice say, “Here you are! Good God, don’t start a wake for me yet.” He turned around and Bradford had come in, with an anxious Evelyn beside him. Bradford was limping slightly, which Robert couldn’t remember having seen him do before.

Everyone tried to be cheerful, but no one’s heart was in it. Bradford was obviously tired, too, and he seemed a little confused once or twice in the conversation. It was clearly a relief to everyone when Sterling suggested it was time they start back.

Howard had joined them, and he too was leaving now. “Give me a call when you feel up to it,” he told Bradford. “And don’t worry about deadlines. I’d rather have a late book than a late Brad.”

On their way out, Bradford paused to take Robert’s hand and then hold it for a minute, studying him. It seemed to Robert the older man had forgotten something, was trying to remember something he’d meant to say or do, but then Bradford said, “You know the way now. Come back. I enjoyed talking with you.”

“Thank you, sir. I have the feeling I shot my mouth off, though, telling you what I think of international politics.”

“Don’t feel that way at all,” Bradford assured him. “Good minds are good to listen to, whatever the background. I do want you to come back again, don’t forget.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Robert shook hands with Evelyn, also, saying, “Thanks for the guided tour. If you ever get up to Lancashire, allow me to return the favor.”

“Thank you, I will.”

Howard drove away first, still in a hurry, and Sterling steered the Lincoln through his son’s descending dust out toward the highway.

Elizabeth half-turned in the seat so she could look back at Robert. “Well, what did you think of Bradford?”

“I was fascinated by him, I like him very much. I just hope he doesn’t think I’m some sort of big mouth.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t.” Then, too casually, she said, “And what did you think of Evelyn?”

Robert looked at her, and began to grin. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said.

Her innocent expression didn’t entirely work. “What’s the matter?”

“It was a set-up,” he said. “You were all in on it.”

“In on what? For Heaven’s sake, Robert, don’t be paranoid.”

“You didn’t get me down there to meet Bradford Lockridge, you brought me down there to meet Mrs. Evelyn Canby. You people are matchmaking!”

“How can you say such a thing?” But the indignation didn’t quite work either.

Robert laughed, saying, “The funny thing is, I was wondering if Bradford realized how much she’d buried herself out there with him, and if he was trying to do anything about it. And he is, isn’t he?”

“Sometimes,” Elizabeth said tartly, “it’s possible to be too smart for one’s own good.”

“I just hope Evelyn doesn’t find out,” Robert said. “She’d be very embarrassed.”

Sterling, keeping his eyes on the road, said, “I doubt Brad will make Elizabeth’s kind of mistake. He’s had more experience at international intrigue.”

Elizabeth could be seen to restrain an angry rejoinder. She finally shook her head and said to Robert, “The point is, she’s a very nice girl.” She kept looking at Robert, and a few seconds later insisted, “Isn’t she?”

“She is,” Robert said sincerely. “Very nice.”

“And that’s all that matters,” she said. “Not who arranged what, or said what, or did what. Isn’t that right?”

“Perfectly right,” he said, grinning at her.

She grinned back, trying not to. “We’ll see,” she promised, “we’ll see.” And faced front.

5

AT LUNCH, WELLINGTON CALLED the CIA a “stalking horse,” and Evelyn looked at him in some surprise. She considered Wellington the most colorless person she knew, male or female, in or out of the family, and it was startling to hear him use a phrase even that vivacious. His normal conversation was about on a par with a stock prospectus.

They were six at lunch, one of those rare occasions when both of Bradford’s sons were at the house simultaneously. Plus the omnipresent Howard, here to begin pushing Bradford to work on The Coming of Winter, volume five of the memoirs. The Temporary Peace was finally complete, and scheduled to be published in October: late enough to get some of the Christmas gift buyers, as Howard had explained, but early enough not to be lost in the flood of Christmas books.

The sixth person present was Uncle Joe, here to reassure himself that the Paris trip would be all right for Bradford to take.

But it was Wellington who had suddenly come into the center of Evelyn’s awareness, and with some surprise she realized that one almost never saw Wellington. One was aware of his presence, of course, but not really. He was like a bland painting that has been hanging on the same wall for fifty years; no one ever really looks at it any more.

But Evelyn looked at him now, forcing herself to really see her Uncle Wellington Lockridge. He was Bradford’s older son, a man in his middle forties, of average height, somewhat stocky build, his black hair receding slowly from his forehead. The distinctive Lockridge eyes and nose and shape of head, most prominent in Bradford, were least evident in Wellington, who seemed to have virtually no specificity or individuality in his face at all, as though it had been built from parts in one of those identikits the police use when trying to reconstruct a fugitive’s appearance from witnesses’ descriptions.

And his speech—except for this rare and out-of-character stalking horse—was a verbal equivalent of the identikit. It wasn’t that he was silent, he was worse than that. A silent man is noticeable simply because he doesn’t speak, whereas Wellington did speak, but his sentences were white bread, bland and tasteless and immediately forgotten.

The other brother, Bradford, Jr., called BJ, was just the opposite. A career Army man, now a major, he was the youngest of Bradford’s three children and the one who physically resembled him the most, though BJ was more burly in his build and ramrod straight in his posture. An Army man of an old-fashioned and almost extinct variety, BJ came close to being the family character. He had never married, the Army evidently being all the wife he needed, and he habitually spoke in a parade-ground bellow. He wore his uniform everywhere, and the first time Evelyn had heard Bradford characterize BJ as ‘shy’ she’d laughed, thinking he was joking. But he wasn’t; the Army had given BJ more than a uniform to hide inside, it had given him a full persona as well, and it was only with great difficulty that one could reach through to the incredibly shy and insecure man within.

Was Wellington also hiding inside a false persona? If so, who was he, down in there?

Stalking horse. What he had said, in response to a bitter wisecrack from Howard about the global ineptitude of the Central Intelligence Agency—“Girls in the steno pool have kept their engagement rings more secret.”—was that it was naïve to expect the United States government to survive with only the assistance of an admittedly bumbling and impulsive espionage agency. “Those fellows are only a stalking horse,” he’d said. “I’m surprised sometimes that isn’t obvious to everybody.”

It was Uncle Joe who responded, turning to Wellington and echoing, “Stalking horse?” His expression was thoughtful. “You mean you think there’s another agency behind the CIA?”

Evelyn was watching Wellington now much more closely than she had ever done before in her life, and she was sure she saw an expression of annoyance touch his anonymous face. Annoyance at Uncle Joe? Or annoyance at having for once in his life called attention to himself? Evelyn, watching him, realized that among all her relatives Wellington was the one she knew the least. He was a stranger sitting at lunch, her mother’s brother. She didn’t even know what he did for a living, not precisely. Only that he worked somehow in Washington, for the federal government.

He answered Uncle Joe with some hesitancy, his eyelids half-closed as though he hoped by masking his eyes to lose everyone’s attention more rapidly. “It just seems sensible to me,” he said. “Of course, it might not be true. I suppose they’d have trouble getting funded.”

“Not at all,” Howard said quickly. “If the CIA is a front for a more secret agency, it would be a funnel for the same group. CIA funds are never targeted in the budget, the appropriations are kept nice and vague.”

Wellington, who had suggested the idea with such conviction, now began to argue against it, saying, “But doesn’t that seem overly complicated? How would they decide which agency did which jobs? They wouldn’t say, ‘Here, this operation looks like it’ll fail for sure, let’s give it to the CIA.’ If it looked as though it would fail, they wouldn’t do it at all.”

“I would imagine,” Howard said, “that the routine espionage work would all be done by the CIA. But when something really difficult or important had to be done, it would be this other group. And if they goofed it, the CIA would step in and take the blame.”

“Now you’re going into sensational fiction,” Wellington told him, smiling slightly. Evelyn didn’t believe the smile at all. “Television programs, or James Bond movies.”

Uncle Joe said, “Still, it’s an interesting notion.” But not with much conviction.

“I suppose so,” Wellington said, carelessly.

Neither Howard nor Uncle Joe seemed to be ready with another comment immediately. Evelyn saw them glance at one another, and she felt that slight silent shifting that means a subject has died and is about to be replaced by another. But she didn’t want it to be replaced, she wanted them to keep talking about the same thing so she could keep studying Wellington. She was meeting this uncle, really meeting him, for the first time in her life, and she wanted to learn as much as possible right now.

So she kept it alive herself. “Bradford would know,” she said.

Everyone looked at her, and it seemed to her that something impatient—no, hostile—was in Wellington’s eyes briefly as he turned her way, but then it was gone and his expression was bland again.

Uncle Joe said, “He’d know what?”

“The President knows what organizations there are,” she explained, and leaned forward to look down the table at Bradford, who was somewhat glumly studying his plate. “Bradford,” she said, “you’d know for sure. Is there another agency?”

He looked up reluctantly, and his expression was indecisive. “I’m not sure the question can be answered,” he said. “Of course there are other agencies. Is the Central Intelligence Agency consciously a distraction for them? I should think not, not in any usual circumstances. But I suppose if one of the other agencies needed that sort of bailing out, the CIA would be the one to do it.”

Uncle Joe said, “What sort of other agencies do you mean, Brad?”

“Well, the services have their own espionage and counterintelligence groups, of course. The FBI does some counterintelligence work within the boundaries of this country. The Secret Service has some responsibilities in that area, particularly in guarding against assassination attempts. I suppose the service agencies. Army and Navy and Air Force, they’d be the most likely to have occasion to be bailed out by the CIA overseas. Though I don’t suppose it happens often, do you, BJ?”

BJ’s voice trumpeted out over the table. “Army Intelligence can take care of itself.” Though that would be merely automatic Army pride speaking, since BJ’s work was with the Quartermaster, in the Pentagon.

Wellington said quietly, “Still, I suppose there’s bound to be inter-service rivalry, just as there is in other departments. Wouldn’t you think so, BJ?”

“Not to a point of snafu,” BJ declared. “Not to where we’d need to be bailed out by the CIA. The Army takes the credit when it’s done well and accepts the blame when it’s failed. You remember, Bradford, that mess in Panama during your administration. The Army accepted its share of the blame on that without flinching.”

Bradford looked rueful. “I remember it, all right,” he said.

Wellington turned to Bradford, still interested. “How did that work itself out finally?”

Evelyn thought, I should say something. The subject has been changed, and I should say something. But Bradford was deep in an explanation of the complexities of the mess in Panama, everyone else was interested in that now, and the moment had somehow passed. And in any case, she doubted a return to the subject would add any more light. But she did try to keep watching Wellington—to keep seeing him—and for five minutes or so she managed, but the unvarying blandness of his expression, the gauzy invisibility of his speech, induced boredom and a straying attention. The stalking horse slip—if it had been a slip—was over now, and would not be repeated, and Evelyn at last, with some relief, allowed Wellington to ooze out of her attention.

ii

AFTER BJ AND WELLINGTON had both left in BJ’s official chauffeur-driven brown Chevrolet, Uncle Joe took Evelyn aside and said, “Let’s talk about this Paris trip.” Bradford was closeted with Howard, as usual, so they had some time to themselves.

“Let’s go outside,” she said. “I hate to be cooped up in the house all the time when we have such nice weather.”

So they walked in the garden. It was Tuesday, the twenty-sixth of June, and the Paris trip was scheduled for Friday. Uncle Joe had reluctantly agreed to the idea last month, when it was first suggested, and when Bradford had reminded him that he’d obeyed Joe’s orders and cut down severely for the last few months on his speech-making, his party conferences and the granting of interviews to the press. For having been so good, Bradford had pointed out, he deserved a reward: the Paris trip.

So Joe had agreed, with great reluctance, and had been out to the house twice since then to give Bradford additional examinations and repeat his orders about what Bradford should and should not do. He hadn’t hidden his doubts about the wisdom of the trip, but Evelyn had at one point heard Bradford say to him, “I would rather be useful and in danger than useless and safe.” It was a point of view that couldn’t be argued with, so Uncle Joe was reduced to fretful attempts at preventive medicine.

And he was also reduced to repeating himself. Nothing he said to Evelyn now as they walked amid Dinah’s flowers was new; he’d given her the same instructions several times before. Bradford should attempt to avoid over-stimulation, if possible. If his insomnia should strike—during his active political career he had frequently suffered from insomnia during periods of crisis—he should under no circumstances take any sedation; the deeper the sleep, the better the conditions for a stroke, and sleeplessness was better than the risk of either another ischemic attack or the real thing. If another attack did occur, Evelyn was to get in touch at once with the Parisian specialist Uncle Joe had told her about, a man Joe knew and trusted and who had been sent a long detailed letter by Joe to prepare him in the event of an emergency. Should there be such an emergency, she was also to cable Joe immediately. During Bradford’s Parisian stay, his blood pressure should be taken at least once a day—for this an ordinary doctor would do, the specialist wasn’t needed—and if it started to climb, corrective measures should be taken, up to and including postponement of Bradford’s meetings with the Chinese. “If he starts with that useful-useless stuff,” he added, “tell him I said there’s nothing much more useless than a corpse.”

“I’ll tell him,” she promised. She turned to look at the house, and little Dinah was at a second floor window. When she saw her mother looking up at her she waved, and Evelyn waved back. Should she ask Bradford if she could bring Dinah along? No, of course not, that would be silly. The child would be better off at home than stuck in some Parisian hotel room with nothing to do.

Uncle Joe had also seen Dinah, and he said, “You know, if I’d had a daughter, that’s the one I would have wanted.”

“I haven’t been giving her enough of my attention,” Evelyn said. She was still waving, but something inside the house suddenly attracted Dinah’s attention and she disappeared from the window.

Uncle Joe gave a surprised laugh and said, “Who have you been giving it to?”

She dropped her arm and reluctantly looked away from the window. “What?”

“Who’s been getting your attention, if not Dinah?”

“Oh, myself, I suppose. And of course, Bradford.”

“Of course.” Was there a touch of irony in his voice? But why should there be? Particularly when he immediately added, “Especially in Paris. I’m counting on you there.”

“I’ll do my best,” she promised.

iii

THE FIRST PRESS CONFERENCE had been at Kennedy International Airport in New York, and the second one was at Orly International Airport in Paris, but except for the language difference they might both have been taking place in the same location. The sites were strikingly similar, both long bare naked rooms with linoleum floors, bare cream-colored walls, and ceilings covered with acoustical tiles. Both rooms contained one long wall consisting mostly of large windows looking out at the taxiways, high-nosed planes rolling ponderously and silently back and forth out there, their keening silenced by the shut windows and the pervasive hush of the air-conditioning.

The major difference was in the time of day. The flight had taken five hours, in addition to which they had lost five hours in crossing the time zones, accelerating the day like a record played at the wrong speed. The windows in the Kennedy conference room had faced east, and a 9:00 A.M. sun had streamed through to touch the standing group of reporters with yellow and white. And now, five hours later, they were in an identical room, but with westward-facing windows, so that a 7:00 P.M. setting sun painted orange and red another group of reporters, these too standing, notebooks in hand, their faces and their clothing and their questions all the same as the first group, an ocean away.

Bradford’s answers were the same, too, with slight variations in the phrasing. “As some of the more elderly among you may remember, as President I never much went in for what is called personal diplomacy. I didn’t believe in it, I thought it smacked of grandstanding and rarely had any but the most temporary of effects. My attitude hasn’t changed. I am not here now to engage in personal diplomacy, I’m not really here to engage in diplomacy at all. My only purpose here is to try to keep open one of the thin slender conduits of communication between ourselves and the people of Communist China.”

He reminded them, as he had reminded their twins back at Kennedy, that he was still the only American President to have had an actual face-to-face meeting with an official of the Red Chinese government. That meeting had been of extremely limited scope, but out of it had developed a personal relationship with the Chinese official that had been maintained over the years through intermittent correspondence. “I wouldn’t say we were friends precisely, nor that we’ve found much to agree on, but we are a bit more than acquaintances, and the one thing on which we are in agreement is that our respective countries must learn to live together on the same planet. And it won’t happen without communication.”

The official lines of communication, he reminded them, for the most part truly didn’t exist. There was no organization, from the UN down to a copyright convention, to which both nations belonged. Neither had any sort of diplomatic staff on the soil of the other, nor was there any real communication possible through such neutral nations as Sweden or Cambodia, since the Chinese tended to distrust the neutrality of Caucasian nations and the United States tended to distrust the neutrality of Oriental nations. Communication wasn’t even possible through the Soviet Union or any of the Warsaw Pact nations, since the Chinese were frequently also at odds with them.

“The key to world peace, in my opinion, is the curing of paranoia. The arms race was and is the result of paranoia. Several of the bush league brushfire wars we’ve gotten ourselves entangled in these last two decades have been directly or indirectly the result of paranoia, in fact the whole domino theory that directed our Asian policy for so long was entirely paranoid in character. Now, paranoia will continue to exist as long as men continue to exist, but it can be kept within bounds. Our national paranoia about the Soviet Union has eased considerably in the last ten to fifteen years, and so has theirs about us. At the moment, the only large nation, the only nation of global importance that exists almost totally in a state of paranoia is Communist China, which doesn’t find one single nation on the face of the earth worthy of its trust. It is China’s paranoia which is keeping the pot boiling more than any other single factor, and it is China’s paranoia which may someday result in the pot boiling over and destroying us all.

“That is why the few tenuous links we do have with the Communist Chinese must be maintained, why the lines of communication, scant as they are, have to stay open. The Chinese, for their own good and the good of all mankind, must cure themselves of their paranoia, and they cannot possibly do that in isolation and ignorance.”

He was asked if the current meeting had been his idea, a question he’d already answered several times in the last two weeks, but he patiently answered it again: “No. Kwong Lan Quey requested it, in his last letter to me. He did not say what purpose he wished the meeting to serve, but he did say that the request was not an official act and was not made at the instruction of his government.”

This conference was taking longer than the one at Kennedy. It wasn’t that it was covering more ground, but that extra time had to be taken for translation between French and English of everything that was said. Evelyn, watching Bradford’s face, saw that he was getting tired and she moved forward to put a hand on his elbow. When he turned his head she said softly, “Uncle Joe would tell you to stop now.”

He considered revolt, she saw it in his face, but then she saw him also remember that an airport press conference was nothing to risk one’s health for. He nodded, and faced the reporters again, saying, “One more question, ladies and gentlemen, and I think that will be all.”

The last question was, “Given that yours is only one voice, and that the number of voices reaching China are few, what is the likelihood of this Chinese paranoia ever being cured?”

“Well, it must be,” Bradford said. “That is the next major world goal, and I insist I am not being melodramatic when I say that our future depends on our reaching that goal. I don’t mean what type of future we will have, or our children will have, I mean whether or not we will have any sort of future at all. China is a global power, an industrial nation with a huge land mass, vast untapped resources, and one-quarter of the entire world’s population. She is also a nuclear power, and from what Chinese politicians and scientists have been saying since the early sixties, she is the only nuclear power with no true understanding of just how lethal nuclear power really is. She is also an isolated power, with scant practice in the arts of diplomacy and very little reason to like or trust Caucasians. It’s an explosive combination, quite literally. Either we break through China’s isolation, her pride, her mistrust and her paranoia, or the day will come when a Chinese tantrum destroys us all.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.” Spoken in English.

Bradford smiled at the man who had said that. “Thank you,” he said, and Evelyn saw that he was still smiling when he turned away to take her arm and walk with her to the waiting car.

iv

AT FIRST, WHEN HE walked into the room, Evelyn thought it was Howard, and she thought, Has he really come traipsing across the Atlantic with his endless manuscripts? But then she saw that it wasn’t Howard after all, but his older brother Edward, Sterling’s other son, a man of about forty, attached to the permanent U.S. Diplomatic Mission in Paris. Edward was a bit heavier than Howard, a bit softer, with a bit less hair, but they could almost have passed for twins.

“Hello, Evelyn.” He came across the hotel room, hand outstretched, a broad smile on his face. He was as sunny as Howard was sour, as optimistic as Howard was cynical, and as unflappable as Howard was panicky. And yet, he never gave an impression of shallowness or silliness. He was a man both cheerful and thoughtful, a rare combination.

“Hello, Uncle Edward.” She was always pleased to be in Edward’s presence, and had been looking forward to seeing him during their stay in Paris. “I haven’t seen you for almost two years.”

“During which,” Edward said, holding her hand, “I have grown ten years older and you have grown three years younger. What is it that keeps the Lockridge women so beautiful?”

“The flattery of the Lockridge men,” she said, laughing. She had been born a Holt, and she had married a Canby, but within the family she was a Lockridge woman, through her mother. The sense of family held by the Lockridges, their unconscious division of all the world into Lockridges and Outsiders, Evelyn occasionally found depressing, but even this was a cheerful manifestation in Edward. She said, “Bradford isn’t here. He’s gone to the first meeting.”

“Yes, I know.” Edward winked and laid a finger beside his nose, being one of the few men alive who could actually make that gesture without looking stupid. “There’s intrigue afoot,” he announced, his voice hushed. “Brad called Janet and said you were moping around the hotel, and we were slyly to do something about it. So I’ve been sent to come take you away to Carrie Gillespie’s. Janet will meet us there.”

“I’m not moping,” Evelyn said, though she knew she had been. She’d been sitting at the window, looking out at the rooftops and the bits of traffic she could see, worrying about Brad in one way and Dinah in another, and if that wasn’t moping, what was it? But moping isn’t something one can admit to, so she said, “Honestly I’m not. I was even thinking of doing some shopping this afternoon. We only got in last night.”

“Shopping, in Paris, on a Saturday? You must be joking.” Edward waggled a finger at her, another gesture at which he was uniquely adept. “On Monday,” he said, “you and Janet will do the Galeries Lafayette from top to bottom. It’s a shopping spree Janet has been looking forward to since we first heard you were coming.”

Evelyn laughed and shook her head, saying, “Galeries Lafayette is closed on Monday, I remember that from last time.”

“Then on Tuesday. On Monday you’ll have your hair done. But today—” he pointed a finger at her “—today you come with me to Carrie Gillespie’s.”

The thought was cheering—Edward himself was cheering—but a moping mood is hard to break. Evelyn spread her hands helplessly, looking down at herself. “I’m not dressed. I’d have to change.”

There was a newspaper in Edward’s suitcoat pocket, jutting up against his elbow, and he now plucked it out and waggled it in the air. “The exact reason,” he said, “I brought along Le Monde. Take all the time you want, I read French as slowly as ever.”

The mope abruptly dissolved, like salt in water. Evelyn smiled and said, “I’ll be ten minutes.”

v

CARRIE SMITH GILLESPIE WAS what is known as a character. She had all the money she would ever need, so when her husband George had died four years before she’d moved permanently to Paris, to this spacious airy apartment on Boulevard Anatole France, overlooking the Bois de Boulogne, where she’d determined to set herself up as a hostess in the grand manner, with a salon that would be second to none. The desire was a bit old-fashioned, but the strength of Carrie’s personality kept it from being foolish. And if her guests ran heavily to American diplomats and lightly to European artists and intelligentsia, it was still a reasonable facsimile of what she’d had in mind. Better, in a way, since this way her guests tended to speak in a language she understood, her French being next to nonexistent.

Howard had once said of Carrie that she looked as though she dressed herself out of the costume room at Madame Tussaud’s, and it was true that veils and ribbons and trailing swatches of material made up a great proportion of her usual apparel. He had also once said that when she walked she sounded like a tin can factory falling down a hill, and it was equally true that she tended to drape herself in a superfluity of necklaces and bracelets and earrings that jangled. But somehow she was all of a piece, the apartment, the clothing, the tinkling jewelry, the round cheerful face, the hoarse but loud voice, the endlessly inquisitive acquisitive manner as though a magpie had been crossed with a kitten and the result blown up all out of proportion, but none of it false or affected, all fitting nicely together and amazingly producing a person who was eccentric without being ludicrous.

Possibly because she was so totally without pretension. She might have craved a living room full of Sartres, but she never pretended to be a de Beauvoir. She was a Boston-born girl, from a family who owned a downtown department store, and she’d married a Boston-born corporation attorney and given him two sons and a daughter. Another young attorney in the same law firm, Bradford Lockridge, had eventually gone on to become President, but Carrie was not one to bask in reflected glory. She preferred to be the star in her own life story, and she handled the part to perfection.

She came forward now into the small front parlor to greet Evelyn and Edward, jangling as usual, trailing wisps of nylon and lace, her round face beaming, her arms outstretched. “Evelyn! You lovely lovely child, let me look at you!”

People usually found themselves overpowered by Carrie, and Evelyn was no exception. She stood there like a slave on the block, an awkward smile on her face, while Carrie grasped her by the elbows and looked her up and down. Meanwhile Edward was saying, “I don’t suppose Janet’s here yet.”

“Of course not, silly boy.” Carrie gave Evelyn a look of mock-frustration and said, “Husbands will never understand that wives must dress. But how charming you look! You’ve been shopping already. You bought that dress here.”

“No, actually, I got it in New York. In March.”

“Incredible. You make me want to go back, but I’ll resist. But why didn’t you bring Dinah?”

“I thought it was too long for her to be away, ten days.”

“So selfish. You know she’s the one I really wanted to see. She’s four years old now, I haven’t seen her since she was two.”

“That’s right,” Evelyn said. She was always surprised at Carrie’s memory for details. Who would expect her to keep track of the age of an unrelated child a continent away?

“Well, never mind, you’ll remember to send me photographs, and next time you’ll bring her. Now come along, we have some very interesting people here.”

But they weren’t. Carrie’s parlor was large, bright and full of comfortable places to sit. Floor-to-ceiling windows faced northeast, three stories up, with a beautiful view of the Bois de Boulogne, lush and green with summer. There was no direct sunlight, but the room was bright enough without it, the park across the way reflected in the plants scattered everywhere throughout the room.

There were ten people present. Five were wives of American diplomats, two were a tourist couple from Boston, one was a slender young Frenchman with a vaguely oily look about him; and the last were an American computer company executive, currently stationed in Paris, and his wife. The five diplomat wives wanted nothing more than to gossip among themselves about people unknown to everyone else present, as though Carrie’s apartment were a beauty salon. The tourists wanted to be amused, but not to participate. The Frenchman wanted desperately to establish some sort of connection with anyone at all, but seemed not to know how to go about it. And the computer couple preferred to talk about the increasing inequity of the American income tax.

Edward was the only saving grace, and Evelyn told herself ruefully that she could have stayed in her hotel room and listened to Edward and been well ahead of the game. Edward had decided to explain Paris to the tourists, and in so doing had separated the city into so many multi-leveled Parises that he was obviously getting confused himself after a while. There was the tourist Paris. There was the American Paris. There was the business Paris. There was the Parisian’s Paris, subdivided into several other Parises depending upon income, occupation and background of the particular Parisian. There was the Real Paris. There was the bohemian Paris. There was the lustful Paris. There was the gourmet Paris. It went on and on, Edward cheerful and voluble and totally baffling throughout, his audience laughing as much at their own confusion as at his performance.

After a while Evelyn was distracted from Edward’s monologue by the Frenchman, who had circled half the room to get to her side. He asked, in a mutter usually reserved for the sale of obscene postcards, if she were unattached. He didn’t quite meet her eye.

“Not really,” she said. “Excuse me, would you?”

Carrie’s apartment was large, with room upon room. Evelyn had been in it a dozen times or more in the last few years, but she was never quite sure about the layout. She left the parlor now, and because the entrance was to the left she turned right instead.

She was looking for Ann. Carrie’s oldest son, Daniel Gillespie, had died a retread in Korea, leaving a pregnant wife, Ann, who had moved in with Carrie and her own then-living husband, and who was still living under Carrie’s roof, she and her son Charles having made the move from the Maryland horse ranch to Paris when Carrie’s husband died. Ann was quiet, retiring, very shy, and tended to avoid the parlor when Carrie was entertaining. But she was pleasant to talk to, particularly when the parlor was dull, or when it contained a slightly oily Frenchman who wanted to know if one was unattached.

The first room she tried was occupied, but not with Ann Gillespie. Instead it contained two young men, one of whom she recognized at once as Charles, Ann’s son. “Hello,” she said. “I’m looking for your mother. I didn’t know you were home.”

“They graduated me,” Charles said, mock-surprise in his voice. “Princeton will never be the same.” Tall and very slender, eyeglassed, Charles at twenty-one still had the same hesitant, respectful, deprecatingly humorous manner that had throughout his childhood made adults automatically think of him as a “good boy.” And a good boy he invariably was, polite, attentive to his studies and obedient to the wishes of his elders.

“Congratulations,” Evelyn said. “What do you do now? Graduate school?”

Behind his glasses, Charles’ eyes looked worried. “I’m not sure,” he said.

“There comes a time,” the other young man said with dark passion, “to stop studying and start acting.” He ignored the pained look that Charles gave him, and stared intently at Evelyn, saying, with something mocking in his voice, “Don’t you think so, Aunt Evelyn?”

She frowned at him in surprise. Aunt Evelyn? Who was he? He was dark-haired, with the long lank hair no longer considered truly up-to-date in the states. His clothing was proper, but he wore it with a kind of careless ease. He was shorter and stockier than Charles, and seemed somewhat younger. And in some way familiar, though she couldn’t at all place him. She said, “Do I know you?”

“Depends how you mean that, Aunt Evelyn,” he said. “I’m Eddie.”

“Eddie! For Heaven’s sake, I didn’t even recognize you!” She stood staring at him, still having trouble believing it. This was Edward Lockridge, Jr., the son of the man subdividing Paris in the parlor. He was still only—what?—seventeen at the most. When she’d last seen him he was a neat and ordinary fifteen-year-old. “What’s happened to you in the last two years?” she asked him.

“Call it an awakening,” he said. He was holding a book in one hand, his finger in it to hold his place, and now he held it up to show her that it was one of the books by the brothers Cohn-Bendit. She recognized their names, but didn’t know the French title. “I have decided to join Tomorrow,” he said. Everything he said seemed to have trumpets behind it, except that all these declamations were announced in a brisk matter-of-fact way, as though he himself didn’t see any drama in his statements at all. “At the moment I’m recruiting Charlie.”

“We’re—talking things over,” Charles said. He seemed to be apologizing for something.

“Well, good luck to you both,” she said, and to Charles she said, “Is your mother around?”

“I think she’s in the sitting room. Down to your right and through the bedroom.”

“Thank you.”

Ann Gillespie was there, knitting and watching television: I Love Lucy, in French. Once a government opens the floodgates, as the French government finally and reluctantly had done, daytime television is the same everywhere.

The sitting room would have to be called cozy. It too had the park view, but was a much smaller and dimmer room, with more of a feeling of warmth and safety to it. Evelyn found herself smiling as she walked into the room, and it was for the room more than for the occupant. “Hello, Ann,” she said.

Ann looked up from the set. “Well, Evelyn! Carrie said you were coming to Paris. Is Bradford with you?”

“No, he had his meeting.” Ann hadn’t risen, and now Evelyn sat in a chair which gave her a view of Ann and the park, but not the television set. “This is a comforting room,” she said, over the chatter of French.

“I love it.” Ann was in her early forties now, a pleasant but washed-out looking woman, who wore no makeup, did her hair sensibly rather than fashionably, and dressed in drab but sturdy clothing. She was the kind of woman about whom the word most frequently spoken was reliable. She said, “Does Carrie have anyone interesting today?”

“Edward.”

Ann smiled, but she’d glanced at the television set and it was hard to tell if the smile was for Evelyn or Lucy. She said, “No one else?”

“Not really. There’s one sleazy little Frenchman who wanted to know if I was attached.”

This time the smile was clearly for Evelyn. “Isn’t that terrible?” Still smiling, Ann shook her head and said, “Carrie won’t turn anyone away, not anyone. I talk to her, but you know how it is to take care of an older person. They will have their own way.”

“Yes, won’t they,” Evelyn said, smiling back and thinking indulgently of Bradford. An anecdote about Bradford’s willfulness entered her head, and she was about to relate it when with a sudden shock she saw herself from outside, she saw herself as Ann was seeing her this minute—as anyone would see her this minute—and she sat back, her mouth open, and stared past Ann at the far wall.

“Evelyn? What’s the matter?”

Evelyn shook her head. “Nothing,” she said. “Excuse me, it’s—” She shook her head again.

Is that what’s happening to me? “You know how it is to take care of an older person.” But isn’t Ann an object of pity, a timid lifeless woman who buried herself under her mother-in-law’s wing at the age of twenty, widowed and pregnant, and has never lived her own life again? That isn’t me, for God’s sake, I don’t dress like that, I don’t look like that, I don’t hide myself away in cozy rooms.

Don’t I?

“Evelyn, are you sure there’s nothing wrong? Should I have Charles get you a brandy?”

Ann has her Charles, I have my Dinah. Ann has her Carrie, I have Bradford. Ann lives in the middle of Paris, but for the amount of use she makes of it she might as well be living in Eustace, Pennsylvania.

“Evelyn?”

Fred died a year and a half ago. What happened to the time in between? Can it all go like that, and all at once you’re in your forties, there’s no need to wear makeup any more, no need to keep up with the new fashions, no point in ever going out of your cozy rooms?

She got to her feet, suddenly frightened, feeling inanely that if she didn’t move at once, at once, she would grow roots, or become paralyzed, or lose all will to move. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I need some air.”

Ann still didn’t get to her feet, but genuine concern was on her face. “Was it the flight?” she asked. “I understand some people are affected by jet travel that way.”

“That must be it,” Evelyn said. “Excuse me, I’ll see you again later.” And she hurried from the room.

The apartment didn’t confuse her now. All she wanted was to get out of it, without saying goodbye to anyone. She headed directly for the front door.

The little Frenchman was sitting on one of the spindly valuable antiques in the foyer. He was obviously waiting for her, and he leaped to his feet when she entered the room. “Madame,” he said. “You are indisposed?” He was at least two inches shorter than she.

“It’s nothing,” she said. “I’m going back to the hotel how and rest.”

“One will drive you,” he said. He smiled helpfully, and he was looking at her mouth.

“No, that’s all right, really, I’ll find a cab.”

“No,” he said. “A taxi in Paris? It is not right when you are indisposed. My car is outside. Madame is staying at Georges Cinq?”

vi

SHE HAD KNOWN HOW it would end, that was the worst part. She had known, and watched it all with a knowing eye, and did nothing to stop it.

His car was a Simca, small and black, dusty and rather old, with cigarette burns on the seat back. He said, “A ride through the park will refresh Madame, yes?” And insisted it would be no trouble at all, he had nothing to do this afternoon anyway.

And it was pleasant, after the dehydrated feeling of Carrie’s apartment, to drive through the park. He drove the Simca quickly but well, down Boulevard Anatole France to Porte de Boulogne, then into the park on Allée de la Reine Marguerite, switching to Route de Suresnes and emerging at last on Avenue Foch, flanked by the long sweep of gardens, with the Arc de Triomphe at the far end.

His next suggestion, of course, was a drink. “I know an excellent little place on the Left Bank, where the tourists never go. Madame will be refreshed.”

She didn’t agree, but she didn’t say no, either. The little Simca scooted down the Champs Elysées, crossed the Seine on the Pont de la Concorde, and raced the rest of the traffic along the Boulevard Saint Germain, finding a parking space at last half a block from Boulevard Saint Michel, known as Boul Mich, the tourist and bohemian center of the Left Bank.

The café to which he took her, his hand a polite pressure on her elbow, was no different from any other in the Fifth Arrondissement. The Sorbonne was a few blocks away, so many of the young people around them were probably students there. At least half a dozen of the older customers were American tourists, and the rest were probably local people. It was the equivalent of a neighborhood bar in the United States, the sort of place into which she would never have gone, and it was basically insulting of him to think her the sort of wide-eyed innocent to be impressed by a tavern simply because the tables were on the sidewalk and the language spoken by the waiter was not English. But she didn’t bother to be insulted, and she didn’t even laugh at his attempts to convince her he was showing her the real Paris. But hadn’t he heard Edward parodying just this very thing not an hour ago?

It didn’t matter. It didn’t even matter when he disappeared for a few minutes and returned with the sudden suggestion that they visit a friend of his in the district. “Only five minutes walk.” She knew he’d gone to phone the friend and borrow the apartment, but she ignored the knowledge.

Still, she couldn’t help making fun of him just a little, by asking him shouldn’t they phone the friend first, and be sure he was there? “Oh, no, he is always there at this time of day. He is a painter, he requires the afternoon sunlight.”

But of course he wasn’t there. Evelyn watched the little man knock on the door, display surprise, consternation, bafflement. “But he is always here!”

Fortunately, he knew where the friend kept his key. From atop the door-frame, voilà. “We shall see if something has happened to him.”

It was the top floor of an ancient four-story house. They walked up creaking stairs, and the apartment offered no surprises. It was a fairly good size, four or five rooms, and very dirty. The occupant apparently really was a painter, there was a studio with a wall of windows and a lot of painters’ plyboard around, some of it bearing paintings heavily influenced by Gauguin. Café scenes, mostly, but since they were full of Gauguin’s Tahitian yellows and oranges they didn’t look like anything ever seen in Paris.

The seduction, if it could be called that, was accomplished with all the warmth and skill of a good dentist filling a cavity. He made her orgasm, but it wasn’t pleasant, she felt he’d cheated in his methods. And throughout, his expression was intent, solemn; he was devoting himself to being letter-perfect, like someone doing the manual of arms. But he was physically small, and his approach was totally ritualistic and impersonal, so that despite the mechanically achieved orgasm she felt unsatisfied afterwards. And because she felt unsatisfied, she finally felt worse afterwards than before.

He drove her to the hotel during the six o’clock rush hour, and became extremely irritable because of the driving conditions. Evelyn spent the time thinking of different ways to excuse herself if he should ask her to have dinner with him tonight, but he didn’t ask. At the hotel, he stayed in the car—the doorman opened the door, so it was all right—and almost indifferently he asked, “Shall I see you again?”

“Possibly,” she said. “I’ll probably be at Carrie’s sometime.” Knowing now he would avoid Carrie’s for the next week or so, and thinking she was at least managing to get some good out of the experience, if only for Carrie. The thought made her smile, and not knowing what she was smiling about he smiled automatically back, and that was her last view of him.

She didn’t begin to cry until she was alone in her room in the suite—Bradford wasn’t back yet—and even then she was laughing at the same time she was weeping. It had been the eighth of January, two and a half years ago, that she’d last gone to bed with her husband, the night before he’d left for Asia, eleven months before he was killed there. It was two and a half years since she’d slept with a man.

“You’d think the first time could have been better,” she said, through her laughter, through her tears.

vii

BRADFORD WASN’T GETTING ANYWHERE, and Evelyn didn’t know what she could do to help. As the days went by, he became gloomier and gloomier, shorter of temper and steadily more pessimistic. And he moved and acted and looked more like an old man.

He had come here with too much hope, that was what it was. And now the inaction, the lack of progress, were affecting him much more than they would have in the old days, when there was always something going on. He had in effect come out of retirement, and his greater anticipation had resulted in a similarly greater disappointment.

The Chinese official, Kwong Lan Quey, had made the first tentative suggestions concerning this meeting as far back as last fall, nearly a year ago. Bradford hadn’t made a positive response at first, but had quite properly contacted people he knew in the State Department to get their reaction to the idea.

The people at State were understandably cautious, perhaps overly cautious. Kwong Lan Quey made an overture once again, in another letter, and Bradford began despite himself to get excited at the prospect of being useful and active once more. He insisted to State that no harm could come from the meeting, and in fact that it could have a beneficial result, and at last they decided it was worth the gamble, provided certain ground rules were maintained.

In the first place, they insisted on a European locale for the meeting. Obviously Kwong Lan Quey would prefer not to come to the Western Hemisphere, but State was adamant in its refusal to allow Bradford to go to any meeting site in Asia. It was true that he was retired, but he was still at least symbolically a famous and important American, and the risks of either kidnapping or assassination seemed to State too high in Asia.

In the second place, they insisted on a full announcement of the meeting to the press well in advance. Secret talks which then leaked could result in unfortunate conclusions about altered U.S. attitudes toward China in other more friendly Asian capitals. The unofficial nature of the meeting would have to be stressed.

Third, they insisted that the meeting take place in an atmosphere of other activities. That is, in whatever city was chosen, arrangements would have to be made for Bradford to hold other meetings with other individuals as well. The trip should be made to seem multi-purposed, and not be exclusively for the sake of an ex-President traveling thousands of miles expressly to meet an obscure (in Western minds) Communist Chinese official.

State also insisted for a while that Kwong Lan Quey provide an agenda, or at least some general idea of the topics he wished to discuss, but on this point the Chinese was obdurate, and Bradford himself saw no reason to make the meeting stand or fall on it, so ultimately State came around and withdrew that as a condition.

The other three, however, were met. The site chosen was Paris, it being traditionally a congenial locale for discussions between Americans and Asians. (Warsaw, Kwon Lan Quey’s original suggestion, was frowned on by State.) The meeting was announced to the press, and its unofficial nature was stressed. And arrangements were made for Bradford to meet with a few other individuals as well, primarily with the current Premier of France and with a retired Italian Premier whose administration had been concurrent with Bradford’s and who happened to be in Paris at this time anyway. But the prime interest—Bradford’s as well as that of the press—was in the meeting with Kwong Lan Quey.

It was the Chinese who presented the ground rules for the meeting. It was to be four meetings, actually, rather than one. They were to be held on Saturday, June 30th; Monday, July 2nd; Thursday, July 5th; and Sunday, July 8th. All were to be afternoon meetings, to begin with lunch at one o’clock and continue until either participant declared the meeting ended.

The first meeting continued through a 7:00 P.M. dinner, and didn’t conclude until nearly ten o’clock. Bradford returned from that one excited and hopeful, convinced he and Kwong Lan Quey were on the threshold of something truly important. He was so buoyed up, his mind so full of the meeting just completed, that his usually observant eye failed him and he took no notice of the strange silences and odd manner of Evelyn, who had only a short while before finished her ambivalent emotional outburst following the experience with the little Frenchman. Evelyn of course said nothing about that, but listened instead to Bradford’s description of his first meeting with Kwong Lan Quey.

It had been strange, but not yet disturbing. The Chinese had kept the talk strictly in the area of reminiscence, not only of his and Bradford’s scanty acquaintance over the years, but also of world events as they had affected the two of them. He had, for instance, given detailed information on his whereabouts and personal doings at the onset of such-and-such a specific world crisis, and elicited similar memories from Bradford. “Where were you when the word came of John Kennedy’s assassination? What were you doing when you first heard of the attack on Pearl Harbor?” That sort of thing, endlessly.

And yet Bradford was hopeful. It had seemed to him that here and there in the meandering course of the conversation he had detected gleams of light. “He’s leading up to something,” he told Evelyn.

On Sunday there was a cocktail party at the American Embassy in Bradford’s honor. Evelyn attended, and was approached with more or less subtlety by two Frenchmen and three Americans. She brushed them all off without a qualm, and didn’t even take her usual pleasure in being considered a woman worth making a play for.

Monday was Bradford’s second meeting. Ann Gillespie called in the late morning, her voice dry as dust on the phone, and invited Evelyn to join her for lunch and an afternoon at the Louvre. Evelyn went with her, and it turned out what Ann wanted was merely an ear into which to pour her troubles, of which Carrie was only incidental. Ann’s primary problem was her son Charles who, she said, was being unduly and badly influenced by Edward Lockridge’s son Eddie.

“But Eddie’s four years younger than Charles,” Evelyn said.

“Charles isn’t strong-willed,” Ann said. “I suppose he got that from me, God help him. Anyone can push either of us around.”

Eddie Lockridge was a radical, it seemed, of the type which had flowered briefly a few years before in the United States. It was an extremely nihilistic radicalism, craving apocalypse for its own sake, and it had not taken root in the eternally optimistic American soil. European history, however, leads almost inevitably to at least a recognition of some sort of nihilistic philosophy, so this new wave of youthful nihilism had not worn itself out on rock music and drugs and teen-age sex play, as it had in the United States, but had gone almost directly into the arena of anti-political action, with the Scandinavian Provos showing—but not necessarily leading—the way.

So long as Charles had had Princeton, the influence of Eddie Lockridge had been only sporadic and temporary, giving Charles merely transient periods of feeling that he should be “doing” something, the something never quite defined. But last month Charles was graduated, and now he had come to a decision point in his life. Ann, of course, wanted him to go on to graduate school, as did Carrie.

But now Eddie Lockridge’s evil influence was at last coming into its own. Eddie wanted Charles to give up schooling—in the brave new world after the apocalypse, what would a master’s degree be worth?—and to stay in Europe, in Paris. There was some sort of group to which Eddie belonged, and he wanted Charles to join it. They were going to “do” things. What things? No one would tell; no one seemed to know.

Evelyn asked, “Haven’t you talked to Eddie’s father?”

“Of course. Edward doesn’t take it seriously. You know him, he doesn’t take anything seriously.” She sounded bitter, and Evelyn could hear in her voice that over the years Edward Lockridge had failed to take Ann Gillespie seriously on more than one subject. “He says,” she went on, “you have to let children go their own ways, make their own decisions. Up to a point, of course, he’s perfectly right. But it is possible to ruin one’s life, one can make wrong decisions.”

Evelyn looked at her, and Ann’s words seemed to spread like an opening, ever-widening umbrella, covering far more than she had intended or would ever suspect.

Evelyn returned to the hotel in the early evening with weary feet—the Louvre, with its endless miles of halls lined with paintings, exercised the legs much more fully than the eyes or the mind—and a depressed emotional attitude, the afternoon with Ann having held up the same cruel mirror yet again.

Bradford was there when she arrived, and this time he too was depressed. They went out to dinner—the restaurant was world-famous for its decor, but because Bradford was also world-famous they had to eat in a private room—and during the meal he told her what his second meeting with Kwong Lan Quey had been like.

“I suppose I made a mistake,” he said. “I pushed. I’m out of practice, I know better than that, particularly with an Oriental. He’ll come out in his own time, but, God, it’s a painful process, waiting.”

“Was it the same today? Reminiscences?”

“Not very much. Mostly today it was philosophy, in as abstract terms as possible. He would describe a Chinese attitude toward something, and then ask for the equivalent attitude in our part of the world, but he used such vague general terminology I sometimes had no idea what on earth he was trying to say. Then he would get irritated if I didn’t have a Western philosophic concept to contrast with whatever it was he’d been talking about, so finally I asked him what it was all leading up to, what was the point, and he closed right up. We went on for another twenty minutes, but it was just weather and airlines and restaurants. Then he declared the meeting closed.” Bradford shook his head, looking at the food he hadn’t started to eat yet. “I’m too rusty. I should know better than that.”

Tuesday Bradford met with the French Premier and three members of his cabinet, and Evelyn went shopping with Janet Lockridge, the terrible Eddie’s mother. Janet Lockridge had been born Janet Canby, the elder sister of Evelyn’s dead husband, and there was a strong familial resemblance between the two that Evelyn found at times troubling and depressing, but not today. Janet was a bubbly open woman, the perfect counterpart to her amiable husband, and the shopping spree was Evelyn’s most enjoyable day so far in Paris.

It had apparently been so for Bradford as well. Even though his meeting with the Premier had been an afterthought, window dressing, they had in fact discussed two or three substantive issues—overlapping French and American spheres of influence in Central Africa, for example—and Bradford had come away with specific proposals to present to the State Department on his return to the States.

That evening they dined at Edward Lockridge’s. Eddie was not present, and Evelyn took the opportunity to hint at Ann Gillespie’s concern about Eddie’s influence on her son Charles. Edward, as expected, brushed it all off as harmless boyhood rebellion, but Janet took it much more seriously, to the point that she and Edward tensely skirted a bitter family argument right at the dinner table, with Bradford and Evelyn both embarrassed and making attempts to gloss it over and change the subject, which at last they succeeded in doing without any resolution of the Eddie-Charles problem at all.

They changed the subject by segueing to Chairman Mao, the recently-dead Premier of China, and the semantic probability that Mao would remain alive as part of the language for some time to come, in the word Maoist. As Edward said, “There are people around to this day calling themselves Trotskyites, and half of them hadn’t been born yet at the time Trotsky was killed. The same thing will happen to the word Maoist, you wait and see.” This change of subject had come about when Edward mentioned casually that the group his son belonged to considered itself Maoist without having any real idea what a Maoist philosophy entailed.

“Maoism in the West,” Bradford said, “has never meant the same thing as Maoism in Asia. There it’s expansionist, doctrinaire, favoring a strong central government. Here it’s fragmentary, almost entirely devoid of doctrine, and opposed to government in virtually all its forms.”

From this, the talk moved to the probable future of China without Mao, and the only thing they could agree on was that it was impossible—given the almost total lack or communication between East and West—for a Western observer to guess which way China would turn now. The political situation apparently remained unsettled there, but what would finally shake out when a new equilibrium was reached? Another strong central figure like Mao, or an essentially faceless bureaucracy, as Russia tried for a while after Stalin? No one would even risk a guess. Bradford said, “You know Eugene White, don’t you? He’s with Asian Affairs at State. He told me they’ve been giving serious consideration to taking on tea leaf readers.”

Laughing, Edward said, “Appropriate, anyway.” The fight with his wife was safely gotten by, and the rest of the evening was pleasant and amiable.

Wednesday was the meeting with the former Italian Premier, which took place in the garden of the Italian Embassy. The Premier was an incredibly ancient and shriveled old man, who walked with a stick, and whose hands trembled all the time. Evelyn had come along for this meeting, and she felt both disgust and pity when the old man insisted on the gallant gesture of kissing her hand, his own hand communicating its tremor all the way up her arm.

The meeting was fairly brief, the discussion taking place with an interpreter, and in the limousine afterward Bradford looked at Evelyn with a proud smile on his face and said, “That man is two years older than I am.”

They dined Wednesday night at the home of the American Ambassador, with a dozen other guests, all American diplomats, including Edward and Janet Lockridge. Evelyn recognized three of the women she had seen at Carrie’s last Saturday.

She herself returned to Carrie’s Thursday afternoon, Carrie having phoned to say that this was a special occasion, an entirely different type of person today, “not that dull group you saw last week.” Being at loose ends with Bradford off for his third meeting with Kwong Lan Quey, Evelyn promised to come.

And it really was a different group today, led by an internationally known Italian movie producer, a short round man with a bushy black moustache, plus his internationally known Swedish movie star wife, a tall voluptuous blonde with little English and apparently nothing of any other language, plus the internationally known male American movie star who was to appear opposite her in her husband’s next Italo-French co-production, to be shot in Yugoslavia in September. They were all in Paris for contract-signing, and were at Carrie’s because there was apparently some sort of semi-secret past acquaintanceship between Carrie and the producer, both of whom spent the afternoon making broad hints and shushing one another.

It happened that Evelyn had met the American movie star several times already—a tall rugged man with the necessary cheek-wrinkles to allow him to head the cast in westerns—which he clearly didn’t remember and about which she didn’t remind him. The meetings had taken place during Bradford’s second Presidential election campaign, the one he lost. Presidential campaigns have an irresistible fascination for movie stars, who can be found lurking in the wings behind every candidate, impatient to get close enough to tell him which is his good side. This gentleman had been among the Hollywood contingent of Bradford’s last campaign, had made several contributions of gratifying size, had gone on brief speaking tours, and had signed whatever was put before him. No one likes to be reminded of the losing crusades one has returned from, so Evelyn acknowledged the introduction as though it truly were their first meeting, and he responded with a kind of hearty automatic gallantry that would probably have been as offensive to a European woman as last week’s Frenchman’s oiliness had been to Evelyn. But hearty automatic gallantry is a frequent fact of American life, and Evelyn hardly even remarked it this time.

Thursday evening, Bradford was more depressed than she’d ever seen him before. “I played him well,” he insisted grimly. “I haven’t lost that much, dammit, I know when I’m doing well and when I’m doing poorly. I played him as well as I’ve ever handled anything in my life, and there’s just nothing happening. I’m fishing, and there’s no fish in that lake.”

Later in the evening he said, “But why would he set this up if he didn’t have something to say? There has to be fish in the lake, or why did he invite me to come fishing?”

Friday they drove to Deauville, where a beach estate had been put at Bradford’s disposal. Evelyn swam in the Channel, in the Cote Fleurie, and Bradford sunned himself and tried to put aside his depression. It was just the two of them—plus the servants who came with the house and the inevitable guards—and it was almost like being at home in Eustace. For the first time, Evelyn truly missed Dinah.

It was two hundred kilometers back to Paris—one hundred twenty-five miles—and they left Sunday morning because Bradford’s final meeting with Kwong Lan Quey was to be today, beginning at one. On the drive back, Bradford said, “A dreadful possibility has occurred to me, and I only hope I’m wrong.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ve been trying to understand why he would want these meetings unless he had something to say. But there might be a reason. God alone knows what the political situation in China is at the moment, without Mao. Is it possible he thinks it will do him some political good at home if he’s had publicized meetings with an American, even an unofficial American like me? Is that all there is to it? God, I hope not.”

“What good could it do him?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” He shook his head, and she saw that the suspicion was weighing on him, aging him. If he was right in what he suspected, he was being cruelly used, but far more than that, his high hopes, his desire to be useful and to have still some small part in increasing the possibilities of peace, had been pointlessly and brutally mocked. She wished there were something she could do, at the least something helpful she could say, but there was nothing.

She waited for him at the hotel, since he’d said this final meeting would definitely not last as long as the others, and it did not. He was back by two-thirty, grim-faced. “I was right,” he said, and would talk no more about it.

They took a late-morning plane the next day, Monday. Bradford had refused to speak to the press in Paris, although at Kennedy he agreed to make a statement but not to answer questions. While Evelyn stood to one side, watching him with helplessness, he grimly announced the results of his meetings with the Chinese official. He told of his growing suspicions, and of his finally having stated those suspicions to the Chinese, who neither admitted nor denied them. “He only suggested that unless I wanted to appear a gullible fool in the eyes of the world I would not repeat my conclusions in public. Well, I am a gullible fool. I was gullible in the quest for peace, and I cannot think of a nobler gullibility. But Kwong Lan Quey was also gullible, in that he thought he could use an American politician to further his own political career, and his gullibility contains not the slightest element of nobility. I may lose a little face as a result of all this, but I am an old man, and retired, and I don’t much matter anyway. But if Kwong Lan Quey was hoping to use the Paris meetings to further his career by demonstrating his ability to deal at a diplomatic level with Americans, he has failed. After this, there isn’t one American, I doubt there’s one European, who would be interested in talking with Kwong Lan Quey on any subject whatsoever.”

He went on to say that there were hopeful signs in the affair, that if a Chinese politician thought it worthwhile to demonstrate himself capable of diplomatic relations with Western politicians it was a fairly good indication of some sort of thaw in China, of at least the possibility that China was beginning to be ready to come out of her shell and meet with the rest of the world. With at least that small hopeful conclusion to offer, he didn’t consider his trip to have been entirely worthless after all.

When he was finished, a reporter stood and said, “Mr. Lockridge, you said you didn’t want to answer questions about your trip. But would you answer a question about this?” He held up a newspaper.

Bradford squinted at it. “I’m sorry, I don’t know to what you’re referring.”

The newspaper was passed forward, from hand to hand. Evelyn could see only that it was The New York Times, but could read none of the headlines.

Bradford looked at the paper, and his expression, if anything, grew even more grim. He shook his head and looked up and said, “This is the first I’ve seen of this. I don’t have the facts, of course, but I would naturally presume his innocence. I’ll be in touch with him at once. In the meantime, you can understand I don’t want to say anything else on the subject.”

They thanked him and trooped out, and Bradford turned wordlessly to hand the paper to Evelyn, who held it in two hands and looked at the headline, top left, one column:

HARRISON LOCKRIDGE INDICTED IN CALIFORNIA

Innocent of All Wrongdoing, Says Ex-President’s Brother

9 Others Indicted in Land Transaction

viii

THE CAR WAS WAITING at the airport in Hagerstown, and when he boarded, Bradford asked the chauffeur to turn the radio on and find a station that would fill its between-news interludes not too offensively.

He’d phoned Harrison from Kennedy, but Evelyn hadn’t asked him about the conversation and he hadn’t volunteered. In the old days in the White House, whenever he was angry with the failure of a subordinate, Bradford had never looked angry in the normal sense, but only jaw-clenched determined, as though thinking not about the man who had failed but about some extremely difficult task that he himself had promised himself to perform. He had that look now, and the flight from New York to Hagerstown had been mostly a silent one.

News came on the radio shortly before they reached Chambersburg. It mentioned Harrison, but only the bare bones of the story, not even as many details as had been in the first two paragraphs of the Times. After the news Evelyn finally broached the subject, saying, “What happens with Harrison now?”

“God knows,” Bradford said. He stared straight ahead. “He’s the same damn fool he always was, of course, he’d like to bluff it through if he could. Of course he can’t, the only thing for him to do is admit that he was wrong, he was hasty, he went into the thing without finding out the true facts of the case, and now that he knows he can only hope to help the courts in finding an equitable solution.”

“Doesn’t he want to do that?”

“Of course not. It’s the sensible thing, so he’s against it. How many times have I been on the phone with him the last few months? But he wouldn’t get out of it, he wouldn’t get out of it. And now he still won’t get out of it. It would be disloyal to his partners, for God’s sake. There’s a case of late-blooming and terribly misplaced loyalty if there ever was one. They’re going to sink, the lot of them, and he has a chance to avoid sinking with them, and I’m having to beg him to take it.”

“Do you think he will?”

“Harrison usually manages to get himself rescued in the nick of time. We’ll see if he works the trick this time. I’ve told him to come see me next week.” He turned his head to give Evelyn a smile of condolence. “It means having that whole incredible family descend on us,” he said, “but it is important.”

“Oh, I realize that,” she said, and smiled back, saying, “Besides, if it gets too bad I’ll just take Dinah and go visit somebody else.”

“What?” he said, in mock alarm. “And leave me alone with them all?”

She patted his arm, smiling now in deep affection. “I won’t leave you alone,” she said.

6

SIXTY PERCENT OF ALL cerebral thrombosis, the most common form of stroke, occurs either during sleep or shortly after arising. In Bradford Lockridge’s case, the thrombosis heralded by his previous transient ischemic attacks struck at twelve minutes past three on the morning of Tuesday, the tenth of July, the night after his return from Europe. The attack was swift and harsh. At its onset Bradford groaned in his sleep, he frowned, the skin of his forehead wrinkled, but he did not awaken.

The stroke began with a sudden blockage in the anterior cerebral artery, that artery which, through its cortical branches, furnishes the blood supply to the frontal four-fifths of the middle surface of the cerebral hemisphere, a vital sensory and intellectual area of the brain. The anterior cerebral artery also supplies the medial part of the orbital surface of the frontal lobe, the frontal pole, a strip of the superomedial border, and the front seven-eighths of the corpus callosum, those white fibers which connect the two halves of the cerebrum.

The blockage attacked the anterior cerebral artery along its narrowest part, where it curves upward over the corpus callosum. Atherosclerotic formations had been building in that area for some time, narrowing the artery further and further, causing those prior temporary attacks, Dr. Holt’s “coming attractions.” In the previous attacks there had been only very short-term blockage before the blood pressure forced a re-opening, so that damage to brain cells from blood starvation had been minor, and the effects both temporary and comparatively small in scale. But this time the blockage was much more severe. In addition to the atherosclerotic formations narrowing the artery walls, a full thrombus had formed, a fibrous clot, which now became wedged by the pressure of blood behind it into the too-narrow segment of artery, and in less than one minute all blood flow in that area came to a stop.

Bradford was lying on his back. It was two nights since the full moon, and clear thin white light spread in a pale trapezoid on the floor near the window. In the dim uncertain reflection of that light, Bradford’s head on the pillow looked essentially unchanged, except that his expression was slightly frowning as though in disapproval. For two minutes, three minutes, he did not move, he gave no exterior sign—other than the frown—to indicate that anything was breaking down within.

In the infracted artery, blood strained against the thrombus like water in a tunnel pressing against a wall of sandbags, but the blockage held, and in fact became wedged even tighter against the soft deposits that had been building up within the inner membrane of the artery. Beyond, the emptying artery sagged slightly in on itself, striving against vacuum. The brain cells fed by the artery and its branches began to dry, began to feel the lack of oxygen and blood, began to wither.

In the pale moonlight, Bradford’s face could at last be seen to change, but only slightly. The right cheek seemed somehow flatter, the closed right eyelid was depressed just a little deeper, and the jawline became gradually softer and less clearly defined. The right corner of the mouth sagged, and a few seconds later a thin trickle of saliva ran from the right corner of Bradford’s mouth and down the line of his jaw, to become absorbed in the sheet.

The stroke is silent. It is violence without noise, a sledgehammer without sound. The middle area of the left cerebral hemisphere in Bradford Lockridge’s head was starving, it was strangling, it was dying for lack of blood and lack of oxygen, but there was no trace of sound, no murmur, no cry, no crack, no rattle. After that first groan at the very beginning, a sound that had been more petulant about sleep disturbance than anything else, Bradford lay silent while the silent stroke sliced its way through his brain.

Bradford’s right arm was lying straight down at his side, under the sheet and the light summer blanket. Three minutes into the stroke, the covers were agitated in a small way, as though a mouse were ducking and rising under there. It was Bradford’s right hand, grasping. Opening and closing, grasping at the sheet, grasping at air, just grasping.

Starved cells begin to die after three minutes. If a cut-off supply of blood and oxygen is started up again in less than three minutes there will probably be a nearly complete recovery, which is the meaning of the term transient ischemic attack. But if the supply remains cut off longer than three minutes, brain cells begin to die. The knowledge, or training, or instinct, or motor control, or memory that they contain die with them. The process is irreversible, if the blockage lasts more than three minutes.

The area covered by the anterior cerebral artery contains cells charged with a variety of missions. The sensory area for the foot and leg are there, as well as the motor area for the foot and leg and urinary bladder. The supplementary motor area for the grasp reflex and the sucking reflex are here, and so are memory areas, and areas of thought processes. The supply of oxygenated blood to all of these areas had been cut off now for nearly four minutes.

Bradford’s face, even in the uncertain pale reflected moonlight, now showed clear and distinct signs of the brutalization taking place within. The two sides of his face no longer matched. Whereas the left side looked much the same as it always had, the right side was a different face, and belonged to a far different man. A less intelligent man, a less confident man, a less healthy man. That side sagged, the skin looked gray and lumpy and not quite real, the mouth drooped down so much it looked like an expression of twisted bitterness, and saliva still trickled down into a growing damp circle on the sheet.

Bradford’s bowels and bladder released.

His right hand continued to scratch and contract under the covers, making a tiny gray sound in the silence.

The pressure of blood against the thrombus was pulsating and unyielding, it made a kind of soundless roar within the artery. From time to time the thrombus was pushed a tiny jerk forward, or around, but not free.

In the fifth minute, the thrombus gave ground again, and this time a thin trickle of blood found a channel between the blockage and the artery wall. A dribble of blood moved through the depleted artery, finding some cells dead, some dying, some severely injured, depending how close they were to other sources of blood. This fresh streamlet of blood drained off into brain cells and into sub-arteries.

The push of blood through the new channel increased, forcing the channel wider and wider. The clot was being slowly broken up, like an ice floe in spring. More blood rushed through the artery and across the surface of the brain, oxygenated blood bringing rescue where there was still life, bringing nothing where the cells had died.

For a long while, there was no visible change in Bradford’s exterior. The moon moved across the sky, changing the shape and position of the gray-green-blue-white trapezoid of light on the bedroom floor, but for a long while Bradford did not change in any way. His face remained two faces, and his right hand grasped at nothing.

Toward four o’clock, the right hand eased and slowed, and finally stopped. And very gradually the right side of Bradford’s face was beginning to regain its former appearance, the flesh slowly firming again, the twisted sagging mouth inching upward to its normal expression, the trickle of saliva ceasing.

By five o’clock, the stroke was over. Most of the thrombus had broken up and had been carried away on the now-normal stream of blood. The remainder of the clot had become too firmly wedged into the soft atherosclerotic formations on the artery wall, and would remain there until gradually worn away by the flow of blood, or until it hooked another thrombus traveling through the bloodstream, perhaps caused another attack, that one perhaps larger or smaller than this, perhaps fatal.

At eight-fifteen, Bradford awoke. He was annoyed to discover he’d soiled the sheets, but no more than annoyed. Not frightened, not surprised, not even very aware in any useful sense of what had happened. He stripped the bed, put his pajamas in with the rolled-up sheets, and took a shower. His limp was back, worse than at any of the other times, and it seemed as though he could feel the hot water less on his right leg and the right side of his face. But he paid no particular attention. And when he couldn’t seem to shave with his right hand, he simply did the job with his left, not even questioning the disability that had caused the change.

Before breakfast, he took his soiled linen to the laundry room off the kitchen and started it through the washing machine himself. Naturally, he spoke of it to no one.

The Last Race

1

THE HOUSE WAS A flurry of clean linen, the gravel drive was full of delivery vans, the cook was threatening to quit. She had lived through descents of Harrison and his tribe before, and she swore she would never go through it again. She stood in the kitchen, a buxom aggrieved Swedish woman all in white, and shook a wooden spoon under Evelyn’s nose. “No! Definitely no!”

A maid was simultaneously trying to tell her the men were here with the meat. “Well, you know where the freezer is,” Evelyn snapped at her, and as the maid went off biting her lips and blinking back tears Evelyn turned back to the cook and said, “I promise you we’re getting extra help. I promise you.”

“Extra help! Always! Never!”

Evelyn understood the cook to mean she was always promised extra help in emergencies but that the extra help never arrived. “This time,” she said, “we went straight to an agency in New York, and they guaranteed us help. From Wednesday, the day they get here, till Saturday, the day after they leave. One extra cook and four extra helpers. They guaranteed it, I promise they did. We’re even sending a car all the way to New York to get them and bring them here.”

The cook lowered her wooden spoon to half-mast, but then frowned and said, “Strangers? In my kitchen? An extra cook?”

But Evelyn was ready for that one. “Only for the children,” she said. “The extra cook will prepare the children’s food, so you won’t have to do any of that. And with Mr. Lockridge and myself there will only be nine adults.” And seven children, she didn’t add, hoping to keep the cook distracted from thinking about the youth invasion they were all about to undergo. She added quickly, “And you’ll remain in complete charge, of course. They all understand that, they’ve had that explained to them. You’ll be in complete and total charge.”

The cook was weakening, and when Evelyn saw her glance sidelong around at her kitchen she knew she’d won. The woman had been here nearly twenty years, she couldn’t leave her domain to strangers and barbarians. “Well,” she said reluctantly, grudgingly, “we’ll try it. For one day only.”

“That’s all I ask,” Evelyn said joyfully. “If it can’t be done, well, it just can’t be done. But anything you want, I’ll do my very best to get it for you. You know I’m on your side.”

“I know,” she said fatalistically. “I know it ain’t your fault. Or Mr. Lockridge either.”

“All any of us can do,” Evelyn said, propagandizing for the notion that they two were on the same team against the outsiders and should therefore stick together, “is our best.”

“Yes, Miss,” the cook said doubtfully, and Evelyn left the kitchen before she could reconsider.

It was amazing the turmoil the house was in, and doubly amazing when one considered the situation that had brought it all about. Except that it was the middle of the summer and the latter third of the twentieth century, they might have been in the middle of preparations for some sort of Dickensian clan-gathering Christmas feast. But all of this was merely because Bradford was engaged yet again in rescuing Harrison from the results of his folly.

Why Harrison insisted on traveling only with his complete family no one, least of all Evelyn, could say for sure. Particularly since so many members of it couldn’t stand one another. But when the Harrison Lockridges traveled they invariably traveled en masse, which meant Harrison and his wife Patricia, his two daughters, Martha Simcoe and Patricia Chatham, their husbands Earl Chatham and Maurice Simcoe, and all the available grandchildren, being twelve-year-old Bradford Chatham and the five Simcoe girls, ranging in age from sixteen to eight, and named Pam, Robin, Barbie, Tamara and Jackie. That was a total of twelve people, six adults and six children, and this time there would be one more adult, since Herbert Jarvis, Harrison’s brother-in-law and business partner, would be coming along as well.

Evelyn found herself grateful that Herbert Jarvis, now in his mid-fifties, had never married.

For some reason it never really mattered what the purpose for a family gathering might be, the fact of it was inescapably festive. It might even be a funeral they were all gathering for, but the inevitable bustle and scurry of preparation couldn’t help but give an overlay of holiday to the affair. So the fact that Harrison was coming here with his tail between his legs, a felony indictment at his heels, didn’t matter. Seven adults and six children were coming, and an atmosphere of cheerful confusion and expectation was willy-nilly engulfing the house.

Tomorrow. They were coming tomorrow, Wednesday, the eighteenth of July, and the house was nowhere near ready. Evelyn, trying to keep all the preparations in her head because she didn’t have time to sit down and write a list, prowled anxiously from room to room, knowing there were things she was forgetting. And to make matters worse, this time the whole thing was resting on her shoulders alone.

Usually Bradford would take charge in a situation like this, and she would act as his adjutant and assistant, but this time he was having no part of it. In the week since he’d returned from Paris he’d been increasingly irritable and remote, wanting nothing to do with the preparations for Harrison’s arrival. Evelyn supposed it was the reaction to his disappointment over the Paris trip—which seemed also to have left him very tired, with a weariness he couldn’t seem to shake—so she left him alone and did what she could herself. Bradford meanwhile could usually be found in the back library, reading.

Three rooms in the house had been set aside for books. Downstairs, in a windowless room in the middle of the house, was the room simply called the library, containing general non-fiction. Upstairs near the guest rooms, with windows overlooking the front drive, was the room called the upstairs library, the shelves lined with rapidly dating fiction. And also on the second floor, at the rear next to Bradford’s office, was the room called the back library, which was limited to books of a political nature.

It was in the back library that Bradford had been closeting himself this past week, and whenever Evelyn had entered the room he’d been sitting in the brown leather chair by the window, one book in his lap and half a dozen others stacked open on the table beside him. He frowned as he read, and was angry when interrupted.

Well, let him have his interval to himself. (He’d even managed to turn Howard away, via telephone, which no one had ever been able to do before.) He had had a disastrous time in Paris, and he was having an uncomfortable time coming up with Harrison, so he deserved this rest period in between.

It would end tomorrow.

ii

HE SENT THE BUS for them.

That had been a joke for years, that some trip he would send the bus for them, but he’d never seriously intended to do it, not till now. That showed more than anything else, Evelyn thought, just how troubled and angry Bradford was this time, and perhaps how much he was carrying forward his Paris disappointment and making Harrison pay for it.

The bus was an anomaly, an old brown monstrosity from the White Corporation, old enough to have a hood. It seemed to have been in the Army at one time, which explained the color and the white numbers stenciled on it here and there. It had appeared at Eustace at some point in Bradford’s Presidency, he was no longer sure when or why, and had just stayed. The registration seemed to be in Bradford’s name, there was room for it in the garage, and it even proved occasionally useful, so they’d never gotten rid of it. But in the ten or eleven years he’d had it, Bradford had never before sent it to Hagerstown to pick up Harrison.

He seemed to take a kind of angry pleasure in the thought of Harrison and the bus. “He’ll ride it,” he told Evelyn. “I wouldn’t ride it, I’d take one look and be on the next plane back home. Sterling wouldn’t ride it, he’d send it back empty and hire two cars right there at the airport and come on out here and never say a word about it. But Harrison will ride it.”

Evelyn didn’t say anything. She knew Harrison could be taken advantage of, everybody knew that. He wouldn’t be coming here if it hadn’t happened to him again. But Bradford had never been angry enough at Harrison before to rub his nose in it, and if he was now it meant the three days of the visit were going to be even worse than she’d supposed. Because Patricia wouldn’t stand for it. Patricia, Harrison’s wife, was the strength in the family, and she defended Harrison with grim fury and no regard for rules. She would take the bus, mostly because Harrison would be afraid not to, but she wouldn’t like it and she wouldn’t let it end there. And if Bradford’s treatment of Harrison was going to be harsh, Patricia’s treatment of Bradford would be a lot harsher.

There were two Patricias coming, of course, the other being Patricia Chatham, Harrison’s older daughter. Here and there throughout the family were boys and men named after their fathers, from Eddie Lockridge in Paris to BJ in Washington; it was somehow appropriate that Harrison would have a daughter named after his wife.

And the Patricias were as alike as two tigresses in the same cage, the daughter just as grim, just as wary, just as quick to offense as her mother. They hated one another, naturally; there hadn’t been one visit here that Harrison’s wife and older daughter had not had at least one screaming vicious up-and-down the stairs door-slamming fight. And all with Earl Chatham, the son-in-law, as ineffective at controlling Patricia junior as Harrison himself was with Patricia senior; Earl would be going around with a pained smile on his face while occasionally making inept passes at Evelyn. (He’d made them while Fred was alive, too.)

Would the presence of the elder Patricia’s brother, Herbert Jarvis, alter the pattern this time? Evelyn doubted it; Herbert was Harrison’s business partner, who had somehow managed to remain uninvolved in the family squabbles over the years, living in the calm eye of the storm and concerning himself completely with business affairs, an arrangement he would have no reason to want to change now.

And the final two adults? These were Harrison’s younger daughter Martha, and her husband Maurice Simcoe. Martha, for all the thirty-eight years of her life so far, had been terrorized by her sister and mother, both of whom used her as a scratching post between bouts with one another, and the result was a silent nervous woman, eager to please but fumble-fingered in every way.

Well, not every way. In one area she was as precise and methodical as a Swiss clockmaker. Her eldest daughter, Pam, had been born sixteen years ago on the seventh of June. Two years later, Robin was born on the twenty-third of June. Another two years and Barbie was born, on the sixteenth of June. Two years more and Tamara was born, on June third. And finally, two years after that, eight years ago, Jackie was born on June ninth. As Howard once said, “Don’t ever call the Simcoe house in September.” He also claimed it was the most literal interpretation of the phrase planned parenthood in the history of the human race.

The husband of this maternal metronome, Maurice Simcoe, was a stout balding man who owned a string of drugstores scattered around all the poorer suburbs of Los Angeles. He was silent. Wellington Lockridge might be invisible, as Evelyn had just recently discovered, but Maurice Simcoe was silent. One was always aware of him, sitting in an easy chair in a corner, a newspaper folded in his lap, a cigar jutting from the corner of his mouth, a faraway look on his face. What was he thinking of? September? No one had ever found out.

A charming group of guests, all in all, and that was only the adults. As to the children, the Simcoe girls were merely the identical brat in five different sizes. They fought constantly, and always about the same thing: who owned what. Their craving for possessions was permanently unassuaged, and in her mind’s eye Evelyn saw a composite Simcoe girl sitting on a bare wood floor, surrounded by broken toys of all descriptions, as many as possible of which she was enfolding in her arms or holding down with her legs, while she bared her teeth in a snarl at the world. Pam, Robin, Barbie, Tamara, Jackie. How hopeful the names were, their mother’s vain attempt to assure herself children who wouldn’t bully her as her sister and mother had done. Completely vain; all five bullied her.

And the sixth child, Bradford Chatham. Evelyn couldn’t help liking him, by which she meant she couldn’t help pitying him. Earl Chatham, four years younger than his wife, had been Patricia Chatham’s revenge against her first husband, John Kent, for not only leaving her but taking their two sons with him. (The family had persuaded her that John did have the goods on her, and a court fight would get her a black eye, but not the children.) And Bradford Chatham was the replacement of those sons, a child she didn’t really want but whom she had to have in order to prove a point. Named after Bradford for all the wrong reasons, just as he had been conceived for all the wrong reasons, and ignored ever since, young Bradford at twelve was a skinny silent child behind huge hornrimmed glasses, who lived his life in books and who flinched when he heard an adult voice. His mother was impatient at his existence and his father was embarrassed by it, and the result was that a period of time spent in young Bradford’s presence always left Evelyn emotionally drained.

As she waited now for the return of the bus, Evelyn felt a little knot of tension forming between her shoulder blades. It would form in any case, the next three days would be dreadful in any case, but she had done what she could.

The extra help was here, five domestics from an agency in New York. Evelyn had given all five of them a welcoming-cum-warning speech, and then the regular cook gave a long loud Swedish-accented speech which in essence said, “This is my kitchen.” No one disputed her, all five promptly obeyed the orders she gave them, and it was beginning to look as though she might stay after all. So the servant situation seemed to be well in hand.

Now for the guests.

iii

PATRICIA WAS THE FIRST one off the bus. “At first,” she said coldly, not looking directly at either Bradford or Evelyn, “I thought we were being arrested and taken to a concentration camp. But apparently not.” She looked around in the sunlight at the house and the grounds, the servants waiting to carry luggage, Bradford and Evelyn, and behind her the bus, from which came the clamor of squalling children. “Do we sleep in the main house?”

Evelyn had expected Bradford would answer her, but the silence continued five seconds, ten seconds, and when she glanced sideways at Bradford she saw that he wasn’t going to say anything to Patricia at all. He wasn’t even looking at her, he was looking at the bus, his eyes half-closed in the direct sunlight and with something like the beginnings of an amused smile lurking at the corners of his mouth.

The silence was becoming painful, a physical ordeal. Patricia was glaring at Bradford. Behind her, Harrison was just descending from the bus, a nervous smile on his face.

It was far too late to answer Patricia now, but Evelyn did so nevertheless, suddenly blurting, “Of course, Aunt Patricia!” And as Patricia snapped a look at her as though she were a servant who had suddenly spoken without having been spoken to, Evelyn added lamely, “We thought, Bradford thought the children might enjoy the bus.”

“Bradford was wrong,” she said coldly, but her words were over-ridden by her husband, who had now stepped down onto the gravel and was coming smiling forward, his eyes hidden behind California sunglasses but the nervousness evident anyway in his mouth, saying, “Hello, Brad! Beautiful weather! We had beautiful weather from coast to coast!” He pumped Bradford’s hand, while Bradford stood looking at him, the smile now fully in possession of his face, both amused and sardonic.

Herbert Jarvis was coming next. A stocky graying man of fifty-six, his long-time California residence was reflected in his tan, his sunglasses and his inevitable bright-hued tie and shirt (today’s were predominantly gold and rust), while his East Coast origins were displayed in the stolid dark grayness of his suit, the conservativeness of his plain-toed oxford shoes and his insistence on wearing a hat. The hat was in his hand as he stepped down from the bus now, but he put it on and removed the sunglasses instead as he came forward to shake Bradford’s hand. Out from behind the green glass, his eyes looked pale and weak, as though they’d been underwater too long.

“Bradford,” he said, taking the hand that Harrison had reluctantly given up. Harrison was looking more nervous than ever now, having gotten nothing from Bradford but that odd smile, and he was making quick jumpy head moves as he tried to watch Bradford and Patricia simultaneously. Patricia was still glaring at Bradford’s profile, but with something slightly uncertain beginning to creep into her expression.

“Herbert,” Bradford said, and continued to smile, and Evelyn looked at him in even greater surprise, wondering if Bradford could possibly be consciously mocking Herbert’s style of greeting. (The inevitable Herbert Jarvis salutation was one’s own name, announced as though it were a stop on a commuter line, and unattached to any sentence, as though Herbert considered it greeting enough to acknowledge the other person’s existence.)

“If someone would show us to our rooms,” Patricia said.

Evelyn said, “Oh, yes! It’s the same ones as always, Aunt Patricia. I’ll show you. The servants will bring up the luggage.”

“Naturally,” Patricia said.

Evelyn understood that Patricia would now savage her, Evelyn, for a while, to make up for having had no effect on Bradford. Retaliation, even self-defense, were obviously impossible, since she wasn’t equipped to fight in Patricia’s league, but there was no reason she couldn’t remain calm. It was easy to allow oneself to be rattled by Patricia, but unnecessary. When a person is always attacking, they need no longer be taken seriously after a while.

She led the way now to the house, but let the guests make their own way upstairs. These advents were fairly frequent, two or three times a year, so the same guests were given the same rooms as a matter of routine, and by now none of them needed to be shown.

Except Herbert, of course, who had only been here three or four times in his life. Evelyn sent him up with a maid to show him his room. She pretended, of course, not to see the pat Herbert gave the maid’s behind as they went up the stairs, but her heart sank at this reminder of their extra guest’s proclivities. Herbert, unlike many men who have never married, was neither a latent homosexual nor low in sex drive. The business world was his wife—as the military world was BJ’s—but Herbert supplemented that wife with a string of mistresses and a longer string of passing amours, these latter frequently among the ranks of maids, waitresses, carhops, usherettes and (if a story of Howard’s was to be believed) at least one lady cabdriver. Don’t let him cause trouble among the servants, Evelyn thought. And especially not the cook.

Meanwhile the guests were still streaming in. Herbert had followed Harrison and Patricia, and now Patricia Chatham came in, complaining in a low harsh voice to her husband Earl, who was wearing his usual pained smile. He seemed always on the verge of apologizing to the world in general for his wife’s bad disposition. A tall and slender man of thirty-eight, Earl Chatham had soft blond hair on a narrow fine-boned head and a soft blond slender moustache above the deprecatory smile of his mouth. He looked like someone who wanted to look like an RAF spitfire pilot but who didn’t quite have the strength of character to bring it off.

This Patricia looked like the other Patricia, but eighteen years younger. Both were rigorously slender and sharp-featured, both dressed stylishly but somehow aggressively, and both were, always spoiling for a fight, their rather hawklike good looks marred slightly by a deep vertical line of frowning discontent on both foreheads.

Their voices were alike, too. Evelyn couldn’t make out the words Patricia Chatham was saying, but the inflections were just like the mother’s. She forced herself to smile at the Chathams anyway, saying, “Hello, Patricia. Hello, Earl.”

Patricia ignored her, exactly as though no one were standing there at all, but Earl, his pained smile a little more pained, waved over Patricia’s head en passant and said, “Hallo, Evie. Good to see you again.” He was the only one who had ever called her Evie, a name about which Evelyn’s feelings were ambivalent.

“Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, my love.”

Bradford Chatham, age twelve, trailed in after his parents, who had now started up the stairs. “Hello, Aunt Evelyn,” he said apologetically, as though despite all his best endeavors he had just now yet again filled his pants. He was holding to his chest, one finger inserted to mark his place, the paperback reprint of a Eugene Burdick novel.

“Hello, Bradford,” Evelyn said, resisting an impulse to pat his head, and watched the skinny bespectacled kid trudge up the stairs in his parents’ wake. Thank God, she thought, for Gutenberg.

No one left but the Simcoes. The five daughters, ranging in age from eight to sixteen, burst in all together, squalling and yowling at one another. They passed Evelyn without noticing her, being too passionately involved in their intramural struggle, and crash-banged up the stairs like an animated wool tangle falling up. They were followed by their mother, Martha Simcoe, who came in stoop-shouldered and apologetic, blinking and saying, “Hello, Evelyn. If there’s anything I can do, just let me know.”

“I will,” Evelyn promised. The first few times Martha’d taken her through this ritual, Evelyn had pointed out that in a houseful of servants there was little enough for the hostess to do, much less anything for a helpful-minded guest, but as Martha persisted in the offer Evelyn had come to understand it was a kind of nervous tic, the necessary price of admission. Offer to work, and maybe they’ll let us stay. These days, Evelyn merely accepted and then neither she nor Martha ever made reference to it again.

The yowling of the Simcoe girls reached a sudden crescendo at the top of the stairs, and Martha gave a jangled jump and muttered, “Oh, those kids. Excuse me, Evelyn.”

“Of course.”

“We’ll talk—I so want to—” She was hurrying toward and then up the stairs, moving with short rapid worried steps, dropping in her wake short apologetic sentence fragments. “I’m sure we’ll—such a long trip—they’ll be all right when—”

They would never be all right, and everyone knew it. Evelyn turned back to the door, and now servants were coming in, carrying luggage. Amid them came Maurice Simcoe, almost disappearing in their midst, a slow-moving portly silent man never without his cigar. “Hello, Maurice,” Evelyn said, and Maurice took his cigar from his mouth but didn’t say anything. He never said anything. He bowed his head at Evelyn and sailed on for the stairs, still surrounded by servants, a trout in a school of perch. Howard, having once seen Maurice sit silent and impervious among his five daughters for over an hour, had come to the conclusion that he was a deaf-mute, and refused to consider any other explanation. Evelyn knew that Maurice Simcoe could both hear and speak when he chose to, but he chose to so seldom that it was a temptation to believe that Howard was right.

Bradford himself came in last. He’d stood out there to the end, greeting each of them as they’d emerged from the bus, like a minister at the church door after Sunday service, except that his smile had contained more a touch of the diabolical than the holy, and now he came in from the sunlight, the same smile still on his face, and quietly closed the door behind him. He looked at Evelyn and said, in the manner of a quiet observation, “Well, they’re here.”

“They certainly are,” Evelyn said.

“I will see you at dinner,” Bradford said.

“Where will you be before? Just in case I need you.”

“In the back library. But don’t need me.”

Evelyn wasn’t sure the smile on Bradford’s lips was directed at her—he seemed to be smiling about something private, inside his own head—but she answered it with one of her own anyway, saying, “I’ll try not to.”

“Good.” He nodded—that seemed a distant gesture, too, as though he’d caught from Harrison’s family the trick of never quite acknowledging Evelyn’s existence—and went on down the hall. He would take the back stairs, to avoid running into any of his guests.

Evelyn watched him go, her expression troubled. Bradford was in a mood she’d never seen before, both remote and hostile and yet at the same time full of a pushing kind of good humor. It was probably the combination of the Paris mess with the Harrison mess right on top of it, and she hoped it wouldn’t result in his making these three days even more difficult for Harrison—and everybody else—than they would be anyway.

Thinking enviously that the back library was soundproofed, Evelyn went off to see how the uneasy truce was surviving in the kitchen.

iv

AFTER DINNER, BRADFORD AND Harrison went for a talk into the green study, a small room on the first floor, facing the orchards and the farther off woods and the distant mountains to the rear of the house. Patricia went with her husband, of course, and the rest of the family scattered to its various concerns. Dinner had been a strained affair, in the downstairs dining room overlooking Dinah’s garden, but it had at least not been calamitous. Martha Simcoe and Earl Chatham had made most of the abortive attempts at starting a lighthearted general conversation, with Evelyn dragging herself in to help them from time to time against her sure knowledge that nothing would do any good. Rage simmered beneath the surface here and there around the table, and everyone was aware of it, but it stayed beneath the surface for now, and that was blessing enough. Also, there was so far no trouble in the kitchen.

Evelyn stayed in the general vicinity of the green study after Bradford and Harrison and Patricia went into it, both because of her worry about Bradford’s odd manner—the smile had been gone at dinner, replaced by a grim silence—but also because Earl Chatham had already started his routine doomed flirtation with her. It wasn’t that Earl was hard to resist, but that he was too easy to resist, that he padded on with such a strained smile and apologetic manner of bruised self-mockery that after a while he began to affect Evelyn exactly as did his son, making such urgent demands on her pity that it became physically painful to be in either male Chatham’s presence.

There was a distraction from thoughts of Earl almost immediately after Bradford and Harrison and Patricia closed the green study door behind them. Loud voices sounded through that door, loud and angry, male and female both. The thick door muffled the meaning of the words, but the general message was clear: Bradford and Patricia were fighting.

Don’t let him have an attack, Evelyn thought, remembering that his first attack, five months ago, had also been in the presence of Harrison and Patricia. At the same time, she was relieved that the tension had boiled over so soon, which might clear the air. It would ultimately have been worse for Bradford—for everybody—if all the rages had continued to simmer for another day or two.

The shouting the other side of that door went on and on, both voices frequently sounding simultaneously, striving to drown one another out. Evelyn waited around indecisively in the hall, not too close to the door, half-expecting and half-dreading a sudden silence, the door thrown open, her own name called. By Patricia? More likely by Harrison.

She hadn’t heard Bradford angry like this for several years. In his days in active politics he had been known as a man slow to anger but capable of cold violent rages. This shouting now brought back to Evelyn dim memories of other such incidents, with family members or political associates or White House staff, during Bradford’s tense four years as President.

The door flung open. Evelyn stopped where she was, mouth open, waiting for the call.

It didn’t come. Patricia appeared in the doorway, hand on the knob as she glared back into the room. “I’ll talk to you later! Harrison? Are you listening to me?” Through Harrison’s embarrassed mumbled reply, Evelyn heard the echo of Patricia’s daughter saying the same thing to Earl this afternoon, coming into the house. “Are you listening to me?” Same voice, same inflection, same intensity. Did the two Patricias really believe they had to force the world to attend them, did they really appear that colorless in their own eyes?

Patricia stepped out to the hall and pulled the door closed not quite hard enough to be called a slam. It was clear now what had happened; Bradford had thrown her out, had insisted on talking to Harrison alone. Patricia wouldn’t take that kind of defeat kindly.

She moved away from the door and saw Evelyn, and her mouth twisted. “Well, you little snoop, get an earful?”

“And a bellyful, Aunt Patricia,” Evelyn said. She frequently thought of things like that, infrequently said them. Tension helped bring them to the surface. But even now, tense and angry, she couldn’t put the broken glass into her voice that Patricia quite naturally had in her’s. Evelyn’s statement had been soft-voiced, calm, it slid past Patricia’s sharp face without a mark.

Or did it? Patricia stopped long enough to look Evelyn up and down, and say, “Belly? I didn’t know you had a belly.”

Why was it that the more obscure an insult the more sharply it was felt? Possibly because apparent non sequiturs are impossible to answer. Evelyn understood that Patricia had been making a slighting reference to Evelyn’s sex life—her capacity for a sex life, perhaps—and the remark stung much more than if it had been a direct explicit statement. Also, where was her defense? What was her sex life, that it should be immune to sneers? One bored Frenchman in nearly three years.

Evelyn stood in helpless silence while Patricia stalked away, and it wasn’t till she was out of sight that Evelyn said, softly, “I didn’t know you had ears.” Another near non sequitur, but also relevant, if one cared to look for the meaning. Somehow, though, Evelyn doubted that Patricia, had she heard it, would have felt crushed.

v

THE NEXT AFTERNOON, THURSDAY, Evelyn went riding alone. To get away from Earl in particular, who was being more morbidly persistent than ever this trip and who was afraid of horses, and to get away from the family in general. There was nothing new or different about this visit, they were all following their normal behavior patterns, but for some reason it was all much more intense this time than it had ever been before. Possibly because of Bradford, whose manner continued to alternate between two poles of aloofness; a remote sardonic amusement and a closed grim silence.

Whatever the reason, everyone was being more himself, more herself, the tensions were tighter, the flare-ups were faster and harsher, and Evelyn found her nerves steadily fraying more and more.

Not only because of Earl, who was prowling after her this time with a kind of morose urgency, fitfully lit by self-scorning humor. There was also Martha, whose panicky desire to please, to do something, to somehow pay her dues so she could feel like a full-fledged member, was driving her harder than ever before. This was the first time she’d ever invaded the kitchen, which she’d done today after lunch, rattling both herself and the staff with her compulsion to be useful in some sort of domestic way. (It was also the first time Evelyn had discovered that Martha was as harsh and domineering toward servants as her family was toward her, a discovery that made sense but which had surprised and shocked Evelyn nevertheless.) It had taken Evelyn most of an hour to calm the cook’s ruffled feathers, and even now there was no assurance that Martha would not once again enter the kitchen nor that the cook would not finally leave it.

The two Patricias were at one another almost exclusively now, with only occasional negligent sideswipes at their respective husbands, neither of whom had the inclination to pay much attention. The declared object of the women’s battle was poor little Bradford Chatham. The elder Patricia had attacked the boy for some failing or some misdemeanor, and the younger Patricia leaped to her son’s defense with a determination that fooled no one about her true feelings toward the boy, including young Bradford himself. Fortunately the battle didn’t require his presence, and except for mealtimes he could be found in the upstairs library, devouring the fiction there. Almost any world, it seemed, was better than his own.

The other children, the five Simcoe girls, normally squalls, were now a fullfledged hurricane. The tensions and panics of the adults had communicated themselves to the children, who reacted with their own tensions and panics, so that at least one of the girls was wailing at all times. They’d started to turn their attentions on young Bradford at one point, invading the upstairs library for the purpose, but Evelyn had astonished everybody—including herself—by lashing out at them like a lioness protecting her cub, and the girls had retired, surprised but wary, and had left the boy alone since.

Evelyn’s own child, Dinah, was being kept segregated in her own quarters, with the nurse. Evelyn had spent some time there yesterday evening, after the run-in with Patricia, and had also dropped in twice today, and Dinah seemed just as glad for the isolation. In the past, the Simcoe girls had never looked upon her as anything but a smaller antagonist, which had baffled Dinah’s gentle and reserved nature, and now she expressed no desire to renew the acquaintance.

Evelyn herself found Dinah’s quiet corner of the house a refuge of sanity in trying times, and never more so than right now. The complexities of strengths given and received that made up her relationship with Bradford were echoed, perhaps even more complexly, in her relationship with her daughter. While it was true that Bradford was the center of Evelyn’s life, Evelyn was in turn the center of Dinah’s, and it was as important to her to be needed by her child as to need her grandfather.

The solitary nature of their life here in Eustace held Evelyn and Dinah together even more than in the usual mother-daughter relationship, but Evelyn kept the arrangement from becoming cloying by always remembering to maintain the age difference between them. She neither asked Dinah to mimic a grown-up companion nor did she herself counterfeit childhood. When she did—at Dinah’s request—enter into the child’s games, it was never with artificially heightened enthusiasm. The result was, they were comfortable with one another, and Evelyn had come to count on an hour or so with Dinah as a sure antidote to confusion or depression or a bad case of nerves. Or a houseful of Harrison’s branch of the family. Whenever possible now, Evelyn took herself away to Dinah’s play room, where she could be safe from the adults just as Dinah was safe from the children, or more particularly from the Simcoe girls.

Simcoe père, Maurice, was more invisible than ever, barely coming out of his room for meals. There was a particular chair in the front parlor where he usually spent his visits here, but not this time. A maid Evelyn had questioned told her that Maurice Simcoe was sitting in an equivalent chair in his room, not doing anything, not watching television or reading or talking to anyone, but merely sitting there, gazing mildly at the far wall, his cigar held loosely between the first and second fingers of his left hand.

The same maid had earlier come to Evelyn with an apologetic and embarrassed complaint; Herbert Jarvis’s seductive techniques, never particularly subtle, had escalated to something approaching rape. The girl was sorry, but she wouldn’t want to have to be around Mr. Jarvis any more.

Well, Herbert was having problems, too. Bradford wasn’t speaking to him. He had closed himself with Harrison after dinner yesterday, and he’d closed himself with Harrison after lunch again today—Patricia was still being excluded—and it had become obvious that whatever consultation Bradford would engage in concerning the mess Harrison and Herbert found themselves in would be limited exclusively to Harrison. Herbert was not a blood relation, only an in-law, and not highly thought of at that. Bradford was not going to take him into consideration at all.

Which was a harshness unusual in Bradford, but not unheard of. During the second Presidential campaign, one of the Party leaders had made what Bradford considered a grievous tactical error—though no one before or since blamed that one error for the loss of the election—and for the rest of the campaign that man ceased for Bradford to exist. He was frequently in the same room with Bradford during planning sessions—ten or twelve or fifteen men discussing a specific problem, frequently in a hotel room—and Bradford neither spoke to the man nor heard anything he might say. By the middle of October, the man had stopped coming around.

The tactic had seemed harsh but just in the context of a Presidential campaign. Under the present circumstances, it seemed unnecessarily severe. But then again, everything was being unnecessarily severe these few days.

But nothing, including Bradford’s treatment of him, justified Herbert’s treatment of the maid. Evelyn was determined that he should stop it, but she knew it would do no good to talk to him directly. Herbert had the lecher’s belief that women were objects without brains, to whom it was never necessary to listen. So she would go to Harrison, when his current session with Bradford was done, and warn him that if he didn’t get Herbert to stop she would have to report the matter to Bradford. That should solve it.

If only the whole situation were as easily solved. But at least it could be escaped, temporarily. Evelyn took Jester, one of her particular favorites from the stable, and went riding in the woods, relishing the freedom, the air, the illusion of motion.

Just as there were no surprises from the people now staying at the house, there were no surprises for Evelyn wherever she might ride on the estate. The woods, the orchards, the meadows were all known and already well-traveled by her in previous outings. There was always a faint air of confinement when she took rides like this, and that too was intensified in the present situation. She felt vaguely imprisoned, limited somehow to a defined circle in which she endlessly moved, so that Jester’s hoofs didn’t really make prints in the soft ground but rather fit neatly into old prints already there. The largest prison exercise yard in the world, she thought grimly, but then the overstatement of the thought broke her mood and she smiled at herself. Prison? Where were the locks, then? Where were the bars?

She came at last to the vanished old town in the middle of the woods, and paused to look around again at the last traces of stone walls, hints of a life now gone. This time it didn’t seem to her sad, this place, but rather restful. Their problems are over, she thought, and then laughed at herself for that thought, too. I seem to be full of self-pity today, she thought, and ironically, I wonder why? Then Robert Pratt entered her mind, he being the last person she’d been to this spot with, and she thought, why didn’t he ever call me?

Which was the most stupid thought of all. Why should he have called? They had only met once, and of course he had his own life to live. Still, she had half-expected for a week or so that he would phone, and now two months later it was still possible to be sharply disappointed that he had not.

Sunlight. She despised self-pity, and knew it could usually be combated by applications of direct sunlight, so she heeled Jester into a trot again, leading him out of the soft dim moist woods and the mulch-buried town, out onto a long rolling green meadow in dazzling sunlight, wild flowers in careless commas scattered over the green, flies humming in the hot clear air.

“Life could be goddam beautiful!” she cried aloud, angry and miserable because it was not, and heel-thudded Jester into a long open gallop around the great circle once more.

vi

HARRISON WAS WAITING AT the stables, and caught her grimace on seeing him. Behind his sunglasses his expression was apologetic, but determined. He came over to where she was dismounting and said, “Evelyn, I have to talk to you.”

The groom took Jester’s reins and led him away. Evelyn said, “Uncle Harrison, you want me to say something to Bradford for you. But it won’t do any good.”

“You’re the only one who can talk to him,” Harrison said. She had never seen him this frightened before, and the realization of the depth of his urgency startled her. He went on, “I can’t talk to him. I don’t know what’s happened, he just won’t listen to me. But he’ll listen to you.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Will you try? Will you let me tell you what’s going on, and then will you try? No, don’t even promise that yet. Just let me tell you my side of it. Then, if you want, you talk to Brad. All right?”

Evelyn hesitated. She didn’t want to get involved in this, she thought by now it was due to get worse before it got better, but it was hard to resist so naked and defenseless an appeal. “I’ll make a bargain with you,” she said. “I wanted to talk to you about something else. About Herbert. If you’ll talk to Herbert, I’ll do what I can with Bradford.”

“Herbert?” For just a second it seemed as though the name really didn’t mean anything to Harrison, that he’d put his partner and brother-in-law out of his mind just as completely as Bradford had done. But then, with a kind of panicky irritation, his face distorted in an expression the camel might have worn as the last straw was put on, and he said, “What now? Herbert? What’s the matter now?”

“He attacked one of the girls.” She would normally have phrased it less melodramatically, but she could see it wasn’t going to be easy to hold Harrison’s attention. Now, while she had it, she said, “He must stop it, Harrison. This was worse than any of the other times. If I have to ask Bradford to put him out, I will, but I don’t want to have to go that far.”

“Good God!” Even through the sunglasses Harrison’s eyes could be seen popping. “He didn’t really attack her, did he?”

“I’d rather not go into the details,” she said. “But as the girl described it to me, there really isn’t any other word for it.”

“A little pat—I know Herbert sometimes—”

“Not a little pat. A lot of clutching. A lot of quite serious clutching and disarrangement of clothing.”

“I—Well.” Harrison’s hands moved vaguely, he looked to left and right at the stables, the road, the woods. “I don’t know why he’d do it,” he said, in a kind of trailing hopeless voice. “Had he been drinking?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry to have to bother you with this, I realize you’re overburdened as it is, but I simply cannot have Herbert driving the servants away when we have thirteen guests in the house.”

“Thirteen?” Harrison seemed startled, and then amused in a fatalistic manner, by the number. “Well, that’s appropriate, isn’t it? Yes, I’ll talk to him. He won’t bother any of the girls any more, I promise you.”

Having intimidated Harrison into quelling Herbert for her, Evelyn at once felt guilty, and tried to make up for it by saying, “Now it’s your turn.”

“Yes.” But his train of thought was broken now, he had too many problems to concentrate on all at once, and he just stood there in the sunlight with a helpless look on his face.

Evelyn said, “Shall we start for the house? We could take the path around by the pond, that way’s shadier.” And more roundabout, to give him plenty of time to say what he had to say.

“Yes, fine,” he said, and they started off, he in casual flannels and a colorful shirt, she in her riding clothes.

They were well in under the trees before Harrison spoke, and then he began with a question: “Has Brad said anything to you about all this?”

“Not really,” she said. “He doesn’t talk to me about serious problems very much.”

“He didn’t say he was ready to dump me, eh?”

She gave him a surprised look, but he was simply moving along at their slow pace, his worried eyes on the shaded path ahead of them. “Of course not,” she said. “Why would he have you come here? I mean, besides the fact that he’d never even think of such a thing.”

“Then I just don’t know,” Harrison said, and stopped, and looked hard at her. He was still wearing his sunglasses even here under the trees, but Evelyn could nevertheless see the intensity of his gaze. “Is he serious?” he demanded. “He can’t be, he has to know it’s no good. All I could think of was, it’s the brush-off.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Uncle Harrison.”

“Of course not,” he said, and offered her a shaky apologetic smile and a brief touch on the arm. “I’m sorry, Evelyn, my mind’s just running around in circles. I can’t think why Brad would want to give me such a bad time. He hasn’t said anything to you at all?”

“Not a thing,” she said. “But if he’s being less—understanding than usual, it might be because of Paris.”

At his questioning look, she went on to tell him about the outcome of Bradford’s series of meetings with the Chinese official, and how the news about Harrison had fit into his homecoming. He listened with his mouth twisted in irritation, and at the finish he burst out, “You mean I’m getting my head beat in because of some lousy China-man?”

“I suppose that’s part of it,” she said, not reminding him that the rest of it was his own insistence on riding with George Washington, California, all the way to Armageddon.

“If that doesn’t beat everything,” he said, pacing back and forth on the narrow path amid the trees while Evelyn stood and watched him. “Some Chinaman plays him for a sucker and I get to be the whipping boy!”

“What is he doing, Uncle Harrison?”

“I’ll tell you what he’s doing,” Harrison said. He was really angry now, though Evelyn suspected the anger was at least half relief at finally understanding the cause of his brother’s treatment of him. “He’s throwing me to the wolves, that’s what he’s doing.”

“He wouldn’t. You know him better than that.”

“I don’t believe I know him at all,” Harrison said. “Not that man, not the one up there now. I’ve never seen that one before in my life.”

“Well, what is he doing? Is he refusing to help you?”

“Oh, no.” Harrison was luxuriating in the permission to be angry, and was even indulging now in sarcasm. “He’ll help me, all right. He’ll help me all the way to the chopping block. You know what his idea is?”

“No, I don’t.”

“The Harrison Lockridge Memorial,” he said, rolling the syllables out with exaggerated contempt. “Could you believe that? The Harrison Lockridge Memorial. And do you know what the Harrison Lockridge Memorial is supposed to be?”

“No.”

“Four hundred miles of pipe,” he said. Waving his arms in the air, he cried, “The goddam Big Inch, that’s what it is!”

Evelyn frowned at him, bewildered. “I don’t understand.”

“The idea is,” he said, “Brad’s studied the maps, and he’s got us a water supply. The only problem is, it’s four hundred miles away. So what are we supposed to do? According to him, we’ll make a public announcement that we made a mistake about their being a big enough water supply right at the townsite, but we want to make up for it by putting in a four-hundred-mile pipeline from this Lake Whatever-it-is at our own expense! Can you imagine that?”

“At whose own expense?”

“Me!” Harrison struck himself in the chest, outraged all over again at the thought. “The whole syndicate is supposed to join me, of course, that’s part of his scheme, too, but you know how much chance there is of that happening?”

“None, I should think,” Evelyn said.

“You’re damn right, none. And even if they were big enough fools to go into this with me, do you realize how much four hundred miles of pipeline would cost? Pumping stations, it isn’t just a hole in the ground and a piece of pipe in it, it’s a major operation. He says take it out of the profit we made on the town, but all together we didn’t come away with a tenth what that pipeline would cost, not a tenth.”

Evelyn said, “I don’t understand that.”

“God damn it, Evelyn, neither do I. I expected Brad to be sore at me, he warned me, God knows, he showed me a way out back in February, but I was just too dumb to listen. I wouldn’t blame him being sore at me, but for God’s sake there comes a time to be serious, to get down to the problem at hand, and he just won’t do it. What’s he up to? He can’t mean this pipeline business, it’s a pipe dream, it isn’t practical no matter how you look at it. So why does he stay with it, why won’t he talk to me brother to brother? Why can’t I get through to him this time?”

“I don’t know,” Evelyn said, frowning in true bewilderment. A four-hundred-mile pipeline really wasn’t a practical solution to the problem, and she couldn’t understand Bradford’s having mentioned it at all, much less sticking to it as the one and only answer. No wonder Harrison was so upset, no wonder he was beginning to believe Bradford had chosen this way to brush him off, that this time Bradford had decided not to help him out of his jam after all.

But that couldn’t be the case. Evelyn knew Bradford had not been happy about Harrison’s latest disaster, but he had surely been resigned from the outset to play his usual role, stepping in at the last minute to save Harrison from the results of his actions. So this pipeline idea couldn’t be merely a not-too-subtle way to refuse to take part, since Evelyn was certain Bradford had never for an instant considered not taking part.

But the pipeline suggestion couldn’t be serious, either. Bradford’s great strength was his practicality, it was his awareness of the possible that made him not only the acknowledged head of the family but for four years had made him the acknowledged head of the entire United States and by extension a good third of the population of the world. “Politics is the doctrine of the possible,” Bismarck had said, and it was his unswerving devotion to this doctrine that had made Bradford the great politician he had been and the strong family leader he still remained. So he couldn’t really intend Harrison to leave here the day after tomorrow and go build a four-hundred-mile pipeline.

Harrison was saying, “He won’t talk to Herb at all, he won’t even acknowledge his existence, so there’s nothing poor Herb can do to find out what’s going on and you can imagine how that’s driving him crazy. I’m not excusing him for going after the maid, but you can see where he might not be himself right now.”

It wasn’t that Herbert was not himself that Evelyn had objected to, but that he was so much more himself than ever before. She felt she’d already established the point, however, and didn’t want to distract the conversation from Bradford and the pipeline, so she said nothing.

Harrison said, “Patricia’s tried to talk to him, of course, you know Patricia, but he won’t say a word to her either. Oh, he’ll talk to her, but not about this mess, not a word about that. She’ll ask him a question, and it’s as if he didn’t even hear it. I’m the only one he’ll talk to, and all he’ll say to me is pipeline pipeline pipeline.”

Could Bradford be punishing him? Evelyn studied that possibility, and though it too seemed doubtful it was at least possible. Possible that Bradford had decided this time to teach Harrison a lesson, to give him nothing but this impractical suggestion until the last minute, until Saturday, day after tomorrow. Then, an hour or two before they were to leave, Bradford would call in Harrison and Herbert—and perhaps even Patricia—and then he would outline something sensible and practical they could do to wriggle themselves out of this mess.

It was a possibility, Bradford was surely angry enough this time and had the additional spur of the Paris fiasco to keep him on the boil, but Evelyn hoped it wasn’t true, because it was really very cruel. Of a piece with sending the bus. Harrison was too easy a target, it wasn’t like Bradford to engage in overkill like this.

She would have to find out, one way or the other. And stop Bradford, if she could. “I’ll talk to him,” she promised. “As soon as we get back.”

“Thank you, Evelyn.” He reached out and took her hand and held it for a moment in both of his. She was sure the gesture began naturally, but he became almost at once self-conscious, and prolonged it theatrically, spoiling it. Still holding her hand, he said, “And I’ll talk to Herbert. I’ll read him the riot act.”

“The rape act would be more like it,” Evelyn said.

They walked on through a brown path, sun-dappled and surrounded by thick-trunked trees. They walked in silence now, Evelyn going over and over the pipeline suggestion in her mind, trying to find some other explanation for it, and soon she heard the high-pitched squeals of children ahead.

It was the Simcoe girls, going for a swim in the pond, a natural body of water in a small meadow surrounded by woods but still relatively close to the house. All five were present, in bathing suits, like an illustrated lecture in female pubescence, ranging from skinny eight-year-old Jackie to lithe but well-developed sixteen-year-old Pam, with all stages in between. They were fighting over two objects at the moment, a blue-and-gold beach ball and an inflated inner tube.

Sitting in a folding chair well back from the water, wearing his inevitable suit but with the jacket open, a newspaper spread between his spread hands and a cigar stuck in his mouth, was the girls’ father, Maurice. He glanced across at Evelyn and Harrison as they followed the path in its skirting of the pond, and when Evelyn called, “Beautiful day,” he nodded soberly and went back to his paper.

There was a narrow strip of woods on the other side, separating pond from house, narrow enough to permit glimpses of the house through it. Once inside and among those trees, Harrison said softly, “Do you suppose God will forgive me for hoping at least one of them drowns?”

“God may wonder, as I do,” Evelyn said, “why you set your sights so low.”

They smiled at one another in an almost unprecedented moment of rapport, and walked on together to the house.

vii

BRADFORD WAS IN THE back library, reading G. A. Lipsky’s John Quincy Adams, His Theory and Ideas. Evelyn said, “Bradford? May I interrupt you?”

He glanced up at her, and she was surprised at the mildness in his eyes. The time spent up here apparently really did do him good, because right now there was nothing in his face at all to show the strain he’d been under recently or the crisis they were all currently living through. He said, “Of course, come in. Everything all right in the kitchen?”

“As long as we can keep Martha out,” she said. She shut the door and walked across the room toward him, saying, “You can tell me this is none of my business, if you want, but I want to talk to you about Uncle Harrison.”

He frowned slightly, but the mild expression remained and he made no objection.

“He’s really frightened,” she said. He was in one of the leather chairs near the windows. There was no direct sun, since these windows faced south, but the room was bright without artificial light. Evelyn sat in the other leather chair, so that when Bradford looked at her the left side of his face was in daylight and the right side was in semi-shadow. She said, “He’s afraid you’ve abandoned him this time.”

“He simply refuses to understand,” Bradford said softly. “I’ve never given him bad advice before. Why should I begin now?”

“He told me all you’ve suggested was some sort of four-hundred-mile pipeline.”

“Of course.” If he was surprised, it was only mildly so. Still soft-voiced, he said, “Those people need water, Evelyn.”

She looked at him, trying to understand. “You mean you’re serious? You really think that’s the thing for him to do?”

“I think it’s the thing for all of them to do,” Bradford said gently. “All of the speculators who made money from this operation.”

“But they won’t,” she said. “You know that, Bradford, you know what kind of men they are, they won’t agree to a thing like that.”

“Harrison must persuade them.”

“No one could persuade them,” she insisted. “Least of all Harrison. You do know that, Bradford, Harrison is just a puppy, that’s all he’s ever been. The only reason those men took him in with them was because of his relationship with you. He’s not a leader.”

“He comes from a family of leaders,” Bradford said. “His father was a leader. Both his grandfathers were leaders.”

“But we’re talking about Harrison.”

Doubt flickered briefly in his eyes, he seemed for just a second confused, but then he shook his head and said, “I know we’re talking about Harrison. And you know I want what’s best for Harrison. For all of us.”

“I know that,” she said, and behind the words she was trying to think of what she could say to him. He meant this pipeline suggestion, he was really serious about it. But how could he be? It didn’t make sense, that’s all. He’d got caught up in a wrong way of seeing things, and he hadn’t yet been able to break out of it. That happened to everybody at one time or another, it had happened to Bradford before, but she couldn’t remember it ever being this severe or for this long a period. One of his most useful characteristics was an exceptionally alert self-editor; he tended to find his own errors early, and correct them.

This time, he was going to need a little push from outside, she could see that. (As the pickets had pushed, toward the end of his Presidency? His error then had been global, the response vitriolic. He had changed courses at once, on seeing where he’d gone wrong, and had been accused of vacillation and opportunism by his opponents. Would an intransigent man, determined to pursue his erroneous course even if it led to general war, have been preferable? Evelyn had always doubted it.)

Her method of pushing Bradford into seeing his error would have to be gentler than the public reaction of a decade ago to that larger error. Cautiously she said, “But we have to stay within the realm of the possible, don’t we? Don’t we have to stay within the limits of what Harrison can do?”

“That’s his mistake,” Bradford said, holding up a warning finger. The book on Adams, closed and with a red leather bookmark sticking out like a tongue at one end, lay in his lap. “He thinks only of his limitations,” Bradford said, “and not of his potential. Harrison is sixty-four years old, Evelyn, he’s not a young man. A young man can be forgiven if he never raises his sights above money-making and selfish interests, but a man of sixty-four should have higher goals. What will Harrison leave behind him when he goes? Children and grandchildren? That isn’t enough, not for men like us, and not even if they were much better than the ones he has.”

Evelyn found herself smiling, thinking of the Simcoes and the Chathams, but when she saw that Bradford wasn’t returning the smile she sobered instantly.

Bradford said, “A man wants to feel that he has accomplished something in life, that the world is in some way a better place for his having lived in it. That he has affected it somehow. What is Harrison’s place in history? Merely that by the accident of biology he was the brother of an American President? Reflected glory won’t suffice, I don’t understand why he can’t see that.”

“He never wanted glory,” Evelyn said softly. “That isn’t Harrison’s way. All he’s ever wanted is to be treated like a grown-up. In fact, not even that, not even all the way to the grown-ups. He just wants to be allowed to play with the big boys.”

“That’s why I say,” Bradford insisted, his voice still low and gentle, “that he must raise his sights, while he still has some time left. And he’ll never get a greater opportunity than this. He has created a city in the wilderness, which in itself is an almost mythic accomplishment. He has named it after the father of our country, drawing a quite proper parallel. But his motives haven’t been the equivalent of his actions. George Washington, California, is a grand gesture, a noble act, but engaged in for ignoble reasons. Now Harrison has a chance to bring his motives up to his actions, to really create something splendid out there. With water, that town can live. And he can bring it water, he can finish the job he started. I’ve studied the maps, I’ve seen where the water is.” He picked up his book with one hand, put the other on the chair arm preparatory to rising. “Shall I show you the maps?”

“I wouldn’t understand them,” she said. “I believe you about the water.”

“It’s the nearest water not already claimed by some other community,” he said. “It’s unfortunate it’s so far away, of course, but in the long run that only makes the task more noble, more noteworthy.”

“And more expensive,” she said.

“Harrison is not a poor man,” Bradford said. “Nor is Herbert. Nor are any of their partners. The world has been good to them all, it won’t hurt them to repay some of that goodness.”

“Bradford,” Evelyn said, her voice rising a little because she was beginning to feel desperate about reaching him, “you’re not thinking about Harrison, about who he really is. You could do it, you could do that pipeline if you were in Harrison’s position and you really set your mind to it, but he can’t. He really can’t, Bradford, and it’s only cruel to expect him to try.”

“Cruel? Evelyn, I’m not asking anything of Harrison. I’m not asking him to do anything for me. He came to me for advice, and my advice to him is to raise his standards, to worry more about humanity and less about himself. Is that advice really cruel?”

“Yes, it is,” she said. “If Harrison was in a burning building, stuck on a high floor, and he asked you to help him and you advised him to learn how to fly I’d say that was cruel, too. And this is exactly the same thing.”

“But it isn’t. I didn’t merely advise him to fly, I set down instructions for how to learn. I didn’t merely tell Harrison to think about humanity, and to try for a nobler goal than money. I showed him how to do it.”

“The pipeline.”

“Water for the city he created. I’m really surprised at you, Evelyn, I’ve always thought of you as someone with vision. Can’t you see what a perfect answer this is to all of Harrison’s problems? All of them, not merely this little indictment that won’t come to anything anyway. But think of what that city could do for Harrison’s self-esteem. If he brought water to that city, if he made it live, he would never let Patricia dominate him again. And he would stand in the history books on his own two feet, not sit on my coat-tails. And he would have a sufficient sense of his own personal worth not to have to travel with his entire family any more.” He grinned, a surprising transition, and said, “Which is where we get our advantage.”

This time, Evelyn didn’t return the smile. She said, “Bradford, if Harrison could do this thing with the pipeline he would already be someone who couldn’t be dominated by Patricia, and wouldn’t have to travel with his whole family, and didn’t need to ride through life on your coat-tails. But he isn’t that kind of person, he just isn’t. So what you’re suggesting isn’t practical. That isn’t like you, Bradford, it really isn’t like you.”

“If Harrison tries and fails,” Bradford said, “I will agree with you, it isn’t practical. But he won’t fail. If he acts with determination, if he truly tries, he can’t fail. But all he persists in thinking about is this ridiculous indictment.”

“Ridiculous? It’s the indictment that’s causing all the trouble.”

“It doesn’t mean a thing,” Bradford said. “It’s political, that’s been obvious from the beginning. Harrison’s partners are already making their deals, you can be sure of that.”

“But it can’t be entirely political,” she said. “There isn’t enough water, is there?”

“Not for the city they’d planned on. For a much smaller, less fashionable, less valuable community there’s probably enough water. Those individuals who have already bought homes there have paid too much for them, that’s about the extent of the injustice.” Bradford shook his head, saying, “No, the indictment isn’t the point. I could spend an hour on the phone to California this afternoon, find out what they want, and settle that part of it. The point is, what will Harrison do with this opportunity?”

“Why don’t you?” she asked him.

He didn’t understand. “I beg your pardon?”

“Why don’t you call? Spend the hour on the phone, settle the indictment.”

“Because it’s so irrelevant. Why don’t any of you see this? A city in the desert! For God’s sake, epic poems have been written about an accomplishment that Harrison did almost inadvertently! He’s on the threshold of greatness, and the damn fool can’t grasp the fact. Some have greatness thrust upon them, and Harrison is one of them.”

“If the indictment was off his back—”

“No. The indictment is the goad. Remove it, and Harrison will settle back into the same easy acceptance as before. With the goad, there’s a chance he may attain greatness.”

“There’s no greatness in Harrison, Bradford, why can’t you see that?”

“Possibly,” Bradford said, his voice colder than Evelyn had ever heard it before when addressed to her, “because I have more faith in my brother than the rest of you.”

viii

FRIDAY NIGHT, HERBERT JARVIS hanged himself. The body was discovered Saturday morning by one of the maids, who came white-faced and terrified to report it to Evelyn, who had been having a quiet breakfast upstairs with Dinah. “No,” said Evelyn, but it was yes.

Bradford seemed as shaken as everyone else, when the news reached him, and it was Evelyn who had to take over the details. She dealt with the local police through the Secret Service men assigned to the house, who spent most of the morning on the phone to Washington before it was finally decided to keep the fact of the suicide private, and announce Herbert’s death as from natural causes.

Dr. Holt—Uncle Joe—had been phoned early in the morning, and he came by private plane from Philadelphia to Hagerstown, where Evelyn had a car waiting to pick him up. He signed the perjured death certificate, and the body was taken away by a local undertaker sworn to secrecy, a man whose family and business ties with the Lockridges ran deep into the past of Eustace and who could therefore be relied upon to keep the truth to himself.

Harrison and his family had planned to leave on Saturday, but now they would stay on till Monday for the funeral. Even the Simcoe girls seemed to be affected by the atmosphere in the house, and their screeching was infrequent and muffled. Patricia—the elder Patricia, Harrison’s wife, Herbert’s sister—was bitter and enraged. She blamed Bradford for her brother’s death, blamed him loudly and often, and refused to be quieted by Harrison or anyone else. The rest of the family was subdued and vaguely frightened.

Bradford himself kept away from them, taking his meals in his office and alternating his time between that room and the back library. Whenever Evelyn had to see him about some detail, he was always into some book on John Quincy Adams: Samuel Flagg Bemis’s John Quincy Adams and the Foundations of American Foreign Policy, James Truslow Adams’s The Adams Family, W. C. Ford’s seven-volume compilation of Adams’s writings, Bemis’s John Quincy Adams and the Union, and the biographies by John T. Morse and Bennett Champ Clark. He seemed remote when he and Evelyn talked, and made no comment about Herbert’s death.

The funeral was Monday morning at nine. Bradford did not attend, and when the others returned to the house—they would be leaving for home after lunch—a maid told Evelyn that Bradford wanted to see her in his office.

He was sitting at his desk, and he extended a folded sheet of paper toward Evelyn. When she took it he said, “Give that to Harrison. Tell him I’ve been on the phone and it’s taken care of. He should call that man in Sacramento tomorrow morning. He won’t get out of it without a little mud on his skirts, but he will get out.”

“Thank you, Bradford,” she said, but he looked away from her, and his expression reminded her of the way he’d looked on the plane coming back from Paris. She went away to tell Harrison, who tried to restrain the expression of his joy and relief out of respect for his dead brother-in-law, but who couldn’t keep the wide joyful smile from spreading across his face.

Bradford remained in his corner of the house and didn’t see them off. There was no bus this time, Evelyn having ordered three cars to take the family to Hagerstown, and she stood in the sunlight and watched them all clambering aboard, waiting for the opportunity to wave them goodbye.

Harrison was the last to get into the car. “I want to thank you for talking to Brad, Evelyn,” he said, and took her hand. “If only Herbert could have waited it out. If only he hadn’t gotten so discouraged.”

Evelyn considered telling him what he should have realized but obviously hadn’t, that it was Herbert’s death and not Evelyn’s talk that had induced Bradford to act. He’d needed a stronger push this time than Evelyn could give, and Herbert had done the job. But it would only confuse Harrison to point that out, so she said nothing, only smiled and accepted his handshake, and then stood waving until the three cars were out of sight.

The house seemed huge, and echoing, and eerily empty. Evelyn could feel Bradford, tucked away in his office or the back library at the second floor rear, and she knew he would want to continue to be alone. And there was Dinah, who had been neglected these past several days.

Her legs were very heavy as she went upstairs.

2

ROBERT PRATT SAT AT the typewriter and tried to ignore the call of the August sun outside his window. The air-conditioner kept this second floor study cool, but just beyond the glass summer beckoned, a sunny August Sunday that wanted no one indoors. His one concession to the season was the bottle of beer beside the typewriter on his battered desk, but the bottle too kept distracting him from the paper he was writing.

He re-read, for the tenth time, the last sentence on this page: “America is moving inexorably toward a Fuehrer, possibly by the end of this decade, certainly by the end of the century.” Did he actually believe that? Not as surely as he’d made it sound, though he did think the erosion toward an omnipotent leader was well under way and would only with great difficulty be stopped in time. Still, in any case, it would be best to copper his bets a little; he changed the period at the end of the sentence to a comma, and added, “Unless unforeseeable changes take place.”

Yes. Now to the subject of the piece: “Eugene McCarthy was probably our only chance for a Fuehrer from the left. With his apparently irreversible defeat, the political left has reverted to its usual rudderless structureless condition, and left the field open for a Fuehrer from the right. The dangers in, say, a successful George Wallace are self-evident, but what are the dangers in a takeover by a Fuehrer from the left?”

Robert took a swig of beer and studied the typewriter moodily. What are the dangers? For that matter, what are the dangers in speculation built on speculation built on speculation? If it were really possible to guess what sort of President a man would be, who would have voted for Lyndon Johnson? The concept of Eugene McCarthy as a Fuehrer from the left rested on such an array of interlocked suppositions that Robert felt himself afraid to take a deep breath, for fear the whole conceit would collapse like a vampire in the sun.

It was Elizabeth Lockridge who should be writing this article in the first place, most of the ideas in it having been generated by her, starting with that ride down to meet Bradford Lockridge three months ago, when Robert’s complacent pendulum theory had decided her his political education urgently needed to be brought up to date. The number of dinners he’d shared with Sterling and Elizabeth since then were uncountable, but at all of them the scene was the same; gentle Sterling watching in quiet amusement while Elizabeth and Robert argued their way through the last decade of American politics.

And slowly she had convinced him of the truth of most of what she believed, though he had ultimately taken her beliefs one step farther, adding his own twist of interpretation and coming up with the idea of the Fuehrer from the left. She it was who had convinced him that the American people were weary of freedom, made nervous by it, ready and anxious to give over their liberties to a man strong enough to demand them, but it was he who pointed out that the same weariness and nervousness were evident on the increasingly radicalized left, which had in 1968 turned to McCarthy not so much as a political alternative as a messiah. “And a messiah,” he’d said, “is simply a Fuehrer we agree with.”

Elizabeth had not agreed, had argued that McCarthy was not a man to allow himself to be used that way, and Robert had replied that he doubted McCarthy would have been given the choice. The whole concept of a Fuehrer from the left remained too contradictory for Elizabeth, however, and at that point they had bogged down, perhaps permanently.

But out of it all had come this article. Although his position as Sterling Lockridge’s nephew’s chum made the teaching profession’s dictum of ‘publish or perish’ not very compelling in Robert’s case, he did try to produce at least two articles a year for the historical journals, one written during the summer and the other during the Christmas recess. This one, relating to material less than a decade old, would probably be more controversial than his previous pieces, essays that he himself had termed “marching in place,” but some journal somewhere would surely make room for an article that raised the concept of a Fuehrer from the left.

The dangers. “Had McCarthy been nominated and elected in 1968,” Robert wrote, “his most vital first move would have had to be to determine his successor, since it seems inescapable that McCarthy himself would not have survived his first term of office. His death—his martyrdom, as it would with justice have been called—would undoubtedly have caused the death of the American electoral process as well, as his increasingly radicalized and isolated governmental apparatus would have been forced to a widening abrogation of liberties for the sake of public order.

“But who would be able to follow McCarthy, aside from another McCarthy, to be gunned down in his turn and followed by another doppelganger, and another, indefinitely? To make one of the obvious choices, to hand the reins to a Weimar Bolshevik like Allard Loewenstein, would simply be to form a caretaker government to await the truly strong man who would of necessity then emerge from the far right.”

Robert stopped again, drank some more beer, and studied that last paragraph. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like the specific references to Loewenstein, who was a living human being, not a chess piece, and therefore more complicated and in many ways more politically valuable than his two-word summation suggested. That was why Robert preferred to work with happenings remote enough for all the participants to be long since dead; with a living man, it was too possible to see oneself in his place, reading this essay.

He made the change in pen, so that the clause in question was altered to read, “to hand the reins to one of the Weimar Bolsheviks surrounding him.” He also disliked that sort of vague phraseology—Paul O’Dwyer, for instance, now became by implication lumped under a definition that Robert didn’t believe applied to him at all—but of the two evils vagueness was lesser to nastiness.

He looked over at the clock on one of the bookcase shelves, and it was just after two-thirty. He’d been at this now since before one, and he’d done three pages. Was that enough for the first day back? Second day, really, since he’d actually left Acapulco on Friday, but yesterday he’d spent the daylight hours with details—letters and laundry, that sort of thing—and in the evening he’d gotten drunk.

Yes, it was enough for today. He pushed the chair back, grabbed the beer bottle by the neck, and left the study, crossing the hall at the head of the stairs and entering his bedroom, dim and cool, shades drawn, air-conditioner running, where a tactile memory of Kit suddenly struck him as violently as if she’d left him only yesterday.

He avoided the bed, sitting instead on the wooden chair in the corner, where he tilted the bottle against his mouth, draining it, and then stared moodily at the unmade bed, remembering when.

Kit had never been able to understand why his favorite time for making love was in the middle of the afternoon, and he hadn’t bothered to try to understand it then himself, but since then the idea had grown on him that what he’d been doing was playing at being a child. Children love to form tents of their sheets in bed, crawl under, and pretend to be on a desert island or a Saturn satellite, and it was exactly that impulse he’d been striving to follow with Kit, crawling into bed with her at one or two o’clock in the afternoon, the sun pale as cream on the drawn shade, the whole room the shadowed color of the sheet he’d pull up over their heads, murmuring, “Let’s stay all afternoon, all afternoon.” But she never would.

It was sexual encounters with other women that invariably brought back those hornet-sting memories of Kit’s slick belly slithering on the sheet, the supposed antidote never serving to do anything but cause a relapse, a freshened attack of the disease. Because it was still Kit who figured in his sexual hungers, and not all the schoolteachers in Youngstown, Ohio. From Youngstown, Ohio; in Acapulco.

He went somewhere every summer, and it was always the same. This summer he’d gone to Acapulco, and it had been the same. In summer the world outside the borders of the United States teems with American schoolteachers, out to find their own antidotes, and only finding one another. They are the slightly plainer sisters and brothers of those young men and women who worry about odoriferous breath on television. Neither handsome nor ugly, they are adventure’s equivalent of a bland diet. Every summer Robert promised himself he would not go among them to scratch his annual itch, and every summer he broke the promise, and this third summer in a row he had done so yet again.

He’d never been to Acapulco before, but it looked sufficiently like places he had been that it didn’t distract his mind for more than the first few hours. On the evening of the first day he met a girl from Seattle, due to leave at noon the next day. They spent the night together, and her stretch marks told him she had an interminable story to tell, if he showed the slightest sympathy, or even curiosity. He showed neither, having made that mistake in the past, and waved goodbye to her at the airport the next morning feeling strongly the nervous relief that follows a close shave.

His second night he spent alone, possibly through his own fault, possibly not, but on the third day he met the schoolteacher from Youngstown, Ohio, a chipper practical girl whose only triste seemed to be the freckles on her nose. She had two roommates sharing her hotel room both also Youngstown teachers, so the rest of his week she’d moved in with him. She’d been by far the best of any of his summer episodes, delightfully cheerful, astonishingly free of morbid or mournful autobiography, and even fairly pretty on the two evenings they’d dressed for dinner. Her sexual repertoire was limited, and she resisted the idea of expanding it, but after all what could a teacher be taught in Youngstown, Ohio? Nor did it make that much difference. What they did have together was carefree and fun.

But here came the backlash: Kit, stabbing him with sudden shards of memory as he walked unwarily, his head full of recent history on a different level. He’d slept in this room last night, and had felt nothing. But now—

The phone was ringing. He roused himself reluctantly, both grateful at the interruption and moody at being dragged from his reverie, however painful.

The voice was familiar, but in contradictory ways. “Hello? Is this Robert Pratt?” It sounded like someone he knew, and yet it also sounded like a voice he would know from movies or television or the radio, and the confusion between the known and the really known left him tongue-tied until the voice said again, “Hello?”

“Yes,” he said. “This is Robert Pratt.”

“This is Bradford Lockridge calling.” (Of course!) “I wonder if you’d have some time to spare tomorrow. If you wouldn’t mind driving down to Eustace for the afternoon.”

He thought immediately of Mrs. Evelyn Canby. In the first few weeks after the arranged meeting with her he had planned to phone her, see if they might work out some sort of date or something, but he’d just never gotten around to it. The woman hadn’t really attracted him very much, in fact, and he’d only contemplated calling her because he’d thought it was expected of him. But she was too solemn, too dull. Another case of stretch marks, a sad life story just aching to be told. Gradually the time had gone by, until the day came when it was at last too late, when to call her now would be much more awkward than not to call, and with a pleasant feeling of relief he packed the incident away in a trunk in the attic of his mind and forgot about it.

And here it was back in the living room. He had no doubt that ex-President Lockridge was matchmaking again—or still—and his desire was to keep away, but in the clutch he couldn’t think of a legitimate-sounding excuse, and did have to make some response, so in fatalistic irritation he heard himself say, “Not at all, I wouldn’t mind a bit. I have plenty of time tomorrow.”

“Very good. Can you come for lunch? One o’clock?”

“One o’clock. I’ll be there.”

“Fine,” said Bradford Lockridge, and hung up.

“Drat,” said Robert, and also hung up.

ii

EVELYN CANBY OPENED THE door herself, but instead of letting him into the house she came out and shut the door again behind herself. “Good,” she said. “You got here early. I was hoping you would. I’d like to talk with you.”

“Sure,” he said. She was better-looking than he’d remembered. She was also behaving like someone with a secret. “Lead on,” he said.

“Let’s take the path down by the pond,” she said, and set off without looking to see if he was coming.

It took him a quick step or two to catch up, and then they walked side by side, out across the gravel driveway toward a stand of trees in front of and a bit to the left of the house. He looked at her set face curiously, but she clearly didn’t intend to say any more until they were well away from the house, so he contented himself with merely walking along beside her.

This was a path he hadn’t been on during his other visit. It led directly into the stand of trees, through which he thought he could catch glimpses of sunlight gleaming on water. Probably the pond she’d mentioned.

Today was another hot and sunny day, but with somewhat less humidity. And also with a change in sight; dark clouds massed low to the west, coming this way. Tomorrow or the next day, an August thunderstorm would stretch out across the land, but for today the sky was still mostly blue and clear.

When they were pretty nearly through the trees, and he could see the pond reflecting the sky, she said, “Did he tell you why he called you?”

He turned to look at her profile again. She was facing determinedly forward, and by her expression she wasn’t pleased. He decided the best thing was to tell the truth, since it was pretty clear none of this was her idea, so he said, “Not exactly. But I got the idea.”

She gave him a quick sidelong glance, and faced front again. “What did you tell him?”

“Tell him?” They stepped out of the trees at that moment, and he hung back to see where she would go next. Her pace slowed, and she strolled down across the grass toward the pond’s edge. The sunlight seemed hotter after walking amid the trees.

He said, “He didn’t ask me anything specific. Just if I’d come down here today.”

She nodded, looking out across the pond. A blue child’s sneaker lay in the grass to their left, but other than that they might have been the first humans ever to stand here. He turned back, shielding his eyes, and could just make out the house through the trees. He wouldn’t have been able to see it if he hadn’t known it was there.

She said, “What will you tell him?”

It was an odd question, under the circumstances. He looked at her again, and she was still gazing somberly out across the pond. He said, “I have no idea. I didn’t think the question would come up. Not out in the open, not with him.”

She turned her head then, to frown at him. “I don’t understand.”

“I imagine,” he said, “this is as embarrassing for you as it is for me, but I suppose the only thing to do is play along with him. Up to a—”

“Play along with him? Just sit back and let him make a fool of himself?”

Now it was Robert’s turn to fail to understand. “How does he make a fool of himself? He takes an interest in you, that’s all, it’s a natural thing to do.”

Her frown deepened, and something like suspicion suddenly came into her eyes. “Mr. Pratt,” she said, “just what do you think we’re talking about?”

“Well—your grandfather.”

“What about him? Why do you think he wanted to see you today?”

“To see you,” he said, shrugging because it was so obvious. And becoming increasingly embarrassing.

And she was becoming angry. “Is that right? My grandfather is matchmaking for me, is that it?”

“Isn’t he?”

“Of course not! You have an inflated opinion of yourself, Mr. Pratt, and too low an opinion of everyone else. Bradford Lockridge has better things to do than be a marriage broker, and even if he didn’t I wouldn’t require the service!”

“Well, he was,” Robert said defensively.

“He was what?”

“A matchmaker. That’s what my other visit was all about. Elizabeth let it slip on the way back.”

An angry denial never quite got spoken. She paused with the words still in her throat, and uncertainty spread a frown on her face. “Elizabeth?”

“In the car on the way back.” Robert was feeling more and more uncomfortable about all this. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I misunderstood you. I thought you knew about it, too, and that’s what you wanted to talk about.”

“Well, if it was Elizabeth’s idea, why should Bradford have anything to do with it?”

“The way I understood it, they talked it over among themselves. Bradford had you on his hands, and Elizabeth had me.” He tried a tentative grin, hoping they could find some gentle way out of this morass, and said, “I suppose the idea was they’d unload us both at the same time.”

She lowered her head, casting a quick mutinous glance in the direction of the house, saying, “That’s humiliating.”

“Well, me, too. I get hauled down here like a prize stud. But you can’t blame them, older people like to mess around in younger people’s affairs.”

“Not Bradford,” she said. “That’s beneath him.”

“Apparently not. But the point is, I’m sorry I brought it up, since that isn’t what the summons was about this time. Or is it?”

She glanced up at him, squinting a bit in the sunlight, looking annoyed and embarrassed and irritated and much livelier than at any point in the course of their last meeting. She said, “Or is it? What do you mean?”

“He obviously gave you some other reason for my visit this time, but maybe it was just a cover-up and he’s back doing Hello, Dolly! again.”

“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head with finality. “I only wish it were,” she said, and looked out over the pond, then turned back quickly to say, “Don’t misunderstand that.”

“I don’t. What does he want me for?”

“Advice,” she said. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you first, give you a chance to think about what to say to him when he asks you.”

“Advice? From me?”

“You’re a history teacher, aren’t you? American history?”

“Yes?”

“Well, Bradford’s decided he needs advice from a history teacher, and that is why he sent for you.”

“What kind of advice?” he asked, still thinking it had to be a mask some way to cover continued matchmaking. Why should Bradford Lockridge want advice from an obscure young history teacher? It made no sense.

“Suggestions for his campaign,” she answered, and twisted the words with a surprising amount of bitterness. Robert sensed in her attitude that her own advice had been neither sought nor heeded. Was it usually? Perhaps.

Then the word she’d used caught up with his thinking and he said, “Campaign?”

She shook her head, in annoyance rather than negation, and faced him to say, “Bradford’s decided to run for Congress.”

iii

EVELYN DIDN’T JOIN THEM for lunch. Whether that was an expression of her disapproval or not Robert didn’t know, but he did know she was making her disapproval evident, and he could see that Lockridge understood the meaning of her expression and her silences. An uneasy wordless truce stretched taut within the household.

Lunch was a respite from that, obviously, with Lockridge relaxing in the presence of his visitors from outside, of which there were two others in addition to Robert.

Opposite Robert sat a solidly-built man of about fifty, Dr. Joseph Holt, Lockridge’s personal physician, whose brother (Evelyn’s father) had apparently been married to Lockridge’s daughter. Robert remembered hearing Dr. Holt’s name mentioned at the end of his last visit here, when Lockridge had some sort of attack and Evelyn was told that Dr. Holt had been sent for. Given the circumstances, he had built up a vague mental image of Dr. Holt as a tall, grim, cadaverous man with deepset eyes and no optimism, but in the flesh he was much heartier and healthier than that, a pleasant cheerful man who reminded Robert most of a type occasionally found on campus: an older man, a professor, whose outlook and interests had (without degradation to himself) remained young and in touch with his students. Dr. Holt led the small talk during lunch, and Robert found himself enjoying the man greatly.

The other visitor, to his left, was a different type entirely. Though probably a decade younger than Dr. Holt, in his early forties, this man gave the impression of being much older, much more settled and weighty in his manner. His name was Leonard Orr, and he was a local politician of apparently some importance, being both mayor of a nearby town and the county chairman of the political party to which Bradford Lockridge also belonged. He was a stout man with a broad solemn face and thinning hair, and his eyeglasses had clear plastic frames. He said little, and that judiciously. At first, Robert thought Leonard Orr pompous beyond belief, but finally he realized that Orr was merely over-awed by Bradford Lockridge. A town mayor and county chairman, at the table of a former President of the United States, would have to be over-awed.

They ate in a different dining room from the last time, this one smaller and on the first floor, a green and white room with a wall of tiny-paned windows overlooking a good part of the orchard, the rows of pear and peach and apple trees lush with leaves and ripening fruit in the sunlight. Whether the house was air-conditioned or just naturally cool Robert couldn’t tell.

He had been braced for Lockridge to bring up the subject of Congress from the instant he entered the man’s presence, but Lockridge was in no hurry to get to it, allowing Dr. Holt to lead the small talk, which the doctor did gracefully, drawing anecdotes of college life from Robert and of his recent European visit from Lockridge. Leonard Orr, for whom today’s invitation was obviously a rarity, clearly was too conscious of protecting his dignity to descend into anecdote, limiting himself to the sort of portentous statement that made John Bartlett famous.

There was excellent rice pudding for dessert, followed by coffee. After the coffee had been served, Lockridge turned to Robert and said, “What do you know about John Quincy Adams?”

The topic had come out of midair. Robert finished pouring cream into his coffee, passed the pitcher to Orr, and said, “John Quincy? Sixth President of the United States.”

“A specialist in American history should know more than that,” Lockridge said.

Robert looked at him in surprise, to see that he was smiling but that he really wanted an answer. “You want a capsule biography of John Quincy Adams?”

“Yes, please.”

“Well, let’s see. Dates. 1767. That’s an easy one to remember, nine years before 1776. Died, uh—18—”

“1848,” Lockridge said.

Robert gave a tentative grin. “I have the feeling you boned up for this one, sir.”

“Admitted. But tell me more.”

“You’re going to know more than me, I can feel it,” Robert said, and shrugged. “But I’m game. John Quincy Adams. The only President’s son ever to be elected President himself. He was elected in 1824, even though he didn’t have a plurality of the popular vote or even of the electoral college. Andrew Jackson beat him on both. But because nobody had a majority, the election was decided in the House, where Henry Clay threw his support to Adams, which squeaked him in.”

Dr. Holt said, “Isn’t that what we were all worried about a few years ago? Nixon, Humphrey, Wallace. That it would get decided in the House, and Wallace would have the spoiler votes.”

Robert smiled at him, nodding. “Yes, sir, it had already happened. And the Republic still stands.”

“Not quite as tall, perhaps,” Dr. Holt said.

Lockridge forestalled that one by saying, “Let’s stay in the nineteenth century a little longer, Joe. Go on, Robert.”

“Well, Adams snuck into the White House under Andrew Jackson in 1824, but four years later, in 1828, Jackson defeated him more conclusively and took over.”

“Justice triumphant,” Dr. Holt said.

Lockridge said, “Don’t be cynical, Joe. Go on, Robert.”

“Well, after Jackson defeated him in 1828, he retired to his home in Massachusetts for two years, but then in 1830 he—” Robert came to an abrupt stop, his expression startled by the realization of what he’d been about to say.

Lockridge was smiling in satisfaction. He said, “I suspected Evelyn had managed to intercept you on the way in, to warn you against me. Well, go on, Robert. What did ex-President Adams do in 1830?”

Robert looked at Dr. Holt and Leonard Orr and saw them both watching him, mildly curious but no more, neither of them suspecting a thing. He said, “He stood for election to the House of Representatives.”

“And he won,” Lockridge said, his manner as satisfied as if he personally had bet and made money on it.

“Yes, sir,” Robert said.

“So I’m not exactly without precedent, am I, Robert?”

“Well, sir, 1830—”

“Andrew Johnson, out of the Presidency in 1868,” Lockridge said, “became Senator from Tennessee in 1875.”

“A lot has changed since then, Mr. Lockridge. The concept of the Presi—”

“I’d prefer you to call me Bradford. And I know the concept of the Presidency. An ex-President is supposed to be a walking museum, with historical markers tattooed on interesting portions of his anatomy. I don’t believe there’s been one ex-President this century who hasn’t chafed under that. Wasn’t it Harry Truman who complained that people were calling him a statesman and he wasn’t dead yet?”

“Yes, sir, but—”

“Eisenhower didn’t like it, Johnson hates it. Herbert Hoover spent the rest of his life begging his successors to appoint him to commissions.”

Dr. Holt and Leonard Orr had been listening to this conversation with growing bewilderment, and it was Dr. Holt who got the glimmer first, suddenly saying, “Wait a second! Brad, what are you up to?”

Lockridge turned his amused expression from Robert to the doctor, saying, “Odd you should ask that, since it’s exactly what I intended to ask you. What am I up to, Joe, what am I capable of?”

“Mentally, anything,” Dr. Holt said. “Physically, that’s another matter.”

“You mother-henned me on the Paris trip, and nothing happened. No attack, nothing. In fact, I haven’t had a bit of trouble since the time you were here, Robert, when was that?”

“In May, sir. May twelfth, I think.”

“May twelfth. What’s today, August sixth. Almost three months.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s over,” Dr. Holt said. Lockridge was still talking in a half-joking manner, but the doctor was now in deadly earnest.

“I’m not over either, Joe. I’m not dead yet, and I’m frankly sick of being buried.” He looked at Leonard Orr, sitting opposite him, and said, “Len, what’s the only elected post of any significance around here that we don’t have?”

Orr pursed his lips, as though the subject required study, but he answered quickly enough: “Representative. And we’ll never get it, not while George Meecham is alive.”

“You could with the right candidate,” Lockridge told him. “How long’s he been in now, Len?”

“Nine years, since he defeated my Dad.”

Lockridge’s expression shadowed for a second, but then he smiled again, a bit grimly, and said, “That’s right, I’d forgotten. I took a number of Congressmen with me when I went down to defeat, including Walt.” Turning to Robert again, he said, “I held that post for eight years, till I was elected Senator. When I left the House, Len’s father took my place. Stayed there twenty-four years.” To Orr again he said, “How’d you like to dump George Meecham next year, Len?”

“I’d love it,” Orr said, flat, declarative, not joking at all.

“Given the right candidate,” Lockridge told him, “you could do it.”

“But where’s the right candidate, Brad?” Orr, astonishingly enough, still didn’t know what was going on.

Lockridge now told him. “Right here,” he said, and pointed at himself.

Orr frowned at him, failing to understand for another half a minute then suddenly sat back—the chair groaned beneath him—and cried, “You?”

Lockridge just smiled.

Dr. Holt said, “Brad, it isn’t done. It just isn’t done.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Orr said.

Lockridge said to the doctor, “John Quincy Adams did it. Andrew Johnson did it, too, didn’t he, Robert?”

“Yes, he did,” Robert said. “Of course, that didn’t work out as well.”

“He died in office,” Lockridge said. “I can’t think of a better way to go.”

Dr. Holt, grasping at straws, looked across at Robert and said, “How old was Adams when he went into Congress ?

“After his Presidency?” Robert did some quick mental arithmetic, and said, “Sixty-three.”

Lockridge said to the doctor, “If I know anything about medicine, sixty-three was older in 1830 than seventy-one is today.”

“It depends on the individual,” Dr. Holt said.

“George Meecham is how old now, Len?”

Orr was still recovering from the shock of Lockridge’s announcement, and it took him a second to reorganize his thoughts. Then he said, “Seventy-five, I believe.”

Lockridge chuckled and said, “Time for that old man to retire, let some young blood in. Wouldn’t you say so, Joe?”

Still clutching gamely at the same straw, the doctor appealed to Robert again, saying, “How much longer did Adams live? And how many terms did he serve?”

Robert shook his head, having no help to give him. “He lived eighteen years,” he said, “And he died in office.”

“They didn’t bury him till he was dead,” Lockridge said.

Dr. Holt finally abandoned that straw, saying, “Age isn’t the issue anyway. It’s your position that’s the issue, Brad, and you know it. I realize you chafe at the bit—”

“Do you, Joe?”

The doctor stopped, and studied Lockridge’s face for a minute. Then, more soberly, he said, “Well, maybe I don’t. Not completely.”

“I’ve been active all my life,” Lockridge said, and once again he seemed to be talking more to Robert than the other two, both of whom probably already knew most of what he was now saying. “Out of Harvard Law School,” he said, “I went straight into my father-in-law’s law firm up in Boston, and believe me I didn’t marry into any soft job. They worked their young men in those days.”

Robert said, “Was that Collins, Wellington, Smart?”

Lockridge was surprised. “You know them?”

“A friend of mine works there now,” Robert said. “John Bloor. He married Deborah, Walter Wellington’s daughter.”

“I haven’t kept in very close touch with the Wellingtons the last few years,” Lockridge said.

“Anyway,” Robert said, “he tells me they still work their young men up there.”

Lockridge smiled in reminiscence. “I’ll bet they do.” He looked serious again and said, “All right. I stayed there eight years, and then came down here and stood for Congress. I was in the House for eight years and in the Senate for twenty, and during most of that time I was a pretty active party man as well. Wasn’t I, Len?”

“You certainly were,” Len said, and it was clearly sincere.

“State and national,” Lockridge said. “I tore my hair through I can’t tell you how many conventions. Then the Presidency for four years. I was sixty-two years old at the end of that, and believe me I wasn’t ready to retire. I wouldn’t have tried for a second term if I felt like quitting. But I was retired, whether I wanted it or not. I’ve been active, I’ve been interested and involved, I’ve been in the absolute middle of the action all my life, and all at once it stops, as though somebody turned a switch. Now I’m the old man of the mountain and the middle-aged boys come to me every four years at convention time to try to get my endorsement, and it doesn’t matter a tinker’s damn whether they get it or not. In between times I sit around writing my memoirs—I’m the museum and the curator—or every once in a while I’ll go in to New York City and make a thirty second television film for physical fitness. If somebody important dies, they may ask me to the funeral, and even if they do I don’t get that excited about it. I’ve been put out to pasture while my legs and my lungs are still good, and this fellow here says he understands why I chafe at the bit.”

“You’re overstating, Brad,” Dr. Holt said, “You’re still an important man, you’re still involved in party affairs, you make speeches, there isn’t the week goes by you aren’t interviewed by the press at least once. Think about the trouble I’ve had getting you to cut down on your activities. You aren’t exactly vegetating out here, Brad.”

“But I am. All of this stuff is makework, it doesn’t matter a damn. I want to be back in action. I don’t mean run for the Presidency again, though I’d have Grover Cleveland if I wanted a precedent there, but I do mean back in the arena. Back to my first elected position, Congressman from Pennsylvania. I was good at that job once before, there’s no reason I couldn’t be good at it again.”

Doubtfully, Orr said, “Well, there’s no question but that you’d win, Brad, I think even old George would vote for you himself. But I’m not sure it’s proper.”

Doctor Holt said, “I’m sure it isn’t. Brad, you haven’t lost your eloquence either, I do understand your feelings and I grant you what you’ve been doing the last few years isn’t as vital or as interesting as the Presidency, and it’s a hell of a position for an active man to be in. But whether you like it or not you are a former President of these United States, and that means certain avenues are closed to you.”

“Why?” Lockridge asked him.

“Because of the dignity of your former position. If you went from President to Congressman, you wouldn’t elevate the position of Congressman; you’d degrade the position of President.”

Lockridge nodded, smiling, and turned to Robert to say, “Well, Robert? What did John Quincy Adams have to say to that?”

Now Robert understood what his purpose was here today. It wasn’t advice Lockridge wanted from him, it was support. He wanted John Quincy Adams to fight his battle for him, through Robert.

He grinned, acknowledging Lockridge’s strategy, and said, “He said that no person could be degraded by serving the people as a representative in Congress. Or even as a selectman of his town.”

Dr. Holt said, “When was all this? Eighteen something?”

Robert told him, “1830 till 1848.”

Lockridge said, “Joe, what’s your real objection? Health? I’m more likely to have a stroke from exasperation sitting around here than from being down in Washington. Age? George Meecham is older than I am, and John Quincy Adams was an active member of the House when he died at the age of eighty-one. As for prestige, if I’m worthy of respect I’m worthy of it anywhere, even in the House of Representatives.”

“It isn’t prestige I’m talking about,” the doctor said. “It’s power and influence. Whatever you may think of your position now, Brad, it’s still more than that of a lowly member of the House.”

“But I wouldn’t be a lowly member of the House, would I? I’d be Bradford Lockridge in the House.”

“That wouldn’t matter,” Dr. Holt told him. “If you chose the position of Congressman from Pennsylvania, the political community would have to treat you as the Congressman from Pennsylvania. The whole world would. You’d end up reducing your power and influence from that of ex-President to that of Congressman. And no matter what you say, your power and influence at this moment are greater than that of all but a handful of Congressmen, and they’re the chairmen of the key committees.”

Lockridge frowned. “I’d have less voice? I don’t believe it.”

“You would,” the doctor insisted.

Lockridge turned to Robert again, saying, “Robert, correct me if I’m wrong. Historians generally agree, do they not, that John Quincy Adams’ eighteen years in Congress after his Presidency was the most productive part of his career?”

“Well, he had a troubled Presidency—”

“As did I,” Lockridge reminded him, a slight twist to his smile.

Robert nodded, and said, “It was his House career where he made his biggest contributions, that’s true. In his battle against the gag rules, for instance.”

“It won’t work,” Dr. Holt said. “I know you think now that any activity would be better than none, but I don’t believe you’re right. The House is a worthy place, but it’s small time, Brad, and you aren’t a small-time man. You’d chafe there a lot harder than you chafe here.”

Lockridge looked uncertain for a second, but then he smiled and shook his head, saying, “Some is better than none, Joe.”

“It’s well over a year before there’s another election,” the doctor said. “I ask you not to have a closed mind on this, Brad. Think it over very carefully.”

“Oh, I will, Joe, believe me. That’s what this lunch is all about, to get some more ideas on the subject.” He looked over at Orr. “What about you, Len? What do you think?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Orr said painfully. He obviously had no desire to disagree with the great Bradford Lockridge, but he just as obviously had reservations, “Maybe it is a small pond for you, Brad,” he said. The nickname sounded awkward when he said it. “Maybe you are too big for it.”

Lockridge said, “I don’t believe I am, Len. But even if it worked out that way, and two years later I decided not to stand for re-election, we shouldn’t have any trouble getting one of our own people to take my place.”

Orr looked more pained than ever. “I suppose not,” he said.

Lockridge studied him with growing impatience, and said, “What is it, Len? What’s stuck in your throat?”

“It’s nothing, Brad, only—” Orr’s face screwed with agony, and no more words came out.

“Only what,” Lockridge said.

“People,” Orr said slowly, “might not see it right, that’s all.”

“I don’t follow you. People might not see what right?”

“You wanting to be Congressman. They’re liable to say, Bradford Lockridge is a big important man, what does he want to piddle around with one little Congressional district for? They might think you were just having fun a little bit, not really serious about it.”

“Well, they’d find out after I was elected, wouldn’t they?” A steel edge had suddenly come into Lockridge’s voice; he hadn’t liked what Orr just said. Looking at him, Robert wondered why that objection had gotten to him. It wasn’t likely to be an accurate estimate of Lockridge’s intentions, he hadn’t been talking like a dilettante. Maybe it was just that while he didn’t mind people thinking he was too old or not dignified enough or too big a fish for the pond, he did mind if they thought he wasn’t serious.

Orr, meanwhile, was back-pedaling at top speed. “Oh, sure, Brad,” he was saying. “They’d find it out quick enough. It’s just before election I’m talking about, before you had a chance to show you really meant it.”

Lockridge’s stern expression altered to an equally stern smile. “You think I might not get elected?”

“Oh, no, you’d get elected, no question of that. But I have no doubt there’d be some dirty pool played on the other side of the fence. If I was running George Meecham’s campaign, I know just the kind of whispers I’d get started up. It wouldn’t do any good, my man would go down to defeat just the same, but it wouldn’t help you any.”

“It wouldn’t help you nationally either,” Dr. Holt said. “A lot of the newspaper and magazine people that used to be after your scalp still have the same jobs and they’d just love to get in a couple licks at you for old time’s sake. You so much as run for dogcatcher, they’ll make a national race out of it.”

“I’ve been in rough campaigns before,” Lockridge said. “I would even say I’ve been in a couple of campaigns that got dirty. On both sides. Now, why should the idea frighten me at this stage?”

“It’s just another consideration,” Dr. Holt said.

“All right,” Lockridge said. “You’re against the idea. Len’s scared to death of it.” He turned to Robert. “What about you?”

“Uh,” Robert said. The idea, still strange, didn’t seem quite as impossible as when Evelyn Canby had first told him about it. The historical precedent, the undeniable fact that Bradford Lockridge was still a hearty active man, the additional fact of his boredom in his enforced retirement, all tended to make the suggestion seem more rational than he’d thought. But enough so? Didn’t he still have qualms, all of those mentioned by the doctor and Orr, plus some vague undefined feeling of wrongness inside his head that he couldn’t quite put a name to? There was something unstated, or unacknowledged, or unconsidered about this plan of Lockridge’s, but Robert’s feeling about it was too tentative and unfocused for him to be able to describe it even to himself, much less articulate it to Lockridge.

The older man was still watching him, and now he pushed slightly, saying, “Well?”

“I don’t know,” Robert said. “I’m sorry, I’d like to be able to give you a straight yes or no, this is the way I feel, but I just don’t know. I think both sides are right, I just don’t know which side is righter.”

Lockridge smiled. “I’m righter,” he said. “I think you’ll see that.”

“Could be,” Robert said.

iv

SHE CAME OUT OF the woods beside the road, riding a tall chestnut with skittish eyes, and waved to Robert that she wanted him to stop. She’d emerged well ahead of the Jaguar, but her horse was plainly nervous about the growling car just the same. His hoofs made small panicky movements on the gravel, like trapped mice not knowing which way to run.

Robert stopped, and switched off the engine. In the abrupt silence, the trees seemed to bulge upward for just a few seconds, only to snap back at the first bird call.

Evelyn heeled her mount, which was calmer now that the noise had stopped and so walked gracefully over to stand beside the car. Robert looked up at her, she so high astride the horse, he so low folded into the car, and grinned: “Another dominating female.”

She wasn’t interested in jokes. “Did he talk about it?” she asked. She looked worried, almost angry.

It was now nearly four-thirty, and Robert was the last guest to leave. He wondered how long she’d been lurking on horseback in the woods beside the road, like some distaff highwayman, disappointed first by Leonard Orr, who had departed immediately after lunch, and later by Dr. Holt, who had left around three. But she was too concerned, Robert couldn’t feel right considering her comic, so he answered soberly, saying, “At the end of lunch. He threw it open for discussion.”

“Did you all talk him out of it? What did Len Orr say?”

“Evelyn, I’m getting a crick in my neck looking up at you there. Can you leave Trigger tied to a handy redskin and come sit in the car?”

She was reluctant, and dallied for a minute, frowning toward the hidden house. At first he thought her reluctance was because of him for some reason, but then he understood it was a part of the urgency she was feeling. She would feel better mounted, ready to dash off to the house on a rescue mission at the first call.

But that was silly, and she knew it. Abruptly she smiled and said, “Of course. I’m sorry.” And gracefully dismounted. She left the reins trailing, and came around to sit in the car. “Now,” she said.

“Well,” Robert said. “Everybody was against it, the doctor most and me least.”

“You least?”

“Maybe I simply take a more historical view, I don’t know. But it isn’t as totally crazy an idea as it seems at first. There is a prece—”

“I didn’t say it was crazy. I know Bradford’s bored, I know the strain of retirement and all the rest of it. But I also know he shouldn’t do this, he shouldn’t even think of doing it.”

Robert half-turned in the seat, his left forearm on the steering wheel, and said, “Why not?”

She stared at him in disbelief. “Why not?”

“Just for curiosity’s sake,” he said. “I heard the arguments for and against at lunch, and I came away less sure than when I arrived. You’re absolutely one hundred percent sure, so tell me why.”

She studied him for a minute in silence, and he wasn’t sure whether she was trying to work out the best way to answer him or was still merely stunned by his having asked the question. Finally she nodded, and faced front, looking out through the windshield as she said, “You’ve driven through Eustace. Have you ever noticed the movie house?”

“I may have, I’m not sure.”

“It’s a small brick building with a little square marquee. It’s called The Eustace. A couple of days ago I was in town, and I noticed a sign in the cashier’s window. Cashier Wanted. You know, for just a minute I was tempted to go in and take that job.” She turned her head again to look at him with level eyes. “I’m serious. I can give you all the arguments for it, too. It would ease my boredom, it would give me something to do. I’d get out of the house, and I’d see the movies, which I never seem to get around to doing. I don’t need the money, of course, Bradford gives me whatever I need, but I don’t really have any spending money of my own, and it would be a nice feeling to have a few dollars every week that I’d earned all by myself. And I’d get to meet a lot of local people that I don’t know, maybe make new friends. Most of my friends are hundreds of miles away, I can’t just drop in on them.” She smiled crookedly, and said, “Think I should take the job?”

“I see the parallel, of course,” Robert said, “but I don’t know what to tell you about that job any more than I know what to think about Bradford Lockridge running for Congress. I suppose there are arguments against your going to work as a cashier in a movie house, but—” He stopped, and grinned, and said, “Just describing the job, for instance, and looking at you, that’s one argument right there, isn’t it? The job’s beneath you.”

“Isn’t that snobbish?” she asked him. “What would John Quincy Adams say about a girl who thought she was too good to be a cashier in a movie house?”

“It isn’t snobbery,” he insisted. “I know you’re being sardonic, but it really isn’t snobbery. You have a specific kind of background and intelligence and education and sophistication, and you’d just be in the wrong place if you took that job. You’d demean yourself.”

“Wouldn’t John Quincy Adams say that no one could demean themselves by doing an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay?”

Robert grinned. “Something like that, I suppose he would. So the point you’re making is that Bradford Lockridge would demean himself by running for Congressman. Not exactly the same as demeaning the Presidency.”

“No, that isn’t the point. That’s perfectly true, Bradford can’t really hurt the prestige of the Presidency, he can only hurt his own reputation, but that isn’t the point.”

“Then I don’t get it,” Robert said.

She turned more completely to face him, shifting her legs, and her right knee bumped his, and she became briefly—but totally—flustered. She regained control in only a second or two, but it was long enough for Robert to become aware that she was aware of him, and he suddenly became aware in the same way of her, and a touch of awkwardness encompassed them, like a sudden knot in a smooth plank.

“The point,” she said, but she’d lost the thread of her thought, and just sat there frowning and looking uncomfortable and irritated with herself.

Robert had to help her. “It wasn’t,” he said, “that he’d be demeaning himself. Or that you’d be demeaning yourself if you took the job.”

“That’s right,” she said, back on the track again. “The point is, if I am who you say I am and who I think I am, I wouldn’t want that job. Oh, all right, if I think of myself as being in a dead-end here, I’m bored and frustrated and so on, then I might have a moment of weakness and think, wouldn’t it be nice if I could take that movie cashier job? Or run for Congress. Or whatever. But I won’t consider it seriously, not for more than a minute or two. I might go on for months wishing I could take the job, but after the first thirty seconds I would know forever that I couldn’t. And if I didn’t know it, I think that would mean—”

She stopped all at once, and her expression became pained. Her eyes faltered, tried to keep looking at him, and failed. She kept her body facing him, but turned her head away and looked out through the windshield again. The westward lying clouds had moved somewhat closer in the course of the day, and the westward sliding sun was just in the process of sinking down behind them, which changed the aspect of the day—making it less cheery, switching it to a minor key—without lessening the heat.

Robert waited, but she said nothing, didn’t move, so finally he asked, “What would it mean?”

She turned again to look at him. “You don’t know me very well,” she said, “but I think you know me enough. What if I hadn’t told you about the cashier job, and next week or next month you heard that I had taken it? What would you think of me?”

He grinned uncomfortably and said, “Less, to be frank.”

“I mean specifically.”

“Specifically?” He shrugged, and looked out the windshield himself, frowning at the stretch of gravel road ahead of them. “That you’d gone a little flaky, I suppose.”

There was silence. She didn’t say anything.

He turned and frowned at her. “Is that what you mean? You think Bradford Lockridge has gone flaky? Senility?”

“No,” she said. “I hope to God not. I think he’s talked himself into a way of looking at things, that’s all. If he has time, and if he’s argued with by enough people he respects, this thing won’t last, all of a sudden he’ll get his perspective back and he’ll see there’s nothing wrong with being a Congressman unless you’re Bradford Lockridge. Because that’s what he’s forgotten, isn’t it? And that’s the point. All those other reasons I gave you for my wanting the cashier job are so much hot air. I don’t want to earn my own pin money, I don’t want to see movies in Eustace, I don’t want to meet the local townspeople by selling them movie tickets, and if I’m bored and lonely that job isn’t going to do anything about it. Don’t you see the only reason I’d want that job?”

“No,” Robert said.

“Because,” she said, “because it isn’t right for me. Because it isn’t the job, it’s to be somebody else, it’s to be somebody who could take that job, whose life is simple enough and whose options are plain enough and who isn’t locked to a grandfather and a baby and a, a, a status, a code of behavior that just, just stifles, stifles you until you could, until you—”

She was quivering, her voice had gotten steadily louder and shakier, she was about to either scream or cry, and more to contain her than anything else, to limit the explosion, like a Marine falling on a hand grenade, Robert reached out both hands and pulled her in against his chest, holding her tight against him, their knees entangled in the shift lever, her head buried in the crook of his neck and shoulder. “All right,” he said, softly.

“Oh, God,” she said, muffled. But it wasn’t a scream, and it wasn’t a prayer. It seemed mostly a cry of relief. How long, he wondered, had she been bottling this thing up?

She never did cry, though she trembled violently for a minute or two. He held her tight, neither of them speaking, and Robert became aware of a munching sound behind his head, nearby. He couldn’t think what it was at first, and he couldn’t turn to look, but all at once he remembered her horse, still standing there beside the car, waiting to be called on. And having a grass break in the meantime, from the sound of things.

The trembling lessened gradually, then stopped altogether, but Robert didn’t yet let go. The position was beginning to be uncomfortable, mostly because there was nowhere sensible to put his legs, but he stayed where he was, holding her, both arms around her and pulling her in close, his right hand spread against the back of her head, feeling the soft hair and the oddly vulnerable skull as he held her close against his shoulder and neck. He could feel her breath warm and moist on his throat, and a pulse in the side of his neck was beating against her cheek. His arms were aware of the femaleness of the body he held, but that was only a disturbing counterpoint to his main concern, which was how to ease her embarrassment once she had herself under control again.

She was going to be embarrassed, he was sure of that. The illustration she had chosen in explaining to him her objections to her grandfather’s plans had turned out to be too close to the bone. Without either of them realizing it, she had opened a locked door deep inside her mind, and out had come the true intolerability of her life.

She should do something. What? He didn’t know, it wasn’t up to him to know, but something. Move to a city somewhere, New York, or if that wasn’t far enough move to San Francisco. London. Anywhere. She had money, or she could get money from Lockridge, which was the same thing. Move. Hire a nurse for the child. Do something.

“I’m all right now,” she said, the words muffled but very calm. She pulled back gently, waiting for him to release her, which he did. Then she sat far over on the other side, not looking at him, looking out at the woods to her right instead, giving him only a one-quarter view of her face as she said, “I’m sorry, I’ve been under a strain. We had a death here just two weeks ago, and now this Congress business—”

“Would you like a drink?”

“Oh, God, yes,” she said, but faintly, without the force the phrase deserved.

Robert glanced to his left, at the ruminative chestnut, and said, “What about your horse? Will he find his own way back to the stable?”

She turned in surprise, apparently having forgotten about him. “Oh. No, I’m afraid not, not Jester. He really isn’t very bright, he’d just fall down a ravine somewhere or something.”

“Ride him back,” Robert said. “I’ll come after you.”

She hesitated, and he could see that she would like to come with him, but wasn’t sure if she hadn’t made too much of a fool of herself in front of him. “Come on,” he said, “I could use a drink myself. And I have no appointments to keep.”

“No one at home?”

“No one but me. And I’m out.”

She hung fire an instant longer, and then gave a decisive nod. “All right,” she said.

v

IT WAS A STRANGE setting for autobiography. Evelyn had wanted to avoid stopping anywhere in Eustace, where she would be recognized, so they’d driven on up to Metal and turned left on 75, and midway between Metal and Richmond Furnace they’d found this place, a low square building with white aluminum siding and skimpy windows framing neon beer signs. There were a pickup truck and an elderly Dodge parked on the gravel beside the building, and behind it they could catch a glimpse of water. “Conococheague Creek,” Evelyn said, and when he asked her if that wasn’t the same one she’d showed him on Lockridge’s property back in May she said, “No, that’s the Conodoguinet.” At his expression she laughed, the first crack in her wall of tension.

Inside, there was a three-sided bar forming a square in the center of the room, with an interior wall on the fourth side. On the left and right walls were booths, while to the front were games; shuffleboard bowling machine to the left, pinball machine to the right. The rest rooms, with canine identifications, were at the rear, Pointers at the extreme left and Setters at the extreme right. Four men in work clothing, three of them wearing hats, sat at the bar around on the left side, discussing with the bartender a local bowling league.

Robert led her to a booth midway down on the right, and remained standing after she was seated. “What would you like?”

She considered. “A vodka sour, I think.”

He bent forward and lowered his voice to say, “I don’t think this is the place for mixed drinks.”

“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry, I should have thought of that. Do you think he’ll have tonic?”

“We can try.”

“Vodka and tonic.”

“Done.”

An island behind the bar served the function of a back-bar, lined with bottles and glasses, dominated in front by the cash register, and causing the bartender a long walk from the bowling league around to where Robert stood with one hand on the bar, waiting to give his order. Yes, he did have tonic—no, not Schweppes, a local brand, that’s all right—and he also had vodka. He seemed unsure what to charge once he’d made the drinks, and after some hesitation asked for a dollar thirty. The number was so patently arbitrary that Robert determined then and there to have a second round in this place, just to see if the bartender would remember it. He paid, and brought the drinks to the booth while the bartender strolled around the cash register and back to his conversation.

“I needed that,” Evelyn said, and a minute later, “Sometimes I’m sorry I quit smoking,” and after another minute, “Isn’t it amazing how you can live in a neighborhood and not know half the places in it.”

Robert reached out and put his hand over hers on the table top. He could feel it vibrating, like a tuning fork struck a long time before. “The vodka is supposed to calm you down,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I have the feeling there’s more to come, and I don’t want it to be in front of you.”

Neither did Robert. He said something that was supposed to be funny, but wasn’t, and then something that was supposed to be a casual conversation starter, but it wasn’t, and then all at once he was telling her about Kit. Which meant he was telling her about football, which meant he was telling her the story of his life.

He liked to think afterward that he’d done it on purpose, told her his own troubles as a way of making her more comfortable about having revealed hers to him, and perhaps at a level below conscious thought that was true, but on the conscious level he was doing nothing more than take his turn. She had unburdened herself, or at least she’d started to, so now he was unpacking his own troubles.

But whether he’d had a therapeutic intent or not, his true confession turned out to have been good therapy. She listened, she became interested, she asked questions and took his side and consoled with him, and when he was finished she told her own story, about her dead husband and her daughter and having never lived on her own in her life and having no one left now but her grandfather, and how she knew it was past time for her to leave the nest and fly on her own, but how every year it became not more easy but more difficult. “I’m twenty-seven now,” she said, and he said, “I’m thirty-one.” Then they began to compare feelings and reactions and attitudes, and discovered that being widowed was essentially no different from being divorced, if the person who divorced you is now married to a Delta Air Lines executive, and that living alone in a five-room house was essentially no lonelier than living with relatives and servants in a thirty-room house, if the person you really wanted to live with was in none of the thirty rooms, and that having an occupation you didn’t care a rap about was essentially no emptier than having no occupation at all, and that the worst thing of all was not having anybody that you could really talk to.

They were on their third round of drinks—the bartender had remembered, and Robert now suspected he’d written it down somewhere after the first round, in case the question would come up again—when Evelyn said, “It’s after six! I’d better call home.”

He watched her walk to the phone booth—up front, in the corner beside the pinball machine—and once again he was aware of her as a woman. But he didn’t pursue the idea; there was no future in it.

When she came back she said, “Everything’s all right. But I really have to get back soon.”

“Do you ever eat dinner out? Not here, I know a place that isn’t quite so fancy.”

She smiled, but shook her head. “Not tonight. Thank you. But Dinah expects me, I always read to her before she goes to bed.”

“Ah.”

“That makes me child-ridden, doesn’t it? But I don’t like to disappoint her, I’m the only one she has.”

“You must go out sometime.”

“If I do, I tell her ahead of time. She doesn’t even know I’m away from the house.” She looked at her watch again, but he knew the actual time was irrelevant. “I do have to get back,” she said.

“I tell you what,” he said. “Today’s Monday. Your grandfather invited me back Friday to talk with him about this Congress idea again, and I said I’d come. That’s four days. Is that enough time to prepare Dinah for an evening without Mommy?”

“Of course,” she said, smiling.

“Then we’ll have dinner.”

“Fine.”

vi

“IN GERMANY BETWEEN 1918 and 1922,” Robert wrote, “assassinations by leftists numbered twenty-two, and by rightists three hundred fifty-four. (Peter Gay, Weimar Culture [1968], 20.) America’s experiences with political assassination have reflected the same rightward bias. Is it not a biologically sound evolutionary concept that a breed of left-wing radicals will sometime emerge for whom assassination is as valid a political methodology as it now is on the extreme right?”

It was raining today. The slanted portion of the study ceiling was actually roof, on which raindrops were rapping funereally. This was Thursday, three days since his visit to the Lockridge estate, one day before his scheduled return, and the article was moving slowly, too slowly. Because it was Lockridge he was thinking of, not the speculative might-have-been future of this essay.

What was he going to say to Lockridge tomorrow? What did he want to say?

He wanted to say, “Go ahead.” Despite all, that’s what he wanted to say.

There was just something exciting about the whole idea of Bradford Lockridge running for Congress, the thought stirred him and he had to admit it. And of course he’d be expected to play a part in the campaign, that was clear enough, and possibly afterward, when Lockridge was in the House. He would be a member of Bradford Lockridge’s “team,” he would be one of the men working with the man who would have to be the most prestigious Congressman in the United States. That idea impressed him, to be on a winning team again, and he found himself very resistant to all argument against Lockridge making the race, though in his more dispassionate moments he had to admit those arguments were compelling.

And when the time came, tomorrow, he knew he would have to say, “No.”

He shook his head, and leaned over the typewriter again. “A direct action left-radical movement headed by a Fuehrer (that is, a non-democratically maintained strong individual leader) would be, almost by definition, messianic and absolutist. Such an authoritarian regime, by carrying liberalism beyond its leftward boundaries into radicalism, and solidifying its position by rigidity in posture and extremism in defensive action, would ultimately turn itself inside out and become a generally repressive dictatorship, indistinguishable from a tyranny whose origins were at the opposite end of the political spectrum.”

The phone was ringing. Robert finished the final clause of the sentence, got to his feet, and strode across the hall and into the bedroom.

“Robert?” A familiar voice, female, he wasn’t sure who.

“Speaking,” he said.

“This is Evelyn. Evelyn Canby?”

“Oh, yes, Evelyn. Sure. How are you?”

“I’m just fine,” she said, and sounded surprisingly happy. “Bradford asked me to call.”

“He did?”

“He’s changed his mind. Isn’t that wonderful?”

No, it wasn’t. The sudden hollow in his chest told Robert just how much he’d been counting on the Lockridge candidacy in spite of all the rational objections. “Well, that was fast,” he said. “What happened?”

“He just changed his mind,” she said. “I guess it was a combination of all the things everybody said to him, you and Uncle Joe and Mr. Orr. And me too, I guess. The fact that nobody at all thought it was a good idea.”

I should have been more positive, Robert thought, even while he knew this was the best ending. Best for whom? “Well, I guess it was a tempest in a teapot, wasn’t it?” he said.

“I knew he couldn’t forget himself for very long,” she said, with a hindsight confidence she hadn’t shown the last time. “About a week, that was all it took, and he got his perspective back.”

“Well, that’s fine,” Robert said.

“He wanted me to call you,” she said. “Actually, he would have called you himself but I volunteered. I took over the mission, really. He wanted to tell you you needn’t come tomorrow, since there’s no longer anything to discuss.”

“Oh,” Robert said. And then, hurriedly, to keep it from sounding like the afterthought it was, “What about our date?”

“Oh, that’s all right,” she said, too brightly.

“What’s all right? You’ve got something else to do?”

“I wouldn’t want you to drive all that distance just to—”

It was hostility more than anything else that kept him from letting her let him off the hook. “It’s less than two hours,” he said. “And that was the main point of the trip anyway, wasn’t it? Dinner?”

She hadn’t heard the hostility in his voice; he heard the pleasure in hers. “I’m flattered,” she said. “If you really want to—”

“I insist.”

“All right. Seven o’clock?”

“Seven o’clock,” he said. “See you then.” And slammed the receiver into its cradle.

3

SHE COULDN’T GET HER hair right. A maid had come upstairs almost ten minutes ago to tell her Robert was here—and five minutes late at that—and here she still stood before the mirror, dabbing at her hair with increasingly nervous fingertips, every dab altering the silhouette, but never for the better. She held a brush in her other hand and alternately poked at her head with its bristles and its handle, none of it doing any good.

Everything was taking forever today. She’d been irritable all afternoon, for no reason, even screaming at Dinah for some minor mischief, and then she’d had to take time away from dressing to soothe her guilt feelings by soothing the child. She had also kept switching back and forth among three dresses, and when she’d finally made her choice it turned out she couldn’t find the shoes that went with it. So that meant another decision, this time among two entrants, neither of which she really wanted to wear. Then there were the eyelashes, which she hadn’t worn since Paris, and seldom wore in any case, and which this evening absolutely refused to go on right. She kept looking like a sketch Salvador Dali had done for fun.

She wanted to cry, and she didn’t know why, which merely made everything foolish, so that in the end she wanted to cry because she didn’t know why she wanted to cry.

All right. Enough. The eyelashes were approximately in place, the hair would apparently never look any better than it did right now, and the time was almost twenty past seven. She turned with panicky dissatisfaction away at last from the mirror, fighting down the desire to go on poking herself like some sort of reluctant clay into ever odder and odder shapes, and left her bathroom and bedroom to go to Dinah’s room and bid her daughter good night.

Dinah was playing with her dolls, spread cabalistically around her. Evelyn cooed over her until she saw the little girl was only politely waiting for her to be off so she could return to her game. It was annoying to be more emotional than one’s four-year-old daughter, and that sudden annoyance—and the ludicrous self-image that came with it—did wonders for Evelyn, wiping away most of her nervousness and weepiness in one quick swipe, like a wet cloth over a blackboard.

Robert was in the front parlor downstairs, doing nothing in particular. He got to his feet and walked toward her when she entered the room, saying, “Hello, there.”

“Hello,” she said. “Sorry I’m late.” She was concentrating too completely on her own expression to be very aware of his, other than to see that he was smiling.

“A man is supposed to wait for a good-looking girl,” he said, and in some curious way he sounded surprised. That oddity in his tone distracted her from herself, and she looked at him more closely, and saw that he was surprised. He was looking at her with pleasure, which was nice, but also with surprise, which wasn’t so nice. Had he thought she was a frump? True, he’d never seen her dressed for an evening out before, but did she really look that bad in her daytime clothes? The idea was disturbing.

He held out an elbow for her, saying, “Shall we go?”

“Yes, of course.” She took his arm, trying to keep away from her face the frown that would have most accurately reflected her thoughts.

They were stopped near the front door by one of the Secret Service men—a new one, they kept changing all the time—who said, specifically to Evelyn, “Excuse me, Miss. Were you going out?”

Evelyn was grateful that Robert answered, not allowing the man’s boorishness to define their relationship. “Yes, we were. Something wrong?”

The man glanced at them both, doubtful now to whom to report, and Evelyn saw that while she had been thinking of herself as a woman with an escort the Secret Service man had thought of her only as a member of the family he was here to protect. She was pleased at having attained at least ambivalence in his anonymous mind, and doubly grateful to Robert for having accomplished it.

The man finally said, to the space between them, while his glance kept flicking back and forth, “Just a little trouble at the gate. Only be a minute.”

Trouble, at the gate? She was about to blurt out a question—one that he wouldn’t have answered in any event—and stopped herself just barely in time. Let Robert talk. Let Robert talk.

Robert did, and asked a more sensible question than she would have: “Are we permitted to leave the house?”

The man had at last shifted his frame of reference, and now answered Robert directly. “Not for just a moment or two, sir. I’m waiting to be called now.”

“We’ll be in the parlor,” Robert told him, and nodded toward the room they’d just left. “That one.”

“Yes, sir.” The man did a half-salute—Evelyn nearly giggled—and hurried away.

They went back into the parlor, and Evelyn said, “I wonder what it could be.”

“Tourists, I suppose,” Robert said. “Wandered up the wrong road.”

“No, it wouldn’t be that. We get tourists from time to time, especially in the summer like this, but there’s never any trouble about them. They get turned back at the gate without the Secret Service men having to do anything. In fact, they’ve never had to do anything at all before this.”

“They wouldn’t be pulling a practice alert, would they?”

“Bradford would never stand for it.” She went over to the nearest window and looked out at the gravel drive. It was just sunset, the shadow of the sundial stretching impossibly long across the grass to the right. The window faced northward, and far away the Tuscarora and Blue mountains stood in bright sunlight against the blue sky, as though up there the clocks still read no later than three-thirty. The contrast with the shadowed wood-surrounded drive made it seem even darker here, eerily and unnaturally so.

Robert came over behind her and said, “It can’t be much of anything. No one with violent intentions would bother trying to come through the gate. You don’t have the whole estate fenced in, do you?”

“No. When Bradford was President they used to patrol all around the perimeter whenever he was here, but they don’t do that any more. There’s never been any need.”

They heard a distant phone ring, and Robert said, “There’s our reprieve now.”

“Let’s hope so,” she said, and turned around, and he was very close. They stood at the edge of something, on the brink, and then Robert took a step backward and smiled a little artificially. But he thought of kissing me, she told herself. He hadn’t done it, but he’d contemplated it.

They drifted together to the doorway, in time to see the Secret Service man hurrying up the stairs. “Going up to tell Bradford something,” Evelyn said.

“I wish they’d tell us something,” Robert said. “I admit I’m getting a little curious.”

“If only I’d been ready on time, we would have avoided all this.”

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about that, and if you’d been ready when I got here we probably would have arrived at the gate just as the trouble was starting. We’re better off this way.”

“But at least we’d know what was going on.”

They heard footsteps on the stairs again, and Robert said, “Excuse me.” He stepped past her through the doorway, and intercepted the Secret Service man at the foot of the stairs. The Secret Service man was in a hurry, but Robert was insistent. Evelyn couldn’t hear what he was saying, but she saw him tap his watch at one point, and saw the Secret Service man reluctantly nod. Then he started away, and Robert called to Evelyn, “Be back in a minute,” before hurrying after him.

Why did she have the feeling she would never see him again? The world seemed suddenly darkly lit with melodrama, like summer lightning far away when the nearer air is still and silent. She would stand in this doorway while a final darkness settled on the world, the house crumbled room by room around her, starting with the farthest corner and decaying swiftly and irrevocably in this direction, and Bradford would be gone, Robert would be gone, there would be one last fading cry from Dinah, anonymous rushings just around all the corners, and finally silence. Silence. The crack/rustle of one last falling brick. Silence.

Robert came back. “It’s set, goilie,” he said. “We crash out right now.”

She laughed, though that ridiculous mood was still on her, and clung to his arm as though she expected the floor to drop away at any second. He looked at her in surprise and said, “Were you scared by all this?”

“I hate not knowing,” she said. “I just hate it.”

“Well, we’re about to find out. Bradford is coming—you know, I don’t feel right calling him Bradford, but I don’t feel right calling him Lockridge, either.”

“What did he tell you to call him?”

“Brad. But that’s impossible.” He held the front door for her, and they went out to where his elderly yellow Jaguar crouched like a sleek cat with its head nestled between its paws. It really wasn’t dark out, a slice of sun still shone red to the west, it was about as bright now as an average overcast day.

They got into the car, and as Robert drove around the circle and headed toward the gate she said, “What is Bradford going to do? You said he’s coming? Coming where?”

“To the gate, apparently. I heard our friend talking on the phone. There’s somebody up here who wants to talk to Bra—to Bradford, I’ll get used to it. The Secret Service won’t let him come to the house, so I guess Bradford’s agreed to come out to the gate. There’s something about giving him a letter or something.”

“But that’s so strange.”

“Just the word I was looking for.”

At the gate, it became stranger. The old gate guard was standing there with an incongruous—and probably useless—shotgun under his arm, and the second Secret Service man stood in the doorway of the guard shack holding in both hands what looked like some sort of machine gun, a skinny but deadly looking thing. The gate was closed. Just this side of it an empty black Chevrolet was parked off the gravel, being the car the Secret Service man had undoubtedly come here in from the house, and on the other side of the gate, also parked off the gravel, nestling against the tree trunks, was a black Mercedes-Benz limousine with a separate chauffeur’s compartment. A liveried chauffeur sat stolid at the wheel, and two indistinct figures sat in the rear of the car.

The Secret Service man made no move when the Jaguar arrived, but the gate guard came over to open the gate, calling various phrases to Evelyn all the while. He spoke heavily accented English which Evelyn could only on rare occasions decipher, and this time she only got the general idea that he meant to let her know everything was under control. In the topless Jaguar, it was impossible to avoid him, so she nodded and smiled all the time they were waiting for the gate to be fully opened.

Robert drove very slowly through, and once they were past the still chattering guard Evelyn could turn at last and look at the Mercedes-Benz, on the left, looking at it past Robert’s profile.

The chauffeur was Chinese. Both hands—gloved, in this heat—were high on the steering wheel. If it was possible to sit at attention, he was sitting at attention. He gave no sign of being aware of the yellow Jaguar grumbling by beneath his left elbow.

There were two passengers. She looked in the limousine’s side windows as they went by, having to look up because the Jaguar was so much lower, and both passengers were looking back out at her. She met their eyes, and read nothing in them, expressionless eyes in aging expressionless faces. Chinese faces.

Robert accelerated once they were past the limousine, and Evelyn twisted in her seat to look back down the straight narrow road flanked by trees, twilight now settling in, the static tableau back there, the silent limousine, the business-suited necktied man holding a machine gun in the doorway of the guard shack, the only movement being the old guard in his muddy high boots slowly closing the gates again, the shotgun drooping from the crook of his arm. Then the Jaguar nosed around a bend in the road, and tree trunks hid the view, and Evelyn faced forward again. “They were Chinese,” she said. “Chinese.”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Robert said.

11

HE HADN’T ASKED HER advice. She supposed he’d looked in some gasoline company’s travel guide for a good restaurant in this unpopulated corner of Pennsylvania, and the Virginia Grove Inn had probably sounded pretty good. It was also on a numbered highway, and less than twenty-five miles from Eustace, so he’d be likely to be able to find it without too much trouble. From his point of view it had undoubtedly seemed like the best bet. Unfortunately, Evelyn knew from sad experience that there were a total of three bearable restaurants in this part of the world, and the Virginia Grove Inn was none of them.

More than the name was deceptive. The restaurant looked beautiful. Atop a hill up its own private road from the highway, the rambling two-story brick building had once been a private home and still implied a kind of Colonial hospitality. Night had settled fully by the time they arrived, but Evelyn knew that by day there was an impressive view down the valley toward Maryland between the Tuscarora and Blue mountains on one side and South Mountain on the other.

The first crack in the image was the interior. Whatever the true original appearance of the inside of the house, it had all been stripped away and replaced by the cheapest and gaudiest of fake Colonial. The plastic has not been made that looks like pewter, and the attempts were just painful.

“Ah!” Robert had said, on driving up the hill toward the floodlit building, but, “Hmmm,” he said now, as a stocky middle-aged woman in a Colonial mini-skirt led them to their table and left without lighting the candle.

The room was large, and about half full, none of the patrons giving the appearance of being local residents but all looking to be passing-through tourists. This section of the state was pretty much a backwater, but the Gettysburg carnival was not too far away, and some Virginia Grove Inn billboards over there drew a share of flies to this side-street pot of honey.

Robert looked around and said, “Have I made a mistake?”

He was perceptive enough to deserve an honest answer, but she tried nevertheless to soften the blow. “Well, I haven’t been here for a while.”

“How was it the last time you were here?”

“Not very good,” she admitted.

“Food? Service?”

“Both.”

“We could leave now,” he suggested.

“No, don’t. The food wasn’t that bad last time, and if we’re not in a hurry what do we care how slow the service is?

He looked around the room again, considering, and then nodded. “Done,” he said. “Next time, you pick the place.” And with a flourish, he lit the candle.

iii

WHEN AT LAST HE kissed her, her first thought was, I hate that rotten little Frenchman! But then he too faded, like the trouble with her hairdo and the unsatisfactory parting from Dinah and the mysterious interruption at the gate and the really dreadful food and service at the Virginia Grove Inn, any one of which could have spoiled the evening if it had been an evening that could be spoiled. But it was turning out not to be an evening that could be spoiled, which was astonishing and delightful enough in itself, and when at last, in the remotest corner of the floodlit Virginia Grove blacktop parking lot, he reached for her and kissed her, not even the Jaguar’s English reluctance to countenance romance stood in the way, though the shift lever did. But she ignored that too, and as he kissed her she felt all the stored-up tension she’d been toting (for so long it had come to seem a natural part of her) draining away out her knees and fingertips, and her lips became steadily softer.

After the kiss they murmured together about nothing in particular, just words to fill the spaces until they would kiss again, and when she heard her own bemusement echoed in his voice—he too had expected nothing and had been surprised!—she laughed, from pleasure as much as amusement. He wanted to know what she was laughing at and she shook her head and said, “We’re funny.”

“Funny?”

“You almost didn’t take me out tonight.”

He hesitated, but not for very long, and then smiled and said, “I didn’t think there was any reason to.”

“I was better than nothing,” she said, laughing at them both.

“A little,” he conceded, and kissed her again. He was more aggressive about it than Fred had ever been, which startled her this time and made her hesitant in her own reaction. He noticed, and broke off to look at her and say, “What is it?”

“Nothing.” Her mind was full of Fred, in very confusing ways. She was remembering something she’d long ago put out of her mind, that her first reaction on hearing of his death had been to be angry at him, enraged, furious. And just before Christmas, too, she’d thought, as though he’d died on purpose and had deliberately chosen the most inconvenient time. Shock and grief had quickly buried that reaction and she hadn’t thought of it again until just this minute.

“You’ve gone away,” Robert said. “Your mind is drifting.”

“It was,” she admitted. “But it’s back now, I promise.” And when she saw he was still doubtful, she bracketed his face with her hands and kissed him back.

And this time, at last, it was him, it was Robert Pratt she was aware of, nothing out of the past, no irrelevancies at all. The strange specificity of him, his being different from anyone else she’d ever kissed. He seemed bulkier, broader, and at the same time harder. And his smell was different, like . . . like a new book. Fred had always smelled of leather and soap, had felt taut and slender and controlled, had always been at arm’s-length no matter how close they—

No more comparisons. No more past. She pressed against him, and when the kiss was over she rested her cheek on his scratchy shoulder. “My bear,” she whispered. (She knew she would feel self-conscious and silly later on for having said that, but it didn’t matter. It was the way she felt now.)

“My bird,” he answered. His voice was gruff, as though he should have cleared his throat first.

“Bird?” She sat back, delighted, to look at him and see if he’d really meant it. She thought of herself as a plainer, dowdier, more earthbound creature. A bird? Really?

“A beautiful bird,” he said, and no matter how hard she looked she could see no guile in his eyes. He reached out and laid his palm against her cheek and ear, his fingers curving against the side of her head, and all at once she did feel birdlike, delicate and fragile and precious, held in his large hand.

He said, “What are you crying for?”

“I’m not crying,” she said, though she knew full well she was. “It’s just a shower with the sun shining,” she said, and turned her face to kiss his palm.

iv

ALL WAS QUIET AT the gate. The old man was off-duty now, and a younger man shone his flashlight in Robert’s eyes, then saw Evelyn and shifted the light away with a quick apology. He walked briskly away to open the gate.

Evelyn found herself growing nervous all over again. She was tempted to ask the guard what had finally happened this evening, but in the first place he more than likely wouldn’t know and in the second place the person with the answers would be Bradford.

Robert said, “Well, I guess it all worked out all right. Doesn’t seem to be any excitement.”

“I can’t wait to ask Bradford,” she said.

“Will you call me and tell me?”

“First thing in the morning,” she promised. “But it will turn out to be nothing at all.”

“Tell me anyway,” he said. “I hate suspense.”

“I will.”

The gate was open. They drove through and headed for the house. When they got to it, there were only a few lights still burning. Evelyn said, “Good Lord, what time is it?”

“Little after midnight.”

They’d gone for a drive after dinner, and stopped for a while by an anonymous river bank—it was merely a quarter moon, not very good for seeing—and then dropped in at ‘their’ bar for a nightcap. Robert had claimed he wanted to see if the bartender remembered how much to charge for a vodka and tonic, but a different man had been working there tonight. (He’d charged the same as the other one, which displeased Robert.)

“Bradford has probably gone to bed,” she said. “I won’t find out myself until tomorrow.”

He stopped the car at the door, climbed out, and came around to help her through that awkward moment of balance in getting out of any low-slung car. With his hand for support, she flowed naturally up out of the car and into his arms. They kissed, and she whispered, “You’re my first date in a hundred years.”

“Let down your long hair, lady, I’m here to save you.”

Did he mean that? She was too afraid it was merely gallantry, she couldn’t take him up on it. She slid backward out of his arms, saying, “I do have to go in. And my first date was a beautiful one.”

“Only a sample,” he said. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

“You can’t do that,” she said. “It’s over a hundred miles, you can’t drive two hundred miles every day.”

“Why can’t I?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “I don’t want you to get tired of me. I’m not free until—next Friday.”

“A whole week? You won’t remember who I am by next Friday.”

“Oh, yes, I will,” she said. “Believe me, I will. This was the happiest—I will, that’s all.”

“Tomorrow night,” he said.

“No.” She shook her head, saying, “Definitely not. Really. We’ll talk on the phone tomorrow, and I’ll see you next Friday.”

He was reluctant, but she was determined, and she had told him the truth about her reason. She didn’t want him to tire of her, to have too much of her too soon. She didn’t want him to lock himself into a pattern of driving hundreds of miles three and four times a week, and get sick of all the driving—as he would, as anyone would—and go on doing it because the precedent was already established, and from there on it would be a short but rocky fall to the finish. From out of nowhere Robert Pratt had become very important to her, and even if it turned out they wouldn’t be together very deeply or very long, it was still true that he was in the process of rediscovering for her the possibilities of living. (The specter of Ann Gillespie, fading away in the shade in Paris under Carrie’s capacious wing, still haunted Evelyn’s mind, and two or three times had even directly entered her dreams.)

They agreed at last that she would call him tomorrow morning and he would come take her out again next Friday night. “This time I’ll be ready when you get here,” she said, and he said, “Make me wait for you, it’s good for me,” and kissed her again, and she went into the house.

She stood with her back against the door a moment, hearing the Jaguar roar and then recede. It was all too tremulous, she was afraid to smile for fear the house of cards would come tumbling down. Robert Pratt. Unfortunate, that last name, not that it mattered. But, still. Robert Pratt. She wondered why no one ever called him Bob, and decided he was too big to be a Bob. He’d been a football player, of course, he’d almost played with a professional team. But also a runner. Big, but lean. Broad, but hard. Too male to be called Bob or Bobby. But was Robert right for him? Shouldn’t he be a Matt, or a Jack, or a Mike?

No, because there was a serious side to him, too, an intelligent side, the history teacher. Robert was a good name, all in all, a perfectly acceptable name. It was the Pratt that was unfortunate.

Evelyn Pratt.

“Oh, don’t be stupid,” she said aloud, and started walking, mostly to distract herself. Evelyn Pratt! For Heaven’s sake, they’d had one date.

She went upstairs and looked in on Dinah, as she always did when she’d been out for the evening, and the child was peacefully sleeping, her security blanket wrapped as usual around her left arm. Evelyn tiptoed from the room and was about to go down the hall toward her own room when she noticed the light shining through the crack of the slightly-open door of the back library. Curious, she walked down the hall and pushed the door farther open, and Bradford was in there, reading.

“Bradford?”

He looked up. The only light in the room was the floor lamp just behind him and to his left, putting his face in shadow. He looked very tired, the darker right side of his face seeming actually to droop. “Is that you, Evelyn?”

She came into the room, saying, “Why are you still up?”

He closed the book and rubbed a palm over his face, saying, “I couldn’t sleep. Perhaps I can now.”

“Was it because of what happened this evening?”

“I suppose so.”

“I still don’t know anything about it,” she said. “Robert and I just saw their car when we were going out. They were Chinese, weren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“Communist Chinese?”

He nodded. He put the book on the table to his right.

“What did they want?”

“They wanted to give me a copy of Kwong Lan Quey’s suicide note.” He put his head back and looked up at her, and his eyes looked hollow. “They said it was a suicide note.” His shoulders moved in a small shrug. “They wanted me to know, if ever I had anything to say to China, I could say it to them.”

4

GEORGE HOLT CAME WALKING over the teetery narrow boardwalk between house and car, knowing just how incongruous he looked. The Atlantic Ocean was behind him, appropriately aquamarine, beneath an azure unclouded sky. The house he had just walked up to and was now returning from, having spoken briefly with Grace through the screen door, was a tilty A-frame redwood summer cottage. Sand surrounded him, tufted with coarse weed-bunches. And how was he dressed? In a narrow dark gray suit, a stiff white shirt, a narrow black tie, shined black oxfords, elasticized black socks. He looked like a New Yorker cartoon and knew it, and found a half-smile in the idea of looking down beneath his feet for the caption. What would it say?

Another of the things he couldn’t share with Marie. He could visualize that conversation. He’d slide into the car again, behind the steering wheel, and say, “It suddenly occurred to me while I was walking back that I looked like a New Yorker cartoon.” There was a straight line, if there ever lived one. She’d cut his head off in ten words. He couldn’t guess ahead of time exactly what ten words they would be, any more than he could think up a caption to go beneath his feet, but that was all right. He knew he wasn’t clever. Everyone else was much more clever than he, he had to make do with reliability. Good old dependable George Holt.

He reentered the maroon Chrysler, and the icy lifeless air inside the car was a shock after the warm but flavorful sea breeze outside. Perspiration he hadn’t been aware of suddenly cooled on his collar, chilling his throat. He thought briefly and wistfully of shutting off the air-conditioner and rolling down the window, but he knew Marie would hate it.

She was hating everything today. She didn’t want to go back to the city, but she’d refused to be left behind in East Hampton. She gave no sign now of awareness of George’s return, but continued to glower, arms folded, out at the sunlit pastel day.

“Howard’ll be out in a minute,” George said, tentatively, but when that news produced no response he said, more directly, “Let’s stop fighting now, okay?”

“Oh, you’re ridiculous,” she said savagely, and kept staring straight front.

“I suppose I am,” George said, with the gentle irony that was his only real counter-weapon—his audience was supposed to understand that he was negating the possibility by appearing to absorb it—and turned to see the screen door opening and Howard coming out with his brood. If Marie were to die, would George find someone nice like Grace for his second wife? But on the other hand, Howard’s first wife, Beatrice, had also been nice. (She’d died giving birth to Howard’s first child, Donald, now twelve and the tallest of the three boys in bathing suits bounding around their father as he kissed his plump wife goodbye and came walking toward the chilly car.) The implication seemed clear to George; if Marie were to die, he would marry another one just the same. Or maybe worse. The devil you know, he thought, and was pleased at how angry she would be if she knew what he was thinking. But his thoughts always ran in complex chains, it was impossible to clip out one link and arrange it into a coherent one-liner. How did other people do it?

Howard was dressed more appropriately for the season, in a blue blazer and gray slacks, white shirt open at the throat, blue-and-gray ascot, black loafers and black socks. His and George’s sunglasses both had black frames, Marie’s had orange.

Of course, Howard could dress any way he pleased, he wasn’t going to be on camera. It might be August twenty-first out here, but in front of that camera in Manhattan it would be some time in October, and George had to dress accordingly.

Would Bradford? The question hadn’t occurred to him till now, and all at once he got a picture of the interviewer in autumnal gray asking questions of an elder statesman in a Hawaiian shirt, and all he could think was how much mileage Marie would be able to get out of it.

Phone? Too late, Bradford and Evelyn had left Eustace yesterday and were at their hotel now. If Bradford hadn’t brought along anything appropriate, a last-minute panic call from George just before the interview could disrupt the whole tone of the proceedings. He’d have to simply hope for the best.

Howard was carrying a black attaché case, the only visible sign that he was bound for New York. With his free hand, he opened the rear door of the Chrysler, letting in a rush of heat and salt and the shouts of his three boys, and tossed the case ahead of himself onto the back seat. He followed it, slammed the door, and waved through the window at Grace, shading her unsunglassed eyes back by the house. (Grace made no secret of the fact that she couldn’t stand Marie.)

George put the car in gear at once, and they started off. They weren’t late, exactly, though Marie had dawdled as long as she could before leaving the house, but George liked to be on the safe side.

After Howard said hello to Marie—George suspected him of having, like most men, a low-intensity letch for Marie—and she had responded with neutral warmth—having learned long ago that the one way to push George too far was to flirt with other men during a domestic quarrel—a silence settled down on the car. In it, George heard the snaps of Howard’s attaché case click open, and then a rustle and sigh of papers. “I’d like to mention a few points I think you ought to stress in your questions,” Howard said. “If you don’t mind.”

In front of Marie. “Not at all,” George said amiably, and even smiled at Howard’s brisk reflection in Cinemascope in the rearview mirror. No one on earth would suspect how much he hated Howard at this moment.

ii

THE MIDTOWN TUNNEL. IT turned out that neither George nor Marie had a second quarter, so Howard’s freckle-blotched hand stretched forward with plug’s lovely counterfeit, the silverless twenty-five cent piece. True to Gresham’s word, no pre-65 quarter was any longer in circulation. At least, though, they couldn’t blame Bradford for that.

There was enough in any case to blame Bradford for, from his one term in the Presidency. He was blamed for the on-going mess in Asia, along with Johnson and instead of Kennedy. He was blamed for the continuing (though currently simmering) racial unease, along with Nixon and instead of Eisenhower.

But Howard would prefer that George not get onto that sort of topic, and so would Bradford, and so undoubtedly would Coe-Stark Associates, the packager for whom George worked. (Usually a producer, George was occasionally also an interviewer, particularly in the case of his ex-President grandfather. On the current project he was wearing both hats, and would get a co-writing credit in addition, for making up his own questions. Bradford would get no writing credit at all, though he would be expected to make up his own answers.)

Where did all the trucks go? All the way in across Queens they had thundered around the chilly Chrysler, but once through the tunnel and actually on the island of Manhattan George found himself virtually alone. The city broiled empty in the August heat. The occasional bright yellow cab was painful to look at in all that sun.

The studio was across town and up, on Broadway in the seventies. Once a movie theater, the building had been converted to a supermarket during television’s first heyday (an epidemic had swept away many of the nation’s neighborhood movie houses then) and its marquee had heralded asparagus for nearly a quarter of a century, before the television/film industry, constantly in need of more and more space, rousted the rutabagas and laid miles of cable under the new floors instead. Now the marquee read BACK PAGES, the name of a soap opera taped there five mornings a week.

An extra advantage was the parking garage half a block away. George gave an involuntary grunt when he opened the car door and the city’s magnified heat fell in on him like an invisible bale of old newspapers. “Good God,” he said, and beside him Marie said, “Oh, I love to be in the city in August.”

They would have liked to hurry to the studio, which would be air-conditioned, but hurry was impossible on the granite griddle of the sidewalk. They swam the half-block, George even too hot to take off his suit jacket, and went gratefully through the glass doors and into the cool dim interior. They stripped off their sunglasses as they passed through the empty lobby, like temple worshipers performing a ritual disrobing, and then George led the way down the hall to the right and then to the left, and into the Naugahyde-and-hunting-prints reception room, where they would all meet and collect themselves before getting to the actual taping.

Bradford was already there—in conservative suit and tie, thank God—and so were George’s sister Evelyn and a tall, somewhat burly man introduced as Robert Pratt, who seemed to have no function.

George was about to take command when Howard did, saying, “Brad, I went over some of the topics with George, some of the things we want to cover. Just remember that the point of all this is The Temporary Peace. The book will be just out when this interview is shown, and that’s what we want the viewers to think about. Right, George?”

George smiled his soft smile and said, “Well, up to a point, of course, the book publication is what gives us our topicality. But I don’t think Bradford wants to come on peddling his new book like some exposé writer on The Tonight Show.”

“This time, I do,” Bradford said grimly, and when George looked at him in surprise he said, “I think it’s important, George, I think people should read this book. Not the first three, they’re dead as the Pharaoh, but The Temporary Peace is about what’s starting to happen all over again right now. The same clampdown that occurred twenty, twenty-five years ago is coming right back, repression under the guise of protection of our institutions.”

“Wait till I get you in front of a camera,” George said, having seen interviews die more than once because the interviewee talked himself out before the cameras even started to roll. “I don’t want you to say it all ahead of time,” he said.

“Don’t worry,” Bradford said. “I can’t run dry on this topic.”

iii

INTERVIEWER: YOUR NEW BOOK, The Temporary Peace, concerns itself with the decade immediately following the Second World War, does it not?

PRESIDENT LOCKRIDGE: Directly, it does. Indirectly, it concerns itself with any time when the people become too afraid to take a chance on freedom.

INTERVIEWER: Afraid of what?

PRESIDENT LOCKRIDGE: They don’t know. Communists, they said back in 1950. Some of them still say Communists. Today, most of them say black revolutionaries or student revolutionaries. Some of them say they’re afraid of fluoride, or sex.

INTERVIEWER: Um. Yes. You were in the Senate during the period covered by The Temporary Peace, weren’t you?

PRESIDENT LOCKRIDGE: Yes, I was. And today I’m not much of anything at all, which is a pity, because I think I can warn my fellow Americans about a mistake it looks like they’re getting ready to make all over again. Whether they’ll listen to an old fogey like me or not I don’t know.

INTERVIEWER: Is this, uh, warning about the future included as a part of the book?

PRESIDENT LOCKRIDGE: It’s implicit. This volume is concerned with hysteria and paranoia at one particular point in American history, and it tries to show that American ideas of freedom cannot co-exist with hysteria and paranoia. The book leaves the reader to draw any parallel he wishes with what’s going on today. In talking about the book, I draw the parallel myself, out loud.

INTERVIEWER: I see. And you—

PRESIDENT LOCKRIDGE: I never did at the time, you know. None of us did. In both parties, we just sat around and waited for Eisenhower to do something, and he never made a move. We would have been brave, every last one of us would have been brave, but only if somebody else was brave first, and the somebody else had to be Eisenhower.

INTERVIEWER: Yes. Well, of course, no one knows better than you yourself the complexity of—

PRESIDENT LOCKRIDGE: The reason none of us said anything then was the same as the reason you don’t want to say anything now. We had jobs, we had careers, we didn’t want to throw it all away in a lost cause. Hysteria and paranoia were in the air, and the wise man kept his head down.

INTERVIEWER: Well, of course, you did speak out at the time against—

PRESIDENT LOCKRIDGE: I didn’t do a tenth what I wanted to do. None of us did. History is made by good Germans, and we were good Germans. This isn’t in the book—I don’t know why I didn’t put it in there—but if I’d done what I wanted to do in the late forties and early fifties I never would have been elected President. I never would have been nominated. I wouldn’t even have kept my seat in the Senate.

INTERVIEWER: Is that why you would say you weren’t reelected to a second White House term? Because you did follow your convictions?

PRESIDENT LOCKRIDGE: No. The people threw me out because I made two very large blunders, one foreign and one domestic. I was in the process of correcting them both when the election came along, but they threw me out anyway, and it could be they were right. But that’s a different book, I haven’t written that one yet.

INTERVIEWER: Is that the next in the series?

PRESIDENT LOCKRIDGE: No, the next is The Coming of Winter, about the Cold War. If The Temporary Peace is about national paranoia, The Coming of Winter will be about international paranoia, in our relations with the Soviet Union. Another current parallel is our relationship with Communist China. We’re so afraid of them and they’re so afraid of us I’m surprised we haven’t blown ourselves all up just by shaking so hard.

INTERVIEWER: Then the volume after The Coming of Winter will be concerned with your Presidency?

PRESIDENT LOCKRIDGE: Yes. The Servant of the Nation. A pretentious title, but it expresses the ideal of the Presidency. All Presidents fall short to one degree or another. Of recent Presidents, I would say I fell farther short than Kennedy, not as far as Johnson.

INTERVIEWER: Yes. Uh, which leaves one more volume?

PRESIDENT LOCKRIDGE: Two.

INTERVIEWER: Two? I’m sorry, I understood there were to be seven volumes in all. The Temporary Peace is the fourth to be published, then The Coming of Winter and The Servant of the Nation. Doesn’t that leave one more?

PRESIDENT LOCKRIDGE: It did. Toward Tomorrow, a sort of book-length farewell address. Watch out for this and that. My opinions about the future of this country, if any. But now there’s another volume to go ahead of that one, after The Servant of the Nation. It’s to be called The Final Glory.

INTERVIEWER: I’m sorry, I should have been briefed, I hadn’t heard of that title.

PRESIDENT LOCKRIDGE: No one has. This is the first I’ve mentioned it to anybody.

INTERVIEWER: Ah. And what will, uh—

PRESIDENT LOCKRIDGE: The Final Glory.

INTERVIEWER: Yes, thank you. What will The Final Glory be about?

PRESIDENT LOCKRIDGE: Let’s wait and see, shall we? No use spoiling the suspense.

INTERVIEWER: Yes, uh—Well, then, let’s return to The Temporary Peace, shall we? Apart from the lessons for today, I imagine those were exciting years to be in the United States Senate.

PRESIDENT LOCKRIDGE: Not particularly. We kept our heads down, most of the time. Joe McCarthy kept showing us two-headed calves and other marvels. It takes an Irish Catholic to think up a carnival where no one has a good time.

INTERVIEWER: Um.

(The interview continued, circling the same topics for another eighty-five minutes, and concluded: )

INTERVIEWER: Well, thank you, Mr. President.

PRESIDENT LOCKRIDGE: You’re entirely welcome, George.

iv

“GOOD GOD,” GEORGE SAID. He was sitting in a brown Naugahyde chair in the reception room. One of the staff men had handed him a paper cup containing tepid Jack Daniels half-and-half with tepid water, and he had taken a quick deep swallow that had made his eyes burn. But that wasn’t why he’d said good God, or why he said it again, twice more.

Bradford was gone, he’d shaken hands all around and left right after the taping, with Evelyn and—who was he? Her new boy friend? Robert Pratt.

George had other things to think about besides the purpose or role of Robert Pratt. He wasn’t even concerning himself right now with whether or not Marie was approving of the way he sat, what he said, how he behaved.

George’s co-producer from Coe-Stark came in and sat down in the Naugahyde chair facing him and said, “Well.” He also looked stunned, but not as stunned as George.

George shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. He looked over at Howard, who was sitting in a third Naugahyde chair, his attaché case propped on his lap as he made notes with ballpoint pen on a sheet of yellow paper propped on the attaché case. George said. “Howard?”

Howard looked up.

George said, “What happened?” He sounded very lost and helpless.

“I’ll be damned if I know,” Howard said. He was taking it all very calmly. “I guess he was in a mood, that’s all.”

“A mood,” said George sadly. He turned to his co-producer. “Can we get twenty-seven minutes out of it?”

“God knows. I’ll call you when it’s processed, we can take a look at it. You’ll be out on the Island?”

“More trips to the city,” Marie told the world. “How lovely.” She was sitting by herself on the Naugahyde sofa, deliberately flicking cigarette ashes on the floor.

George paid her no attention. “Should we scrap the whole thing? Start over with a brand new interview?”

“Beats me. He’s your grandfather, you want to make the suggestion?”

“What reason do I give him?”

“No film in the camera,” Howard suggested. He was still making notes.

George turned to him. “Howard,” he said. “What’s with the eight books?”

Howard looked over at him again. “I never heard of it before in my life,” he said. He consulted his notes. “The Final Glory,” he read. “It isn’t a bad title, but shouldn’t it be for the last book?”

“What the hell is it about, Howard?” George was getting a little shrill, which he himself heard in his voice. He finished the Jack Daniels and held the paper cup over his head for God or somebody to replenish it.

“That’s hardly the issue,” the co-producer said. “He didn’t want to talk about it, and that’s that. Let’s figure out what to do with what he did want to talk about.”

Howard said, “Why not show it? The whole ten hours, or however much you have on tape. Exactly as he did it, an American statesman one layer closer to the truth than the great over-informed public has ever seen before. Why not?”

“Don’t joke, Howard,” George said. “I wouldn’t come over to Random House and make fun of you if it was your desk that got shat on.”

Marie snapped to her feet. She detested George to use foul language. “I’ll be outside,” she said coldly.

Nobody paid her any attention at all. As she walked out, Howard was saying, “I’m not joking. What’s the problem? You think Bradford will have second thoughts? He won’t, I’m sure he won’t.”

The co-producer said, “You’re a relative of his, too, aren’t you?”

“A nephew, actually. Why?”

“Maybe I come from a different kind of family.”

Howard spread his hands, the right one still holding the ballpoint. “Am I being stupid?”

“Yes,” said George. He was in no mood for his usual effort toward amiability. The cup had been taken from his hand, but had not yet been returned.

“Let’s see if I’m trainable,” Howard said. “Explain the situation to me.”

“Shit,” George said, more in despair than anger, and the cup was given back to him. He sipped, and this time it was completely Jack Daniels, and even warmer than before. They must be keeping the damn bottle on the roof.

George thought he was probably going to get drunk, and the idea filled him, suffused him, with a kind of morose joy. He knew Marie would give him hell for it, he knew his own head would give him hell for it tomorrow, but sometimes a situation simply called for an alcoholic stupor, and this was definitely one of those times.

Howard was saying, “Shit? Is that television jargon? Does that go down as an explanation in the global village?”

George shook his head, but while he was trying to decide what to say his co-producer said, “Howard, look. May I call you Howard?”

“You can call me Little Mary Sunshine, if the sentence also includes an explanation.”

“Howard,” said the co-producer, “I can see from the global village reference you’re a man above television, so I want to—”

“I don’t need defensiveness.”

“You’re not going to get defensiveness.”

“We’re bickering,” George said. He was feeling the Jack Daniels already. “We’re bickering, and the guy we’re really sore at isn’t even here.”

“And if he was,” the co-producer said, “we wouldn’t be bickering. Just let me talk for a minute, George.” To Howard he said, “Television transmits images. You may think I’m being a snot right now, talking down to you, all that cat-fight stuff. I’m not. I mean that television transmits images, in every possible sense of that phrase. In the technical sense, it transmits images, that’s obvious. But in another sense, too. In the people sense, in the sense that I’ve got an image of you and you’ve got an image of me. This is a different thing from a book, a book doesn’t transmit an image, it transmits part of a mind, that’s something else again. What television transmits is an immediate, specific, all-in-one-package interpretation of an entire human being. An image. That’s what television does, it’s what it knows how to do. Are we in agreement so far?”

“Neck and neck,” Howard said.

“All right. Now. Some people already have an image, and when the public sees them again on television they expect the same old image. It makes them comfortable, they feel safe. Change the image, everybody gets upset. You take one of the night-time talk shows, on comes a guest, a comic, he’s known as a very funny man. But tonight he doesn’t tell jokes, tonight he wants to do some serious talking about astrology. Why not, nobody’s one-dimensional. But you know the kind of thing I mean?”

Howard nodded. “People get embarrassed,” he said.

“That’s right. The audience gets embarrassed. The guy has fallen out of his image, it’s like his fly was open. The emcee, Johnny Carson, whoever, he cuts this guy short, he brings out the next guest, this is a famous expert on children’s diseases. Everybody sits back, they’re ready for a serious discussion about crippled kids. Only, tonight this guy is in a mood for mother-in-law jokes, all he wants to do is yuk it up. But let me tell you something, this guy could have the funniest mother-in-law routine this side of Henny Youngman, he’s gonna lay an egg. He fell out of his image.”

“I take it you’re saying Bradford fell out of his image just now.”

“That’s only the beginning,” the co-producer said. “With Bradford Lockridge, we’ve got a whole new level to deal with. Here we’ve not only got a personal image, we also have our national image. There’s an American image, too, and it’s what we show on the screen, and if we deviate from that we’ve got more than embarrassment, we’ve got a mess on our hands. Remember the Democratic Convention in Chicago in sixty-eight?”

“Far too well,” Howard said.

“A lot of people got mad about that. And you know who they got mad at? The kids, you think, for causing the trouble? The stupid politicians, for letting it happen? Not a bit of it. They were mad at television, for putting it on the screen, it was the wrong national image. They didn’t send letters to Senator McCarthy or Mayor Daley, they sent them to the networks and the FCC. They don’t care if the child disease expert tells mother-in-law jokes, but not on television. They don’t care if the comic is ape over astrology, but not on television. They don’t care if the cops beat up college girls, but not on television. And that last one is a lot tougher than the first two.”

“Go on,” Howard said. His tone and expression were sour.

“Bradford Lockridge,” the co-producer told him, “is an elder statesman, a part of America. That’s his image. Americans love all elder statesmen, and they especially love all ex-Presidents. Even Johnson, once he was safely out of the White House. Bradford Lockridge was defeated for reelection, but the same people who voted against him nine years ago think of him as a grand old man today. He served his country well, all that bullshit.”

“As a matter of fact,” Howard said, “he did serve it well.”

“Sure he did. Who’s arguing? What I’m saying is, the man has a public image, both as an individual and as a representative of the whole goddamn United States. Now, here we have an interview with him where he insults Irish Catholics, where he accuses the entire United States Senate of cowardice and himself of being a blundering chief executive, he plays childish guessing games with the interviewer—”

“He leaves the image,” Howard finished.

George, who had just finished his second Jack Daniels, held his paper cup ceilingward again and said, “He kicks the image in the crotch, Howard, is what he does. A little technical term from the global village there for you.”

Howard said, “But isn’t that up to Bradford? What the hell, the man isn’t running for office any more, what does he care what the public image is? He didn’t ask you to protect him.”

“Protect him?” The co-producer seemed honestly shocked. “Excuse me for saying this about a relative of yours, but screw Bradford Lockridge, may he be mugged every day of his life. But not on television.”

George, his cup having again been taken, waved a slightly wavy finger at Howard and said, “That’s the point, Howard, that’s exactly the point.”

Who do you think the public would get mad at? the co-producer asked. “You think they’d get sore at Lockridge? The hell they would. They’d get mad at television again.”

“That’s stupid,” Howard said.

“Did I say it was smart? I said it would happen. Evil George over there would have entrapped his famous grandfather, he would have maliciously distorted the interview for the purposes of sensational journalism. I am pre-quoting The New York Times.”

“It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Nobody’s asking it to make sense. Look, Howard, Eisenhower was the biggest bigot since Babbitt, and everybody knew it, but nobody said it, did they? Grand old man. Talk about golf, and hope he doesn’t say anything about keeping the coons off the courses.”

“It’s only been the last couple of years,” George said, as a refilled paper cup was placed in his hand, “that we could tell the truth about Millard Fillmore.”

“It isn’t the man that matters,” the co-producer insisted, “it’s the image. If he does something counter to the image, you don’t notice it. You most particularly don’t put it on television.”

“No matter what?”

“What do you mean, no matter what?”

Howard shrugged and said, “What if it turned out that for the last four years Brad has been a rape-murderer of little children all over Pennsylvania? Thirty-seven children. They finally catch him red-handed and—”

“Ooog,” said George, whose brain became more image-conscious when he was drinking.

“Anyway,” said Howard, “there he is. That doesn’t go on the news?”

“It goes on the news,” the co-producer agreed. “And right with the report, here come thirty-seven trained psychiatrists—I mean trained in the way a dog is trained to the paper—thirty-seven experts, one for each nymphet, to explain the heavy burden of national service that caused this mighty brain to crack, that Bradford Lockridge is more to be pitied than censured, that the image is still safe because this guy has flipped out and is now a nut. A nut is the same as being dead, the accomplishments before the tragic event aren’t altered by how bad the smell gets afterward. Meantime, the government is locking him away in the middle of Fort Knox, and very soon nobody talks about him any more.”

“Easier than that with Bradford,” George muttered. “They threw him out.”

“That’s right,” the co-producer said. “If he was really causing trouble, and wouldn’t get out of the public eye, you just shoot him down. The voters’ instinctive reaction justified. Nine years ago the American voter showed the true strength of democracy by sensing in Bradford Lockridge the mental and emotional weakness that nine years later would tragically result, etcetera, etcetera.”

“Tragically result in that goddamn interview,” George said. His cup was emptying faster each time, and now when he raised it over his head his arm wobbled back and forth.

Howard said, “You can’t use it? You really can’t use it?”

“We’ve got ninety minutes of tape,” the co-producer said. “We need to find twenty-seven minutes of sanity in it. Television sanity. I know the way you look at it Lockridge was never saner than he was today, but all I am is a poor struggling orphan trying to make a living in the communications biz. I think we can find twenty-seven minutes there.”

“Fill,” George said, cupping his refilled cup. “I talk about the book. Minutes and minutes.”

“If necessary,” the co-producer agreed.

“If you want me to talk to Bradford,” Howard offered, “I will. I could get him to do it again, if you want. I mean do it different.”

“Thanks,” said the co-producer. “Let me take a look at what we’ve got. If we need help, George can SOS you.”

“SOS,” George mumbled. It was occurring to him, a bit too late, that he’d had no lunch.

“Frankly,” the co-producer was saying, “I don’t understand what made him kick over the traces like that. He already knows everything I’ve just been telling you, he has to. A politician doesn’t make it to national prominence without understanding that.”

“Maybe he just got bored,” said Howard. “I’ve seen him do it in the books sometimes, too. He always changes it back later on, but that’s because the books are the real record, the permanent statement of his accomplishments. You can’t expect him to take a television interview as seriously.”

“That’s unfortunate,” said, the co-producer.

“What the hell does that mean?” George demanded. He stared with one open eye at his partner.

The co-producer looked at him in surprise. “What?”

“Kick over the traces,” George said. He was slurring slightly. “What the hell does that mean, exactly? What are the traces? Why kick them over?”

“George, you’re plastered.”

“I’m three sheetrocks to the wind. Sounds like horses, all that kick over business. Some goddam agrarian fossil.” He slid over agrarian like an ice skater struggling to retain equilibrium. “I bet you don’t know what traces are any more than I do.”

Howard said, “I think it would be a good idea if George and I went away now.”

“Right,” said the co-producer. “George, I’ll phone you in the morning.”

“Becomes eclectic,” said George. “How do you like that, Howard? We did a special on a rock and roll funeral one time, four-five years ago. Mourning Becomes Eclectic. I thought of that.”

“It’s lovely,” said Howard.

“It was never shown,” said the co-producer.

Howard looked at him. “Wrong image?”

“You bet your bird.”

“Bird,” said George. “Bird word turd heard Mortimer Snerd.”

Howard got to his feet and came over to put a hand on George’s elbow. “Let’s go, buddy,” he said. “You’ve had a busy day.”

“Which way Marie?”

“We’ll find her on the way out.”

George started to his feet and lost his balance. Howard had his left arm, so when he fell back he fell crooked and landed on his right arm, painfully. “God damn it!” he said loudly, and looked up at Howard with amazement and irritation. “I’m drunk!”

“That’s just what you are. Come on, I’ll do the driving on the way back.”

“Marie is going to be upset.”

“Worry about that tomorrow. Come on.”

George came on. With Howard’s help he managed to get to his feet, and then insisted on walking unaided. He didn’t want Marie to see him shambling along on Howard’s shoulder. The result was, he ran painfully into the door jamb on the way out.

People worry about their images too much, he thought, and shuffled down the hall rubbing his shoulder and wondering how many ways he’d meant that.

5

THE TEMPORARY PEACE. By Bradford Lockridge. 564 pp. New York: Random House. $11.95.

by Albert J. Rutherford

BRADFORD LOCKRIDGE IS A supremely political man, a politician the way Ernest Hemingway was a writer or Picasso a painter or Clarence Darrow an attorney, a man who sees virtually all of life within a political framework. This is both his strength and his weakness, because it could be said with some justice that his well-developed political instinct both carried him into the White House and then carried him back out again. The moments in life when something more than political skill is needed are rare, but they are critical.

The current book (the fourth in Lockridge’s careful and valuable series of memoirs) is not concerned with the Lockridge Presidency, but with an earlier (and equally critical) period in American life, the transition in the decade between 1945 and 1955 from a post-war to a pre-war stance in America, the gradual development of the Cold War. Lockridge Was senior Senator from Pennsylvania during those years, and the emphasis in The Temporary Peace is quite naturally on the role of Congress in that decade in shaping the attitudes and fears of Americans. Senator Joe McCarthy is paraded before us once again, in his by-now-familiar guise of dancing bear, Lockridge being unable to resist (along with most other commentators on the period) the opportunity to have at McCarthy now that the dread Minnesotan is dead and buried and in no position to fight back.

The Temporary Peace is a valuable book in just the same way that the three earlier volumes in Lockridge’s memoirs have been valuable. Politics is most clearly seen by a politician, and most honestly seen by a retired politician. Much of the intrigue of the Senate cloakroom in the postwar decade is clarified here, frequently in asides from the main thrust of Lockridge’s tale, as though he himself doesn’t realize exactly what he’s saying. But Bradford Lockridge always knows what he’s saying, and this manner of representing intrigue as though the representation itself were also intrigue adds a spice and liveliness to deals and discussions a quarter century old.

It is disappointing, in a man who occupied the White House for four years, to find such little comment on the two occupants during the years under discussion. Surely Harry Truman and Dwight Eisenhower also had a great deal to do with the character of that decade, perhaps at least as much as Congress, but both men are severely slighted in this book. A man in Bradford Lockridge’s position has a unique standpoint from which to view the actions (and lack of actions) of his predecessors and give us his opinion of the correctness of their decisions as well as what he believes his responses might have been in specific situations. That he doesn’t do so is doubly disappointing considering the incisive portrait of FDR drawn in the earlier The Politics of Hunger, the volume of Lockridge memoirs concerned with the Depression years.

Of course, this decision not to explore Truman and Eisenhower as he had earlier explored Roosevelt is itself an indication of the instinctively political animal that Bradford Lockridge still is. The Depression is, after all, ‘history’ now, whereas the Cold War is still very much with us. (The portraits of FDR and Truman in Lockridge’s volume on the Second World War, The Trumpets of War, were already skimpier, as Lockridge made the transition from the safely historical to the controversially-recent past.) There was a rumor going the rounds in Washington this past summer that Lockridge was considering running once again for his old seat in the House of Representatives, thus being the first ex-President in the House since John Quincy Adams. Like most political rumors, this one turned out to have no basis in fact, but that such a rumor could still circulate about a man who stepped down from public office nine years ago is itself the clearest indication of how totally political a person Bradford Lockridge is. (It’s still possible that the rumor will turn out to be self-fulfilling, another frequent event in Washington, and though such a move back into the political arena would be a bit bolder than Lockridge’s usual style it would be a supremely political move, which for a man like Lockridge might be enough in itself to recommend the step to him.)

Great men—and though Lockridge will never be a statesman, he is without question one of America’s great men—are not necessarily great writers, but so long as ghost writers are impecunious this needn’t be much of a problem. The writing in The Temporary Peace, like the writing in the three volumes preceding it, has the bland anonymity of a TV dinner, the smoothness of a stone touched by many hands. There are advantages in this—one’s attention is never distracted by an awkward phrase or a botched description—but there are disadvantages as well, chiefly the loss of the individual flavor of an individual mind.

One comment about errata, from which no book of this scope could hope to be entirely free. The Temporary Peace is more careful about detail than most books of the type, but here and there a few errors do creep in. The ‘D. J. Houghton’ mentioned in chapter seven, for instance, is probably M. F. Houghton, who was in Washington at that period. The Army post variously called ‘West Lake’ and ‘West Gate’ in chapter three seems not to exist. And the index, while generally quite good, commits two or three howlers of which the third entry under ‘Hydrogen’ is the most striking.

Albert J. Rutherford, junior Senator from New Jersey, is author of Versions of Victory.

ii

EVELYN WAS COMPOSING A Letter To The Editor at four o’clock that afternoon, when a maid came to tell her she was wanted on the phone. She was furious, and transferred the fury to the interruption, demanding, “Who is it?”

“I believe it’s Mr. Pratt, Miss.” Robert was well known around here by now.

The fury drifted, suddenly robbed of its destination, and Evelyn looked uncertainly at the sheet of paper in her portable typewriter. She had been composing an enraged letter, dripping with scorn for Albert J. Rutherford, The New York Times Book Review and the world in general. She had known she would never mail it, but that wasn’t the point. The point was, for years she had used this method to relieve her feelings whenever what seemed to her a particularly unfair attack had been mounted against Bradford in the public prints, writing an angry letter of protest which never managed to get mailed. But the writing itself eased the pressure of her outrage.

Now she was being asked to interrupt the letter in the middle, and she had the troubled feeling that once she broke the concentration of her rage she’d never pick it up again. A letter completed but not mailed would ease her feelings, but a letter cut off in mid-boil might simply leave her more angry and frustrated than before.

Oh, well. There was no choice really, the notion that she could call him back later really wasn’t a good one. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll take it next door.”

“Yes, Miss.”

Today was Tuesday, the second of October. Evelyn’s first date with Robert had been on Friday, the tenth of August, which meant they’d been seeing one another nearly two months now, and it was probably Evelyn’s irritation with the review and the never-to-be-completed letter that made her reflect now that Robert was taking his own sweet time about getting anywhere with her. Normally she was perfectly content that he didn’t seem to be in any hurry, that though the good night kisses had grown more protracted over the last two months they hadn’t led anywhere, but today she was prepared to be grouchy and short-tempered over everything. Damn that review!

She picked up the phone and said hello and heard the click as the maid hung up in some other room of the house.

“Evelyn? You sound grumpy.”

“I am grumpy,” she said. “I just saw The New York Times book review of Bradford’s new book.”

“The Times? In today’s paper?”

“No, next Sunday.”

“Next Sunday! This is only Tuesday.”

“They print a week early,” she explained. “Publishers get them the Monday before. Howard’s here, he brought three copies with him. He’s in with Bradford now, assuring him it isn’t really that bad.”

“Is it?”

“It’s awful,” she said. “It’s a really stinking review, full of snide comments and unfair parallels. He objects to Bradford concentrating mostly on what Congress was doing instead of what the White House was doing, when for Heaven’s sake Bradford was in Congress then, not the White House! He isn’t writing a history of America, he’s writing his own memoirs!”

“You sound to me like you’re really peeved.”

“You should see the Letter To The Editor I’m writing.”

“Is that wise? From a granddaughter of the author?”

“Oh, I won’t send it, I never do. But I’ve got to do something to let off steam.”

“How about taking me to dinner? I’m done for the day, I could be there by six. We’ll take the kid along and go to Rochetti’s and let her wrap herself in spaghetti.”

That was a favorite treat of Dinah’s, who had a total crush on Robert and an endless passion for spaghetti. Evelyn had been tentative about bringing Robert and Dinah together, mostly because she didn’t want Robert to think a child was being flung at him to play surrogate father to, but Robert had suggested it himself, saying that Dinah would feel a lot easier in her mind if she knew who the man was that her mother kept going out with, and it had worked very well the four or five times they’d all had dinner together.

But Evelyn said, “You have a ten o’clock tomorrow morning. You can’t drive all that way.”

“Why not? I’ll get there by six, we’ll have dinner, bring Dinah home by eight, eight-thirty, go out somewhere ourselves for a while, I’ll drop you off at midnight, be home before two, I’ll have a full seven hours sleep.”

“With four hours of driving.”

“You know I could drive forever, I love to drive.”

“I know that’s what you say. You just want to come down because you think I feel bad about the review.”

“Well, don’t you?”

“Not that bad. I’ll write my Letter To The Editor, and that’ll be the end of it.”

“Anyway, what do you think I was calling for? I had this in mind all along.”

“Liar. You never come down on a Wednesday, not during school. You were just calling to talk.”

“Prove it. I’ll be there at six.”

“I don’t want you to come,” she insisted.

“Now who’s a liar? I have to hang up now, if I’m going to get there by six.”

“Robert.”

“What?”

She very nearly said I love you. It was what she wanted to say, it was what expressed the tenderness and the gratitude she was feeling toward him right now. But it wasn’t possible. He hadn’t said anything of the sort to her, and the rules were that the woman couldn’t say it first, not without scaring the man away forever. So there was a little silence, and then she said, “. . . You’re very nice.”

He laughed, pleasurably. “See you at six,” he said.

iii

HOWARD CAME OUT FIRST, and Evelyn was waiting for him in the hall. She had gone back to her letter, but not successfully, it had all sounded too juvenile and foolish when she’d tried to write more of it after talking with Robert. But she was still angry, and she said, “Are you going to write a Letter To The Editor?”

“The worst thing we could do,” he said. “Did you talk to him again about that title?”

He meant The Final Glory, the title Bradford had dropped so unexpectedly into the middle of that interview with George back in August. Howard had spent most of the month of September trying to get Bradford to explain what he’d meant by that, what The Final Glory would contain, but he’d been just as obstinate with Howard as he’d been with George, so finally two weeks ago Howard had asked Evelyn to take a stab at prying the information out of him.

It was more than simple curiosity on Howard’s part. Random House, in its ads for Bradford’s books, always listed all the titles in the seven-volume memoirs, those completed and those projected. Now Bradford was insisting that this new title be inserted between The Servant of the Nation and Toward Tomorrow, and he wouldn’t tell anyone what the book was supposed to be about.

“Well, he finally said something,” Evelyn said now. “Not much, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll take crumbs,” Howard said. “Quick, he’ll be out in a minute.”

“He said, ‘Well, it would mean I’m going to do something, wouldn’t it? And I have to keep my options open beforehand, that’s why I don’t want to say anything about it.’”

“That’s what he said?” Howard scratched a knuckle against his jaw, thinking about it. “That means he hasn’t made up his mind yet. There’s something he might do, but he isn’t sure yet whether he will or not.”

“Oh, no, I don’t think so. Bradford’s going to do something, for sure, or he wouldn’t say a word, he wouldn’t mention the title at all, not in public. I think he’s just got a decision to make about which something it is, there are two or maybe three different things he might do and he doesn’t know yet for sure which one to pick.”

“Could be,” Howard said, as Bradford appeared at the other end of the hall. Under his breath, Howard said, “Keep at him.”

“All right.”

Howard turned and said to Bradford, “I was just telling Evelyn, actually he’s given us plenty of quotes, if we want to use them.”

“We don’t,” Bradford said.

“I know we don’t. The point I’m trying to make is that the review isn’t as bad as it looks right off the bat. His tone is unfortunate, but that’s Rutherford. There’s nothing to be done about the way the man sounds. But what he’s saying, once you get past the tone, is mostly complimentary.”

“What he’s saying,” Bradford said, “is that nobody gives a damn about yesterday’s heroes. What he’s saying is that I’m an obsolete politician, I’ve run my last race, I’m out to pasture, all I am now is bedside reading. And he’s right.”

“He couldn’t be more wrong,” Howard said.

Evelyn said, “Of course he’s wrong. Wait till that interview with George is shown Friday night, and they all see just how contemporary you are, just how much you’re still an active important influence in the world. Won’t that review look snotty and silly when it comes out two days later!”

Why did Howard look so odd when she said that? But she didn’t have the inclination to concern herself with his reactions, it was Bradford she was thinking about now. And Bradford merely shook his head and said, “No one will listen. And why should they? I don’t matter any more.” He smiled without humor, turning to Howard and saying, “You know, he even closed off the Congress to me. I could still have changed my mind again and made the race, it’s still a year till the election, but how could I do it now, and give Rutherford his self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“A month from now,” Howard said, “that review will be forgotten. You know that, Brad, you’re just being pessimistic. You can do whatever you want.”

“Perhaps.”

Howard said, looking at his watch, “I’ve got to get back. But don’t let this thing worry you, Brad. It won’t make a bit of difference in the sales or in the final estimation of the book.”

“I know,” Bradford said, but bitterly.

“It’s so stupid,” Evelyn said angrily.

“True,” Howard said. “See me out, Evelyn. I’ll call you later in the week, Brad.”

Evelyn was surprised that Howard took her arm and walked with her down the hall. She looked back at Bradford, who was also looking somewhat surprised, and who belatedly started forward, calling, “I’ll see you to the door, too, Howard. I may not be able to run, but I can still walk.”

“Oh, of course,” Howard said, stopping at once to wait for him, sounding completely surprised. He smiled at Bradford, coming toward them, and turned to say quickly under his breath to Evelyn, “Lay off the interview.”

“Why?”

He gave her a warning look, and then Bradford was up to them and it was impossible to ask again. The three of them walked on toward the front door, Howard continuing to give Bradford reassurances about the meaninglessness of the review, and Evelyn with some distraction echoing his sentiments.

They were outside, waving goodbye to Howard, when the familiar yellow Jaguar pulled in. Howard and Robert honked to one another in passing, and then the Jaguar had stopped where Howard’s Chrysler had just been and Robert was coming toward them, smiling, saying, “Hi, Evelyn. Evening, sir.”

Evelyn smiled back. It was a sufficient reason for loving him that he couldn’t get used to calling her grandfather by his first name. Bradford had given up suggesting it by now, and merely accepted sir as a form of familiar address.

“I’ll get Dinah,” Evelyn said, and turned away. As she went inside she heard Bradford say, “You do a lot of driving, Robert,” and Robert answer, “Yes, sir. I love to drive.”

iv

EVELYN SAID, “IS THIS the same bed—?”

“No. I got rid of that one after the divorce. That was stupid, wasn’t it?”

They were standing side by side, just within the bedroom doorway. She looked up at him and said, “Not at all. I understand why you did it. And I’m glad you did.”

He returned her look, and seemed about to say something humorous, and then something serious, and then something inconsequential, but finally he didn’t say anything at all, and when his arms came around her she thought, This time, there won’t be any stopping.

She’d never been to his house before, and how odd that seemed now. Tonight, they’d returned Dinah to the house, full of spaghetti, well before eight, and there had been a moment of indecision about how to spend the rest of the evening, until he’d said, his manner a little too impromptu to be believed, “Come see my house! We can do it in an hour and a half. It’s a beautiful night, why not?”

There were thousands of reasons why not. Should he drive two round trips the same day? That would be four hundred miles, most of it at night. But she found herself agreeing at once, raising none of the objections that quite naturally crowded her mind, so here it was nine-thirty and she was in the town of Lancashire, and Robert was giving her the tour of his house. It was neater and more settled than she would have expected a home of his to be, but of course he’d been married when the house was bought.

But he’d made some changes of his own, and this bed toward which he was now moving her had never known the body of his ex-wife. She was glad of that; she wanted no ghosts in bed with her, the first time with Robert.

Ghosts. But Fred was no longer even that real, was he, there wasn’t even enough left of him to put together a good ghost. Two months from now he would have been dead three years, having last physically departed from her a full year before that. It doesn’t matter how much you’ve loved a man, and she had never doubted her love for Fred, after four years of permanent separation love will have withered to no more than a memorial echo. Robert was the one now who kept love alive, so the bed was free of ghosts from everywhere.

The Frenchman never even crossed her mind.

They were still completely dressed when they stretched out side by side on the bed, the little puffs on the bedspread tickling her neck. She kicked off her shoes, kicking them over the edge so they bumped on the carpet, lighter sounds than the thumps made by his shoes. Then his mouth found her mouth again, and his fingers found her zippers, and for a while they made slow progress together, concentrating their attention on kisses, until a mounting sense of urgency in her made her roll hard against him, both to help him reach the closures of her clothing and to encourage him to move faster. He needed no more spur. He lifted his head and grinned down at her and said, “Evelyn, in five seconds I’m going to rip this stuff right off you.”

“I’ll help, you don’t have to rip it.”

There was something funny about them sitting up side by side on the bedspread, two grown people, pulling their clothing off, and the funniness struck them both at the same time, and then there they were laughing at one another, laughing at themselves, laughing simply because it felt so good to laugh. “God, I love you!” Robert shouted through his laughter, and Evelyn cried delightedly, “God, I love you back!”

They seemed to tend to extremes of attitude, and their next swing was to deep solemnity. Both naked now, the bed also naked, stripped down to the pale sheet—only the hall light gave illumination—they looked at one another in something like awe, and neither moved, as though a spell had been cast on them by a passing wizard and they would have to sit that way in semi-darkness forever.

He’s hairy, she thought. I’ve never seen such a hairy man. And something deeper than thought told her, against all reason, that that meant he would be cruel. It was against all reason, but she was afraid.

And so, in a different way, must he have been. He broke the immobile silence between them at last, reaching out one cautious hand toward her and saying, “Evelyn . . .”

He was going to give her a chance to change her mind, to back out, even now. “Don’t,” she said, not wanting the opportunity, not knowing what she might do with it. “Don’t say anything, please.”

“Evelyn.” But the name meant something different this time, and she leaned toward him as he moved to meet her.

It was like being a virgin all over again, her body having gone so long unused. (No memory of the Frenchman, none at all, not till long afterward, when she laughed to think she hadn’t thought of him.) But he was not cruel—she had known, really, that he wouldn’t be—and the most beautiful thing in the world was to move her left arm up, her left hand up, rest the palms and fingerpads against the side of his head, stroke downward to his strong neck, feel the intricate curvature of his head and his throat and his shoulders, and all the time feel the strong protective weight of him stretched atop her, the firm resilience of the new bed beneath her, the strong stroke of him within her. His breathing fanned slow and warm beside her ear, her gathered hair, her slender throat, and then quickened its pace, and she thought how sweet and beautiful that she was giving him a climax, and she hoped he would understand that it was all right that she wouldn’t reach one, that this was all perfect anyway, that orgasm wasn’t as important to a woman if everything else was right, that it was only to be expected that she wouldn’t have one, after such a long abstinence, in a strange place, with a new man.

And then she had one.

v

NOT TILL THE END of the program did Evelyn get up and switch off the television set, the slightly green face of her brother George suddenly contracting into the middle of the tube as though he’d just fallen down a well. As he should, as he should. George became a dot, and the dot disappeared.

And then she was sorry she’d shut it off, since any chatter—a commercial, another program, even the bone-rattle of canned laughter—would have been better than the silence that now descended on the room occupied only by herself and Bradford.

The house had four television sets. Aside from this one in a small downstairs parlor rarely entered for any reason other than TV, there were sets in Bradford’s bedroom, Evelyn’s bedroom and Dinah’s nursery. (There were also, of course, sets in the servants’ quarters.) Evelyn tended to watch a lot of television—before last Tuesday, before Robert—mostly old movies and mostly on her own set in her room. Dinah’s set ran all day long, but the child rarely looked at it. Bradford probably did some viewing in his own bedroom, but what programs and what he thought of them he never discussed with Evelyn. That left this room and its set either for guests or for those rare occasions when something of specific interest to Bradford and Evelyn led them to want to watch a program together. Like tonight’s interview.

Now she understood why Howard had told her to lay off the interview, not to use it in an attempt to make Bradford feel better after the bad review. Because the interview was going to turn out to be infinitely worse.

She hadn’t referred to it again, not since his warning on Tuesday. Of course, she hadn’t seen much of Bradford in the meantime—she’d wound up staying Tuesday night in Lancashire and had then spent Wednesday there, in bed, with Robert leaping upstairs and out of his clothes between classes, so that she didn’t get home till midnight Wednesday, and then yesterday Robert was back down here again and they’d gone riding in the twilight in the woods and made love on a blanket in the vanished village—but even if she’d been with Bradford she would have honored Howard’s warning and said nothing, despite not knowing what it was all about.

She hadn’t yet looked directly at Bradford, but she did so now, and he was staring at the blank television set, brooding at it, and she knew from his expression that he wasn’t seeing that blank screen at all, he was seeing something else unreel inside his head.

The interview, of course, replaying over and over.

How could George have done it? Bradford was his grandfather, too! And he’d said many incisive things, thought-provoking things, interesting things, even controversial things. And where were they? An amiable old fuddy-duddy had appeared on the screen, his answers so chopped up and cut to pieces that they frequently didn’t even make sense any more. It sounded like a Reader’s Digest condensation as remembered ten years later by a feebleminded optimist.

There was nothing left. None of Bradford’s warning about the direction in which America was drifting, none of that at all. None of the important things, the things that meant so much to Bradford, that he was so pleased at having been given the chance to say to millions of people all at once, through television. All gone.

What was left? Inanities and commonplaces, pointless chit-chat, silly little anecdotes from Bradford’s days in the Senate. And his reference to The Final Glory, but without George’s confusion about the title.

In a low troubled voice, not looking at him, Evelyn said, “I’m sorry.”

Had he heard? She looked at him again, and he was still brooding at the television set. She should have left it on, and now it was impossible to turn it back on. In a stronger voice, looking at him, she said, “I’m sorry.” For everything from having a brother named George, to Bradford’s being old and retired, to her having switched off the television set.

He nodded. He’d heard. Then, still gazing at the blank set, he said, “I do have to do it. I can see that, I do have to do it.”

“Do what?” she asked him, but he got to his feet and left the room.

vi

“I WAS HALF AFRAID he meant to kill himself,” Evelyn said.

Robert, sitting beside her in the Jaguar, said, “Of course. So would I, that’s what I’d think, too.”

“When I followed him,” she said, “he understood, and he turned and told me he wasn’t going to do any such thing. He said the last thing he wanted to do was throw his life away at this stage, that the whole point was to find a way to go on being useful. He said he would want to talk to me about it very soon.”

“And he hasn’t?”

“No, he hasn’t.”

This was Sunday afternoon, the fourteenth of October, nine days after the disastrous television interview. Evelyn had been short-tempered and distracted with poor Robert all last weekend, her sexual renaissance having been snuffed out when it had barely awakened, leaving Robert baffled and gradually annoyed. They had seen each other not at all during the week, Evelyn begging off with one excuse after another, but it had already been arranged that he’d spend the weekend here, and when he’d arrived he’d obviously been determined to find out what was going on or blow up in the attempt.

The blow-up had come last night. He had wanted to go to bed with her, and she had said something stupid and irritable about how-could-he in her grandfather’s house—as though that made any difference!—and then she’d cried herself to sleep, knowing she was throwing him away by her stupidity and yet unable to stop herself.

He’d been ready to leave first thing this morning, but she had managed to gather herself together enough to ask him, humbly, to stay. Her change of pace had confused him all over again, and after lunch he’d taken her aside and insisted on knowing what was wrong. She’d understood by then she had to tell him (though her impulse was always to shield Bradford, to keep his confidences from everyone), so she’d suggested they go for a drive, that she show him the old road around the perimeter of the property that the Secret Service used to patrol during Bradford’s Presidency, and now here they were on a slight ridge from which they could see woods stretching away on both sides, the house hidden somewhere far away to their right. And she had at last told him the whole story.

A little silence settled between them once she was done, until Robert exhaled noisily and looked out at the woods, saying, “All right. I’m not crazy about it, but I can understand it.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, meaning it. “Everything was so beautiful, it was growing and growing, and this just knocked the life out of me.”

“I noticed,” he said, but the irony wasn’t biting, and when he looked at her he was smiling. “You have two men in your life now,” he said. “Try not to forget it.”

“I’ll remember,” she said, and as he reached for her she smiled and murmured, “I won’t forget.”

vii

AFTER ROBERT’S DEPARTURE, BRADFORD had said, “When Dinah’s in bed, I’d like to talk with you.”

“Of course,” she’d said, and now, just after eight o’clock, she found him in the back library, paging through a bound volume of the former left-wing magazine Ramparts, shut down by the State of California last year.

Usually when he sat in here he used only the floor lamp behind his reading chair, so that he read in a pool of light, with the tiers of books in comfortable semi-darkness around him. But this evening the room was as bright as a supermarket. The fluorescent ceiling lights focused on all the bookcases were on, gleaming from the glossy dust-jacketed spines and the polished wood, the stacks of books seeming to lean forward into the room. A second floor lamp glared down on the second reading chair, completing the assault of light that bulged the room.

Bradford put Ramparts down on the small table to his left and said, “Dinah in bed for the night?”

“Yes.”

“Sit down, sit down.”

“Would you mind if I turned this off?” Meaning the lamp behind the empty chair.

“Of course not.” Looking around, he said, “I don’t know why I turned them all on. Trying to get light on the subject, I suppose.” He gave a crooked smile.

“The subject,” she said, and sat down.

“I want to ask your advice,” he said. “No, I don’t, either. What I want to ask is your help.”

“Anything,” she said. She was sitting on the edge of the chair, leaning forward, elbows on knees.

“I have to do something, you know,” he said soberly. “You know that. You know what I think about the future of this country.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I’ve thought of things I might do,” he said, glancing away from her, looking somberly across the room. “I thought if I had a platform again, a political position, that would help.”

“Running for Congress, you mean.”

“Not the running so much as the being. I’d thought, if I had a role, a position, if I were active again—” He shook his head. “That’s why I thought about Congress, about getting my old seat back.”

“Maybe you should,” she said, thinking that after all it would be better than the position he was in now.

But he said, “No. Everybody was right, I shouldn’t do it. Because in the first place I wouldn’t give a damn about this Congressional district, and everybody would have to know it. What I care about is the whole nation, what worries me is the United States in its relationships with the rest of the globe and how those relationships affect our internal matters. It would be a fraud for me to be in Congress, and it would be an obvious fraud, and it wouldn’t do me any good anyway. Because the other thing is, I do have more voice now than a freshman Congressman, even if that freshman Congressman was an ex-President. I’d only make my voice weaker, it wouldn’t accomplish a thing.”

“Then I don’t see what you can do,” she said. “I’m sorry, I wish there was something I could say, but I just don’t see what you can do.”

“There are two or three things,” he said. “I’ve been considering them, trying to make up my mind which would be best.”

The Final Glory?

“That’s exactly right,” he said. He sat back, smiling thinly in reminiscence. “You know, for a while I thought I might run for President again.”

“Bradford! You couldn’t stand the White House again, I don’t care how healthy you are!”

“Oh, there wouldn’t be much chance me winning anything, not even the nomination. But I thought I might enter a few of the primaries, the ones people pay attention to. New Hampshire, California. At least I’d be in the right arena, I could talk about the things that are important. But you know it wouldn’t be any damn good. I’d be a sideshow, nothing more. The serious contenders would get the newspaper space. That interview with George, that’s the sort of coverage I’d get.”

“That was despicable,” she said, still angry about it.

“He phoned, you know. Said he was sorry, they had to be careful about controversy since the FCC got its teeth.”

“It was just despicable,” she insisted.

“It was real life,” he said. “Rutherford says I’m a politician, and if a politician is anything he’s a man who doesn’t blink from real life. I don’t blame George, and neither should you.” He sat forward again, earnestly, saying, “Don’t you see that what happened to that interview is just exactly what I’m trying to warn people about? We’re moving into the Year of the Ostrich again, everybody’s starting to play it safe again, keep their wings in close. I really shouldn’t be surprised when the climate I’m trying to warn people about is just the thing that keeps me from doing the warning.”

“It was still George,” she said. “He didn’t have to—”

“If he didn’t have to, he wouldn’t. No television man puts on a dull show if he could put on an interesting show. Don’t be mad at your brother, Evelyn, he’s just as trapped in all this as anybody else.”

Grudgingly, she shrugged and said, “All right. But if that’s true, there’s nothing at all you can do, is there?”

He leaned back. “I think there is. I’ve rejected other ideas, I’ve thought about this for a long while. You know, I first started thinking about it when I went to work on The Temporary Peace and began to see the parallels between that time and this. Except that this time is going to be even more virulent, I’m sure of it. I started thinking about it then, and when we came back from France I knew I had to do something about it. So I’ve been considering my plans ever since, this isn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision.”

She was about to say that she could believe that, she had been aware of a change in him since Paris—in the way he’d treated Harrison, for instance—but she thought it best not to refer to such specifics, and she simply nodded and said, “I’m sure it isn’t. You never jump into things without knowing what you’re doing.”

“I hope you’re right. You know, the first night we were back from France I had a dream, a nightmare.” He grimaced, and rubbed his right temple, as though it ached him. “I don’t remember the details, only that it was awful. And that it had something to do with this feeling I have about the future of our country. The future’s like that nightmare, awful, but without the details.”

She watched him, concerned, seeing the strain in his face more clearly than he had ever allowed it to show before.

His glance took in the volume of Ramparts on the table beside his chair, and he reached out to rest a palm on it, saying, “This is what it’s all about. Paranoia. Paranoia on the left, shivering and twitching in this magazine. Paranoia on the right, forcing the magazine out of business. It was paranoia that hurt us so deeply in the fifties, and it’s paranoia again today.” He looked up at Evelyn and said, “Have you read that essay of Robert’s? Fuehrer from the Left?”

“No. I guess he thought I wouldn’t be interested.”

“He showed it to me a while ago, and it’s pernicious, and more so because he himself doesn’t realize what he’s saying. He’s simply representative of the climate of opinion without recognizing the implications of his ideas.”

Evelyn said, “What are his ideas?”

“The essay says that no liberal government can survive without becoming authoritarian and therefore tyrannical. That when extremism enters the political picture from either end of the spectrum, it must either win or be imitated by the elements that do win. And that extremism, meaning assassinations, repression, and so on, are now a part of our political picture. What the essay doesn’t say, but what is the inescapable conclusion whether it says so or not, is that there’s no longer hope for democracy, a dictatorship is coming from either the left or the right, it can’t be avoided, the only thing to do is fold our hands and wait for it.”

“That doesn’t sound like Robert,” she said.

“I told you, he doesn’t say that. He says everything leading up to it, and stops. And denies the conclusion, if it’s pointed out to him.” Bradford waved a hand, saying, “You don’t have to defend Robert, I’ll agree with almost anything you say. But the point is, there’s a climate of opinion in this country, a fatalism waiting for an end to freedom, and when even an intelligent man like Robert can be subsumed by it, the outlook is becoming desperate.”

“You mean he might be right, after all.”

“The self-fulfilling prophecy. Of course, that’s exactly what I mean. And it’s fear that’s behind the whole growing mood of exhaustion and despair. Fear of everything, and since Vietnam even the fear of responsibility. How nice not to have to make any more decisions.”

“Then what can be done?”

“We can try to find the root of the fear,” he said. “We can try to trace the threads of paranoia back to their origin. And it seems to me that all our domestic fears, of blacks and of Communists and of right-wing extremists and all the rest of it, are being blown up out of proportion because they’re being fed by our global fears. And that most of the global fears everywhere, not just in this country but all around the world, can be traced back to one source. Do you know where that is? Do you know where we’ll find the seat of unreasoning fear in the world today?”

She shook her head.

“China,” he said.

She frowned, completely at a loss. He had seemed to be talking about something entirely different. China? What did China have to do with the shutting down of Ramparts, or Robert’s article, or a new wave of repression in the United States?

But Bradford was nodding, saying, “Yes, it’s China. Communist China is terrified of everybody in the world. As the most recently industrialized superpower, she is terrified of the older and still stronger superpowers around her. She is afraid that weaker but more sophisticated nations will take advantage of her. She is afraid of everything and everybody, and the threads of China’s fear stretch out and make everybody else fearful, too. If it weren’t for China’s fear, the United States and the Soviet Union would have attained a true and viable rapprochement by now, because it’s inevitable. But the Soviets are afraid to show weakness toward the West to their Chinese allies, and the United States is afraid of Russia because China is her ally, and the barriers stay up between the nations. And because the barriers are up between the nations, the internal barriers stay up within the nations. And once again freedom becomes a luxury we fear we cannot afford.”

“Well,” she said, “if the source of all the trouble lies outside the United States, there’s nothing we can do at all.”

“Perhaps there is,” he said. He looked away from her, leftward at the bookcases. “Do you remember when the Chinese came here two months ago, to give me Kwong Lan Quey’s suicide note?”

“I certainly do.”

“They also gave me to know that they would be interested in keeping the lines of communication open, if I was willing.” He smiled crookedly at the bookcases. “Since it was their own man who had turned out to be faithless in that Paris meeting, it put me in the unusual position of being a Westerner they felt might be trusted.”

“You’ve kept in touch with them?”

“I have.” He looked back at Evelyn, smiling more broadly. “Undercover, I’m afraid. It’s all been very Foreign Intrigue, with me slipping letters to them and them slipping letters to me.”

“But why? Why do it that way?”

“The paranoia I’ve been talking about. I wanted to be sure I would remain an independent citizen, that I would not be turned into a government spokesman despite myself. So I’ve kept our watchdogs, and everybody else, from knowing about it.”

“And?”

“They want me to come to China.”

“Come—? You mean, take a trip to China?”

“Yes. Their trust for me has grown, I think, and they want me to come for high-level talks. Completely unofficial, not as a representative of my government, but simply as one of the few, the very few, well-known and responsible Westerners whom they think they can trust and believe.”

“And you want to go,” she said.

“Of course. Would any man not want to go, any man sincere in his desire for peace in the world? Because peace in the world, true peace, is the clue to everything. End the need for this permanent military stance, and America will revert with joy to its original concepts of individual liberty and individual responsibility.”

“But—” Her mind was whirling, she was no longer sure what was what. “Do you think the government would let you go? And what if the Chinese kidnapped you, what if they wouldn’t let you come back?”

“There, you see?” He pointed at her, grinning. “Paranoia again. Why should Red China, or any other country in the world, kidnap a seventy-one-year-old retired fuddy-duddy? What good would it do them? You didn’t think the French would kidnap me back in June, and we have at least as many differences with the French as we have with the Chinese, so why should you believe the Chinese would do anything so pointless?”

“All right. But what about our government?”

He sobered immediately, saying, “That’s the problem, of course.”

“Have you talked to anybody yet?”

“No. And I’m not going to. Because I know what they’d say.”

“They won’t let you.”

“That’s right. You remember how much trouble I had, getting them to let me meet a Chinese in Europe. And even then it was so hedged with conditions—” He shook his head, saying, “No, there’s no point in talking with anybody in Washington. And you see what that means, don’t you?”

“That’s impossible, too,” she said. “But that’s such a shame, because you might be—”

“But it isn’t impossible,” he said. “Any more than the private correspondence is impossible. I’ve been doing it.”

She frowned at him, not sure she could possibly be understanding his meaning. “But you couldn’t sneak away,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Well, in the first place, they’d know it right away, if you disappeared, and they’d find out. They’d stop you from going, if they could, and they’d be very angry with you when you came back, if they didn’t manage to stop you.”

“I know that,” he said. “And I believe it’s a risk worth taking. It’s possible I would never be able to come back, not in the few years I may have left to me. I’ve considered that for quite some time.”

“You mean, stay there? Forever?”

“If necessary.”

“But you’re talking about defecting!”

“Not at all! I’m talking about a peace mission, I’m talking about a private individual making a voyage into the very eye of the storm of paranoia that threatens us all.”

“But if you’re going to sneak away, against the government’s wishes, if you’re going to have to stay in Communist China for the rest of your life—”

“It’s a sacrifice worth making, if I can bring about world peace.”

Evelyn stared at Bradford, trying to understand him, trying to find the words to say to him, and it seemed to her his expression was suddenly colder, more impersonal—somehow, more messianic—than she’d ever seen it before. She said, “But people will think you’ve defected, they’ll say you’ve defected, so what good could it do?”

“I’ll get the public eye,” Bradford said. “Once I’ve made the move, once I’m actually in Red China, I’ll have the whole world’s eye. The drama of the situation alone will assure that. There won’t be anything like that interview with George any more, they won’t be able to ignore me.”

“Bradford—I don’t know, I just don’t know what to say.”

“Because the idea is new to you. When it was new to me, I too was afraid of it. But think about it, think what it would really mean. And think about the title I’ve chosen for it. The Final Glory. Because that’s what it would be, you know, an accomplishment to dwarf everything I’ve ever done in my life. If my efforts could result in world peace, that would be a bequest to leave my posterity. And the Albert J. Rutherfords would think twice about Bradford Lockridge being nothing in his life but a politician. You know, there was one sentence in his review that fit right in with my thinking. He said, ‘The moments in life when something more than political skill is needed are rare, but they are critical.’ And he was absolutely right. And I’m at such a moment right now.”

“I don’t know, Bradford. I have to think about this.”

“Yes, you do, Evelyn. Because I have one more thing to say, and I want you to think very very carefully before you give me your answer.”

She felt she was braced for anything, but how could she be sure? What else would he say, what else was left?

He said, “If you will agree to, I want very much for you to come with me.”

The Closing Door

1

ROBERT STEPPED OUT ON his bare front porch shortly after noon to check the mailbox, and found, amid the bills and supermarket circulars, a letter from the Japs (nickname of The Journal of American Political Studies), the quarterly to whom he’d sent Fuehrer from the Left. Stuffing the rest of the mail back into the box to get it out of the way, he slit open the envelope and leaned against the porch railing to read:

Dear Mr. Pratt:

Your Fuehrer created something of a furor here, as you no doubt anticipated it would. Scratch an intellectual these days and you will find an unreconstructed McCarthy man underneath nine times out of ten. Most of us, in fact, still speak privately of a kind of Second Coming, into which your quiet pebble of theory dropped like an avalanche.

Needless to say, there is a great division of opinion concerning your ideas, but we were all agreed that they deserve publication. In fact, we are all interested to see how they will hold up once the intellectual community gets its teeth into them.

Currently, we plan to schedule Fuehrer from the Left for our Spring issue, and should be sending you copies by the first of February. All dependent, of course, on printer’s schedules, etc.

Please sign both copies of the enclosed release form and send them to me in the envelope provided.

We would be most interested to see further thoughts from you on this or related subjects.

Yours sincerely,

Walter W. Brownlow

Editor-in-Chief

The Journal of American Political Studies

Robert smiled as he read the letter, but his smile was a bit grim. Writing on contemporary political manifestations was not going to be exactly as quiet and placid an occupation as, say, doing pieces on the war aims of Andrew Johnson, was it? No, it was not.

He refolded the letter and its enclosures, reached to take the rest of the mail back out of the box, and heard a car pull to the curb out front. He turned, mildly curious, and was surprised to see Evelyn’s dark green Mustang there, and Evelyn herself getting out of the car and coming up the walk toward him.

“Hello!” he called, coming to the head of the stoop to greet her, smiling because he assumed (after yesterday) that her reason for coming here would have something to do with bed.

But one look at her expression as she came up the steps told him he was wrong. “I had to talk to you,” she said. “There was nobody else I could turn to.”

His hands were encumbered by mail. “Well, sure,” he said. “Who else would you—of course you’ll come to me. Is it Bradford?”

“Yes. Can we go inside? May I make you coffee?”

“Whatever you want,” he said, gesturing vaguely with the handful of letters.

She led the way, holding the door for him and then walking on directly to the kitchen while he paused to drop the mail on a chair in the living room. When he got to the kitchen she was already opening cabinet doors, assembling things for coffee. He said, “Evelyn? What is it?”

She kept moving around the kitchen as she talked, saying, “I don’t even know how to say it. It sounds so stupid, it sounds ridiculous.” She stopped and turned to look at him. “I don’t know if it’s really serious or not,” she said. “All I know is, it scares me.”

“What scares you?”

She hesitated, as though looking for the words, and then shrugged and said, with an odd flatness in her voice, “Bradford says he wants to go to Red China.”

“Red China? Travel all the way—”

“That isn’t the point,” she said, and in the sudden harshness in her voice he first realized just how close she was to the edge. “Travel isn’t the thing,” she said, “he can stand to travel. But he’d have to—this sounds so silly, saying it this way—he’d have to sneak away, that’s the thing. They wouldn’t let him go, if they knew, our government wouldn’t.”

“Wait a second,” Robert said. “I’m not following this. How could Bradford Lockridge sneak out of the United States? He couldn’t do it.”

“Whether it’s possible or not,” she said desperately, “he wants to do it. Don’t you see?”

“No, I don’t. I’m sorry, this is too fast for me.”

Not answering him, following her own train of thought, she said, “Besides, it is possible. The Chinese will help him.”

“Evelyn,” he said, “you better sit down for a minute. Let me make the coffee, you sit and organize yourself.”

“I just don’t know what to do,” she said helplessly. “Is it his mind? Or is it just nonsense, and he’ll forget about it in a day or two? Or maybe he’s right, maybe he knows best after all.”

Robert took her by both forearms and walked her backward till her legs hit a kitchen chair. “Sit down,” he said, and she obediently dropped into the chair. He released her and said, “Don’t talk. Let me make coffee, and you just sit and think for a couple of minutes. Now, don’t say anything, you can take two minutes to get yourself together, and then we’ll talk.”

“Robert,” she said, frowning up at him, “I just don’t know what to do, I feel as though I should do something but I don’t know what.”

“Sit there,” he said. He cupped a palm against her cheek and said, “We’ll decide what to do, don’t worry. In a minute.”

She hesitated, and then nodded. “All right,” she said, doubtful but obedient, and reached up to pat the hand he was holding to her cheek, almost as though she were reassuring him.

He made instant coffee, deciding that time was more important than taste right now, and while waiting for the water to boil he glanced at her, and she seemed totally self-absorbed. She had one forearm resting on the table and was frowning at her hand, studying the spread-out fingers.

When the coffee was ready, he carried the cups over to the table, sat down beside her, gave her a smile that was meant to be encouraging, and said, “Are you all right now?

“I think so,” she said, and briefly returned the smile. “You’re right, I wasn’t making any sense before.” She reached for the coffee cup.

Robert waited, watching her.

Evelyn sipped coffee, put the cup down, and leaned over the table to gaze moodily down into the cup. In that position she said, narratively, “Bradford told me last night that he intends to go to Red China, to live there permanently. He says he can do something to bring about world peace if he goes there, he has a whole involved theory about it, I didn’t really understand what he was talking about.” She glanced at Robert, and back down at the coffee. “He was telling me because he wants me to go with him.”

“With him?”

“He’s been in secret communication with the Chinese,” she said, “ever since that time there was the fuss at the gate.” She glanced up at him. “Remember?”

“Two Chinese in the back of a limousine,” he said. “I remember. What do you mean, secret communication? Secret from our government?”

“Yes. That’s what he told me.”

“And now he wants to defect to China?”

She shook her head slowly, frowning. “He doesn’t exactly want to defect,” she said. “He doesn’t think of it that way.”

“But that’s what it would be!”

She lifted her head again to look at him. “Would it? That’s what it seemed to me, but he acted so sure . . .”

“There wouldn’t be anybody in the world who would call it anything else,” Robert said, “no matter what explanation he gave. Evelyn, are you sure he wasn’t pulling your leg?”

“He was serious,” she said. She was offended, and added, “Robert, I’m not a silly little girl. I wouldn’t have come here if it wasn’t serious.”

“I’m sorry, you’re right. But Good God, you come out of the blue and say Bradford Lockridge is going to defect to Red China! I mean, it takes some getting used to.”

“And I just don’t know what to do about it,” she said. “For all I know, he’s changed his mind again by now, it could be the same as when he was going to run for Congress.”

“But you don’t think so.”

“How can I know?” And suddenly she was on the verge of tears. “It’s becoming so nerve-wracking with him, never knowing what he’s—” She shook her head and said, as though pleading for belief, “It didn’t used to be this way. I don’t know what’s changed.”

Robert, casting around for a role he could perform, some meaningful action he could undertake, said, “Do you want me to talk to him? I didn’t do much good with that Congress business, he talked himself out of it without any help from me, but I’m willing to try.”

“I don’t know,” she said. She folded both hands around the coffee cup and slowly shook her head. “He wouldn’t like it if he knew I told you. But I can’t handle it by myself, I don’t have the arguments, I don’t know what to say to him.” She looked up at Robert again. “Do you have a copy of that article you wrote? About the Fuehrer?”

“Yes, of course.” He was about to tell her that it had just been accepted for publication, but realized that was irrelevant now.

She said, “May I read it?”

“Sure. But why, what’s it got to do with Bradford?”

“He told me about it, it’s one of his reasons for going. Or one of his illustrations, I suppose, of what’s wrong, why he has to go.”

Robert grinned uncertainly, all at once suspecting some sort of mad gigantic practical joke. “Bradford’s defecting to Communist China because of my article? I’m that bad a writer?”

“No, of course not. He said—” She stroked a palm across her forehead, suddenly looking weary beyond endurance. “I don’t know what he said. That there’s a climate of opinion leading to repression, or making it possible for repression, something like that. And your article shows that climate of opinion, or emerges out of it. Something. I don’t really know, the ground kept shifting all the time he talked.” She looked directly at Robert, as though the thought had just now occurred to her, and said, “Why didn’t you ever show it to me?”

He felt obscurely embarrassed. “I don’t know, I suppose it’s—it just didn’t occur to me. It doesn’t seem like a man-woman thing, you know? To show you a piece of hack scholarship I wrote.”

“Hack scholarship?”

But he was still gnawing at her last question, and now he said, “No, I’ll tell you why. It’s because my wife—my ex-wife wouldn’t have wanted to see it. She’d have put it down.”

“I’m not your ex-wife,” Evelyn said, and when he looked at her face her expression was ice cold.

“I know you’re not,” he said. “I’m sorry, old habits die hard.” He reached out and grasped her hand on the tabletop. “I am sorry.”

“Yes,” she said, nodding, and it seemed she had not so much forgiven him as simply put the problem to one side for the moment, there being more urgent things to consider. “I’d like to read it,” she said. “It might help me to understand what Bradford has in mind.”

“Sure. I’ll get it for you.” He glanced up at the wall-clock; two-forty. “I have a three o’clock,” he said, “and then I’m done for the day. If you want, I’ll try to get somebody to take the class.”

“No, don’t do that. I’ll read the article while you’re gone. And try to think.”

“Think about whether you want me to go talk with Bradford or not.”

“I will. I’m just afraid he’ll stop trusting me, if he finds out I told you. It’s bad enough now, but if he wasn’t talking to me, wasn’t telling me about his plans, that would be even worse.”

Robert released her hand. “I’ll go get the article,” he said, and got to his feet. At the doorway, he stopped and looked back with a sheepish grin to say, “By the way, it was just accepted for publication.” He turned away again before she could choose a response.

ii

THEY TRAVELED DOWN TO Eustace together in his Jaguar, leaving her Mustang in the driveway beside his house, and on the way they talked about his article. Evelyn said, “I do see what Bradford means. It’s a very pessimistic article, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is,” Robert said. “To tell you the truth, I don’t see much reason for optimism right now.”

“Neither does Bradford. But do you really think America is going to have a dictatorship? I’m sorry, but it sounds awfully far-fetched.”

Robert said, “I think the chances of it are better now than at any other time in the last hundred years, including the Joe McCarthy period. If McCarthy’d had larger ambitions, he might very well have been able to take this country completely apart and put it back together again different.” He glanced at her, in the passenger seat beside him, and looked back out at the highway again, saying, “You know the form of government we have in this country isn’t a natural law, like the shape of a rabbit’s ears, it’s simply an historical accident. A thousand things might have happened along the way to make this country far different from what it is. In fact, at the very beginning we came very close to being a monarchy.”

“I read something about that once,” Evelyn said. “Didn’t some people want to make George Washington king?”

“That, too. But before that, during the Revolutionary War, an American delegation went to the Stuart pretender living in Paris to offer him the crown, the idea being to win over the loyalty of the American Tories, but he turned out to be a fat old drunk who passed out at the meeting, so nothing came of it.”

Evelyn, half-smiling, said, “Is that true?”

“Yes, it’s true. And Aaron Burr’s plot was true, and the secession of the southern states in 1861 was true, and Roosevelt’s attempt to pack the Supreme Court was true, and a thousand other things have been true. There’s no God-given law that says the United States has to be a democracy forever. We’ve lasted longer than most of the governments of history already.”

He could sense her studying his profile as he drove, and he wasn’t surprised when, a moment later, she said, “I have the feeling you’re going to agree with Bradford all the way.”

He glanced at her, grinning, and shook his head. “Not quite all the way,” he said. “That the country’s in grave danger, yes. That the solution is for Bradford Lockridge to defect to Red China . . . no.”

iii

“BRADFORD,” EVELYN SAID, “I talked to Robert, about what you asked me.”

Robert, watching the older man’s face, saw it harden at once, as though Bradford were abruptly steeling himself to exist without aid. He didn’t look at Robert at all, but continued to face his granddaughter as he said, “Did you think that was wise?” His tone was cold, icy with disapproval. He continued to sit in his reading chair in the library, where they’d found him, and they two stood facing him. He hadn’t suggested they sit.

Evelyn said, “I didn’t think it was a decision I could make by myself. I needed help.”

“You’ve always come to me for help, in the past,” Bradford said. His manner was still cold, unforgiving.

Robert broke in: “She already knew what your opinion was, sir. She wanted a second opinion.”

Bradford glanced briefly at Robert’s face, and Robert was startled by the impersonal harshness of his expression. Then, looking back at his granddaughter, he said, “Are you two in love, is that it? You don’t want to come with me because you don’t want to give him up?”

“Bradford,” she said, and Robert could hear the embarrassment and helplessness in her voice, “that isn’t—”

“Because if that’s true, naturally I’ll understand. I wouldn’t try to come between you and your happiness.”

“Bradford—”

“But you should have told me about it. There was no need to bring Robert into the situation, it only complicates my security, don’t you see that?” The cold eyes flicked to Robert. “I hope Evelyn impressed on you the necessity for secrecy. I wouldn’t want interference from the government.”

Robert said, “Interference wasn’t what I had in—”

But Bradford continued with his own thought again, saying, “Because I can’t be stopped, you know. All you could do would be make the situation more complicated, but you couldn’t stop it. No one could stop it.”

Robert made a vague gesture with one hand, not knowing precisely what to say at this juncture. The conversation, which he had imagined in several different modes on the drive down here, had gone off from the beginning in ways he hadn’t anticipated. He said, “It isn’t a question of stopping you, sir, it’s—”

“Let me tell you,” Bradford said, “what will happen if the government learns of my plans and tries to keep me from leaving the country. I will pick up the handiest telephone—” he nodded at the phone across the room “—and announce a news conference. At which I will explain my intention to leave for Peking, my reasons for so doing, and the attempt of government officials to keep me from going. Protected by the spotlight of publicity, I will then be perfectly able to travel unmolested.”

“Sir, I don’t want to—”

“I would prefer to do it quietly,” Bradford said, “and present my government with a fait accompli. I believe that would put fewer noses out of joint, which would be important if I am to be an effective conduit of communication between East and West. But if necessary, I will take the public route. The most important thing is that I go.”

Robert said, “But is it? That’s what I want to question, sir, the advantages of your doing this in the first place.”

Bradford’s lips moved in a thin smile. “I frankly wouldn’t expect you to be enthusiastic. A positive act conflicts with your modish fatalism.”

Robert fought down a sudden flush of anger, but Bradford’s phrase rankled like a burr under the saddle. Had the man intended it to rankle? Robert said, in as neutral a tone as possible, “Evelyn told me how my article fits into your theory, sir, and in many ways you’re right. Modish or not, I do feel fatalistic about this country’s future. The temptation to lay down the burden of freedom is a strong one for any people, and we’ve held out for—”

“You are about to agree with me in principle,” Bradford said, the thin smile showing briefly once again.

“No, sir. I am going to agree with you right on down the line. This country is confused by its internal problems and in despair over its external sins and blunders, and is ripe for dictatorship, we both agree on that. It is very likely to happen unless some huge event takes place, some miracle, something dramatic and unforeseen and tremendously effective, we both agree on that. But what we don’t agree on is that your defecting to Communist Chi—”

“Defecting! I thought Evelyn explained the situation to you.”

“I’m describing it in newspaper shorthand, sir,” Robert said. “Your explanation is a little too long and involved for a headline.”

“In other words, your objection is that you’re worried about me.” The smile was now more openly sardonic.

“Yes, sir,” Robert said. It was growing increasingly difficult to keep his temper.

“And if I say that I’m willing to leave Evelyn here, will that cause you to worry less about her grandfather?”

“No, sir,” Robert said. “Evelyn is old enough to make her own decisions. My only feeling is that you’re about to make a very serious mistake that will spoil your record of—”

“Mistake? Young man, when did you first hear of this plan of mine?”

“This afternoon. About four hours ago.”

“How long do you suppose I’ve been thinking about it?”

“Yes, sir, I realize—”

“How long?”

“For some time, I’m sure, sir, but neverthe—”

“For some time. How long?”

“I imagine, sir, that sooner or later you intend to tell me how long, though I don’t really see what difference it makes. If it was fifty days, or twenty-seven days or a hundred and nine days, it’s still a bad idea. People have been known to keep mistaken notions in their heads for decades.”

“Whereas your brain leaped to the truth at once.”

“In this case, yes, sir. This is a wilder idea than running for Congress, but it comes out of the same—”

“Now you’re a psychiatrist. Evelyn, you seem to have found a Renaissance man.”

“I don’t claim to be a Renaissance man, sir. I don’t claim to be a messiah, either.”

“But I do, is that it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Bradford’s eyes glinted above the cold smile. “Tell me, then,” he said. “Which would be better, to fail at the glorious or to succeed at the stodgy?”

“You can’t set up an either-or propo—”

“I can’t? I just did.” Bradford leaned forward suddenly, pointing a finger up at Robert. “Let me tell you something, young man. You come here with professions of selfless concern for my—don’t interrupt me!—for my reputation and my future, but I tell you your hands are not clean. You have not merely one ulterior motive, you have two. In the first place, you don’t want to be proved wrong in your fashionable theory of pessimism, you want a dictatorship, you are just exactly the internal enemy I fear, the man who talks of freedom but who inside himself craves to be led and protected and absolved of responsibility. No, let me finish! And in the second place, you fear what my actions will do to your relationship with my granddaughter.”

“Sir, that isn’t—”

“I said, let me finish!”

“But you’re making a speech!”

“Yes, I am!” Bradford shouted, and lunged to his feet. Standing there, head thrust forward close to Robert’s face, he shouted, “The first speech of many, young man, only the first of many! I will be heard, I will force the world to pay attention to me and to turn its back on the nay-sayers and the fatalists like you who would seduce not only this nation but the entire world into a Dark Ages from which the human race might never recover!”

Evelyn, coming forward in panicky concern, called her grandfather’s name, but Bradford turned off the anger at once, smiled at her and said, “Oh, I’m all right, dear. Don’t worry about me, I’ll stay healthy. I have too much to accomplish.” He looked again at Robert. “And don’t you try to stop me.”

2

EVELYN STOOD IN THE open doorway and watched the red tail-lights of Robert’s car flicker in undecipherable semaphore as he drove away out the blacktop road amid the trees. Then darkness, then one light winked briefly through the tree trunks like a low-flying red star, and then darkness again, this time complete.

Evelyn shook her head. How she would like to be beside him in the other bucket seat of the elderly Jaguar now, going outward in a straight line forever, with no problems, no terrible decisions, no responsibilities. Instead of which, a chauffeur was riding in her place, traveling to Lancashire with Robert in order to drive her Mustang back.

She stepped inside and shut the door and listened for a moment to the silence of the house. It was nearly ten, and Dinah was long since in bed; otherwise, Evelyn would have gone up there now for the psychological bolstering, the calming, that an hour or two in the child’s presence always gave her. As it was, the house seemed empty, the servants all away in their own section, only Bradford still moving around upstairs, in the back library.

Bradford. She was afraid to see him now, and yet she had to see him. But what was she going to say to him?

She hadn’t been able to talk about it with Robert. The minute they were alone he’d wanted to start making plans, deciding whom to go to for help, how best to handle Bradford, and she hadn’t been able to hold that kind of conversation, not now. Her mind was too confused now.

Could it be that Bradford was right, after all? Robert’s article had shaken her, demonstrating as it did just exactly the fatalism Bradford had been talking about. Bradford and Robert were in agreement about the nation’s illness; it was only in the cure that they parted company. And even then, what was the disagreement? Only that Robert was afraid Bradford’s gesture would be ineffective, he would be throwing himself away. And what alternative did Robert offer? For Bradford, continued retirement and inaction. For the nation and the world, nothing.

Perhaps Bradford should be allowed to try his plan, perhaps throwing himself away would still be better than stagnating to death. The things he’d said to Robert tonight had been harsh, some of them, but they’d made sense. And if the current danger to democracy was as extraordinary as both Bradford and Robert agreed it was, then why not an extraordinary cure? Why not a gesture so grand it couldn’t be ignored?

There were moments like this when it seemed absolutely right that Bradford should do what he planned, but then the whole problem tended to make a sudden shift into another perspective, like those stacks of boxes in Ripley’s Believe It or Not that sometimes seem to angle one way and sometimes the other, and she would find she was arguing against herself.

Now, for instance, she was remembering France and what had happened to Bradford there, and she was realizing it would be the same thing all over again this time, only much worse, on a much larger scale. No matter how good Bradford’s motivation, no matter how accurate his diagnosis of the world’s ills, all that could happen would be that the Chinese would use him for their own propaganda. And the United States would have to disown him, turn from him in repugnance as a traitor, no matter how he might try to explain things. The world would listen as George had listened during that interview, nodding all the way and then cutting out the parts it didn’t want to hear.

But what was the alternative? For Bradford, stagnation and uselessness. For the country, if Bradford and Robert were right, the beginning of the decline from democracy.

No, she couldn’t make up her mind about anything now, she couldn’t think clearly now. But she did want to see Bradford and reassure him that she was still on his side, that much she had to do, whether or not it was the truth.

Always be sincere, the old joke ran, whether you mean it or not.

She carried that thought with her up the stairs and down the long corridor to the closed door of the back library. She knocked, heard his muffled response, and opened the door.

He had been reading again, this time The Making of the President 1972, and he smiled as Evelyn came into the room, and tapped the book and said, “This could have been written by Robert. It’s fascinating how widespread that fatalistic attitude is.”

Should she try to argue with him, talk him out of his ideas? No. If Robert, who was so much better prepared, had failed to turn him, Evelyn didn’t stand a chance. All she could accomplish would be to make him suspect he couldn’t trust her any more, and that was the one thing she knew she couldn’t permit. She had to remain his confidante, she had to know his plans.

She said, “I read his article today. The one about the Fuehrer. I hadn’t known people were thinking that way at all.”

“From the highest to the lowest,” Bradford said. “I think perhaps that’s the advantage of retirement, one can step outside the action and see it from a different perspective, not get caught by the received truths that everybody else absorbs without noticing.”

“I’d never known that was possible, to have a whole shift in the way people think, without anybody noticing.”

“Look at a ten-year-old fashion magazine,” Bradford said, “and you’ll see the same thing operating on a different level. The clothes will look foolish to you, you’d be embarrassed to be seen wearing any of them. Try to remember how much you admired clothing like that at the time, and you can’t do it. The memory is gone. You know you must have liked that clothing, you can remember owning things very much like it, but to remember your attitude then is impossible.” He transferred the book from his lap to the table beside his chair and said, “I hope you won’t be telling anyone else, Evelyn. What I said to you I said in confidence.”

Suddenly nervous and frightened, Evelyn said, “No, of course not. I’m sorry about that, Bradford, I shouldn’t have done it.”

“I hadn’t realized you and Robert were so close,” he said, and smiled a bit sadly at her. “Naturally, if marriage is in prospect—”

“It isn’t that,” she said quickly, too quickly, and embarrassed herself by it. But she didn’t want Bradford to think what she wasn’t permitting herself to think.

But Bradford looked at her closely and said, “It isn’t? What is it, then?”

A mistake. If she hadn’t talked to Robert for the reason Bradford thought, then what was her reason? She floundered briefly, and said, “Well, it was such a shock to me. Such a brand new idea. I wanted to talk to somebody, and I felt I could trust Robert—”

“I wish you’d talked it over with me first,” he said.

“Yes, I should have.”

“I hope he won’t be foolish enough to inform the authorities.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” she said. “I’m sure he won’t. He promised me, before he left. But he’ll keep trying to talk you out of it,” she added, giving in for the moment to the hope that Bradford could be talked out of it.

But he shook his head and said, “He’ll be wasting his time. I am absolutely sure of myself now. I haven’t been so positive of a course of action since the first campaign for the Presidency.”

He was that sure? She found her convictions slipping again, the stacked boxes angling a different way, the other perspective dominant all at once. She looked at him, about to say something, she wasn’t sure what, confess something, open her mind to him more completely, but something in his expression stopped her, some shadow or line across his face that reminded her all at once of Harrison, three months ago, and the business of the pipeline. He’d been sure then, too, positive and unreachable, until Herbert Jarvis had shocked him back into realism.

What would shock him out of his sureness this time? What suicide, short of his own?

She buried what she’d been intending to say, and instead told him, “As long as you believe in what you’re doing, that’s the important thing, isn’t it?”

“Of course,” he said. “Each of us must follow his own destiny. I have been fortunate in mine.” He seemed to look down from a great height for a moment, as though the chair he was sitting in had risen up into the sky to show him all the nations of the earth. But then his expression shifted, grew more natural, and he looked at her and said, “I imagine you aren’t coming with me.”

“Oh, no! I mean, I’m not sure yet. I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

“What about Robert?”

“Well—I don’t know how important that really is.” It was easiest to lie with the truth.

“It’s up to him now, is that it?” Bradford smiled slightly, and said, “I think he’ll claim you, Evelyn, I believe he won’t want to give you up.”

Evelyn felt warmth in her face, and didn’t know whether or not it would be best to let her emotions show. But then she realized she had no choice in the matter, she’d already let him see her feelings. “If he does . . . claim me,” she said, “then I won’t want to go, no. That’s the truth.”

“And only natural,” he said. “I’ll miss you, Evelyn, but I’ll understand.” He smiled boyishly and said, “But I expect it’s going to be quite an adventure. If you do come along, you won’t have much time to mourn lost loves.”

“No, I suppose I won’t.”

“Well, there’s time, there’s still time to make up your mind. I’ve asked them for a passport for you in any case. If you don’t use it, we’ll give it back to them.”

“A passport? I already have a passport.”

“We can hardly travel under our own names,” he said, and the boyish smile flashed again. The idea of the trip clearly delighted him. “We’re getting false passports, you and I, we’ll be a pair out of Eric Ambler.”

“False passports? From where?”

“From the Chinese, of course! I sent them an old photo of you, and your vital statistics. I should be getting them any day now.”

The Chinese. It was real, it was actually real, Bradford was in sub rosa contact with the Communist Chinese! And he’d told them of his plans, and they were helping him, providing passports and who knew what else.

Of course they’d help him, they’d love to get their hands on him, they’d use him the way the brainwashed GI’s were used during Korea.

Had they been in the house, had Chinese agents been within these walls? Was there one here now, hidden somewhere?

No, that was just foolishness, there was no reason for Chinese agents to lie hidden inside this house. Still, she felt the flutter of fright up and down her spine, and she wished this room were better lit. And the hall outside, and all the rooms, all better lit, much more brightly lit. And full of people, known and trusted and real.

Bradford broke into her flowering hysteria without knowing it, calmly saying, “Evelyn.”

She looked at him, and darkness and terrors seemed to recede from the corners of her vision like an ebb tide. “Yes?”

“You haven’t told anyone else, have you?”

“Anyone else? About you, you mean? Of course not!”

“I know someone you’ve been planning to tell,” he said, and his smile now was arch and playful.

Despite that playfulness, she suddenly felt guilty and afraid, like a child caught in a lie. “I’m not planning to tell anybody,” she insisted, knowing that her face was giving her away by turning sullen and mute, the truly childish response.

He remained playful, cocking his head to one side and smiling up at her. “Not even Joe?”

Joe? Uncle Joe! Dr. Joseph Holt! Of course he must be told, she should have gone to him first! He’d know what to do, how to keep Bradford from doing this.

Bradford was looking triumphant now, shaking a finger at her and saying, “Yes, I can see it in your face. You don’t want me to take any trips without Joe looking me over, I know all about that. But, Evelyn—” his manner abruptly changed, became serious and intent “—you can’t tell him about this. I told you my plans in confidence, you can’t spread them around. Robert may keep it to himself, Joe might even keep it to himself, but how can we be sure? Promise me, Evelyn, that you won’t tell Joe.”

Promise a lie? There was nothing else to do. “I promise,” she said. “But you have to promise me something.”

“Oh?”

“You call him yourself, ask for a physical. Say you’re thinking about going out to California again or something. But have him give you a check-up. Will you do it?”

He hesitated, and seemed on the verge of refusing, but abruptly nodded and said, “Done. It’s a deal.”

“You can talk to him Sunday. If you’re going.”

“Going?” He obviously had no idea what she was talking about.

“Greg’s wedding,” she said. “We got the announcement last week, I told you about it.”

“Whose wedding?”

“Greg. Uncle Joe’s son Gregory, he’s marrying Audrey White.”

“I’d forgotten.” He shook his head and made a dismissing motion with one hand. “I have too many relations under twenty-five,” he said, “I can’t remember them all any more. In fact, I’ve stopped trying.”

“Well, are you going to the wedding?”

“No.” He was all at once irritable, cranky, a dozen years older than he’d been just two minutes ago. “I can’t stand that sort of family fuss any more. You go, take my place. I’ll phone the happy couple my best wishes. They can come visit me after their honeymoon, I’ll give them a patriarch’s blessing.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go?”

“No. A wedding? Definitely not.”

“I thought you could talk to Uncle Joe then, while you were there. Do you want me to?”

“No.” His irritability was increasing. “We have a deal, Evelyn, don’t push it. I’ll call him myself, before we leave.”

“All right,” she said. Then, suddenly doubtful, she said, “You won’t be leaving before then, will you? Before Sunday?”

“What? No. No chance of it, we don’t have a route lined up yet, the preparations are nowhere near ready.” Then, in another abrupt change of mood, he peered at her and smiled and said, “Don’t worry, there’ll be time for Robert to make up his mind. It’ll be a week or two before you’ll have to give me your final answer.”

A week or two. No time at all. “That’s fine,” she said.

ii

ON THURSDAY, ROBERT DROVE down to take her to dinner. Neither of them mentioned Bradford—who didn’t appear to say hello to Robert—until they were out of the house, in the yellow Jaguar and moving toward the trees. Then Robert said, “Has there been any change?”

“No. He says he’ll be leaving in a week or two.” She said it quietly, having had three days to get used to the closeness of the deadline. She and Robert had talked together on the phone each of those days but, not knowing who might be listening, neither had said anything about the current situation.

So the time element was brand new to Robert, who gave her a startled glance and said, “So soon? How’s he going to do it?”

“The Chinese are helping him,” she said. “They’re going to send false passports.”

“He told you that?”

“Yes. One for him and one for me.”

Robert shook his head, peering grimly out at the blacktop road. “I keep hoping it’s going to blow over,” he said, “like the running for Congress thing.”

“Not this time,” she said. “I’m sure of it, he won’t change his mind.”

“Particularly if the Chinese are already involved. They’ll keep him fired up.”

“It’s so easy to get into his way of thinking,” she said. She hesitated, waiting while Robert made the turn out of the private road onto 992, and then said, “Sometimes I find myself on his side, thinking that the grand gesture should be made, that only small and timid minds would be against what he wants to do.” She smiled wanly, looking out at the road. “It’s easy to start thinking that way.”

“Yes, I suppose it is. I had the same temptations when he was going to run for Congress. The adventure of it.”

“Harrison’s pipeline,” she said, and turned to look at his profile. “Remember me telling you about that?”

“Of course.”

“That was the same thing. High adventure, the pipeline through the desert.”

“He has a need for drama in his life, I guess.”

“Because of being retired, do you suppose?”

“I don’t know.” He glanced at her, and away. “But I don’t think that’s the important part now. It doesn’t so much matter why he wants to do it, what matters is how are we going to stop him?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I start to think about that, and I just feel helpless. I remember what he told you about the news conference.”

“I know. We can’t let him go, we can’t talk him into changing his mind, we can’t make him stay.” He turned his head for another brief look at her and said, “We can’t do this by ourselves, Evelyn. We need help. We need people who know more than we do.”

“Yes, I know that. And I know who I want to talk to next. Do you remember Dr. Joseph Holt?”

“Your uncle. Yes, of course, I met him at that Congressman lunch.”

“He’s the one I want to talk to. I think he’ll know what to do, if anyone does.”

Robert shook his head. “I wish I could have been more help to you,” he said. “I keep thinking I might have been able to talk him out of it if I’d kept my temper better, but I really don’t believe it.”

“No, he wasn’t going to be talked out of anything,” she said, “I could see that from the very beginning of the conversation.” She put a hand on his arm and said, “Don’t think you haven’t done any good. You’ve done me wonders. Just to know that you were there to talk to.”

He gave her a quick grateful smile. “Thank you. A boy doesn’t like to feel helpless in front of his girl.”

The implications of that distracted her from her line of thought, and she remained silent for a moment, her hand still holding his forearm, feeling the small movements it made as he steered the car. She looked at his profile in the dash lights, feeling both warm and frightened, and finally said what she was thinking: “I hope this isn’t going to spoil things between you and me, all this trouble.”

The smile he flashed her this time was larger, happier. “I keep thinking the same thing,” he said. “Every time we get started, something comes along to goof it up before we find out where we’re going.”

“I know.”

“If this mess is ever over, you and I are going to have to take a nice long illicit weekend together somewhere and get to know one another.”

“I think I’d like that,” she said, answering his smile. But she couldn’t maintain the mood, and she faced front again, saying, “But it isn’t over. Not even close.”

“I know.”

“I’ll talk to Uncle Joe on Sunday,” she said, and explained, “Dr. Holt.”

“Sunday? He’s coming out?”

“No, there’s a wedding, his son’s getting married. Bradford was invited, naturally, but he didn’t want to go. I’m sort of his representative.”

“Good. You’ll have a legitimate excuse to go see the doctor, without Bradford getting suspicious.”

“You can be my escort. Will you come? We can talk to Joe together.”

“Sure,” he said, and grinned at her once more. “Happy to be your escort.”

“It isn’t exactly an illicit weekend,” she said.

“A wedding.” He laughed, and said, “Maybe some of the normality will rub off.”

3

DR. JOSEPH HOLT STEPPED through the French doors from dining room to patio and smiled in pleasure at his guests, scattered in bright colors across the lawn.

You couldn’t ask for better weather. Considering that this Sunday was the twenty-first day of October, you really couldn’t even ask for weather this good. The air was cool enough for the women to wear wraps, but the sun shone bright and clear, the air was beautifully fresh, and that slight scent of leaves being burned far away added the perfect final touch.

And where was the happy couple? Greg, finally home from his Navy tour in the Mediterranean, had lost no time signing on for another voyage, this one of hopefully longer duration, and at five minutes past noon today he had exchanged the nuptial vows with Audrey White, his fiancée for the last three years. And now, at three o’clock, with the caterers’ men doing excellent work at the tables set up for food and drink, the reception was in high gear.

As was fairly common in this strata of society, long-threaded familial relationships already existed between the bride and groom, mostly through one or another branch of the Lockridge family. Audrey’s mother was the former Sandra Wellington, niece of that Dinah Wellington who had been Bradford Lockridge’s wife. A cousin of Audrey’s, James White (killed three years ago in an auto accident), had been married to the former Katherine Bloor, niece of Sterling Lockridge’s wife, Elizabeth. A further Bloor, Albert, was Joseph Holt’s brother-in-law, having married his wife’s sister Rosemary. Looking around now at the assembled guests, it seemed to Holt that everybody here was ultimately related somehow to everybody else, and further, that every two people were related in at least two different ways. With Greg and Audrey already distantly related through both the Wellingtons and the Bloors, it almost seemed superfluous for them to marry.

Which reminded him: Where were they? He hadn’t seen them for an hour or more, not since shortly after the reception got underway. Looking around, he saw Eugene White, Audrey’s father, chatting with a couple of Boston Wellingtons, and he headed in that direction to ask if Eugene had seen the young marrieds recently. (This reception was properly Eugene’s responsibility anyway, as father of the bride, but Holt’s place in Philadelphia was both more centrally located for the wide-ranging family members and more adapted to the entertaining of a large gathering than the Whites’ small apartment in Washington, so Eugene had furnished the caterers and Holt had furnished the locale, and between them they were serving more or less as co-hosts of the affair.)

Coming closer, Holt could hear that the two Wellington ladies were giving Eugene a bad time about American Asian policy, and he looked as though he could badly use rescuing. Most of the family knew he was an Asian affairs expert with the State Department, so he tended to have trouble at social occasions with people too long frustrated by faceless government. Eugene’s handsome mustached face bore a pained smile as he listened to what America should do about China—give it a good spanking, appeared to be the gist of the ladies’ approach—and his diplomat’s façade cracked enough to show his relief now when Holt arrived and said, “Gene, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I need your help. If you ladies won’t mind?”

Not at all, they said, though they didn’t mean it. Eugene said something vague to them about continuing this interesting discussion soon, and then he and Holt moved away again, Eugene saying sotto voce, “I owe you my life.”

“You did look as though you were going down for the third time. Have you seen Greg or Audrey anywhere?”

“No, I haven’t.” He sounded surprised, and lifted on tiptoe to look over the heads of the crowd. “Do you suppose they’ve skipped?”

“Without saying goodbye?”

Eugene rocked down off his toes again and looked at Holt, grinning sidelong. “That son of yours,” he said, “is devious for a Navy man.”

“He really left,” Holt said. He couldn’t get over it.

“And I don’t blame him,” Eugene said. “He can see all the relatives he wants at funerals. Would you stick around, Joe, if it was your wedding day?”

Holt grinned back and said, “I suppose not. I just had a check for him, that’s all. They were faster than I’d anticipated.”

“He’ll appreciate it even more after the honeymoon,” Eugene said, and Evelyn Canby came up from the other side. Eugene nodded at her: “Hello, Evelyn.”

“Hello, Eugene.” The girl looked troubled; she said, “Uncle Joe, when you have a minute could I talk with you?”

Holt saw Eugene give him a guarded look of sympathy, and he knew they were both having the same thought. If Eugene had his Asia kooks, Holt had his hypochondriacs.

Which wasn’t fair to Evelyn, of course, since the girl fretted not about herself but about Bradford, and she was undoubtedly right to do so. But did she have to come around long-faced in the middle of a wedding reception, when Holt’s only child was celebrating his only—God willing—marriage?

Eugene said, “Well, I’ll talk to you a little later, Joe,” and walked off, with a meaningful look at Holt, to let him know the rescue operation would be paid back very soon.

Holt said to Evelyn, “Is this important?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Brad again? Another attack?”

“Not exactly. Could we talk in private?”

That would make it more difficult for Eugene to disentangle him, but the girl looked so damned worried. . . . He nodded. “Of course,” he said, trying not to let his reluctance show. “Come on.”

They started for the house, and Robert Pratt joined them, Holt surprised to hear Evelyn say to him, “I’m glad you’re here to help.”

Help? Help what? With the sinking feeling that his day was about to be spoiled for good, Holt led the way through the French doors and across the dining room and down the hall to a small room he’d had fixed up as an office, but which he almost never used.

Feeling vaguely hostlike, he said, “Would you like to sit down?”

Evelyn shook her head. “I’m too nervous to sit.”

So they stood. Holt shut the door and said, “All right. What is it?”

The girl looked helpless, and made a vague movement with her hands. “I really don’t know how to say it.”

Annoyance crept into Holt’s voice. “In one simple declarative sentence, if possible.”

Evelyn looked for assistance to Robert Pratt, who nodded and said, “All right.” He looked at Holt. “Bradford,” he said, “wants to defect to Red China.”

ii

THEY WERE JUST FINISHING their story when a knock sounded at the door. Holt looked up in annoyance—they were all seated now, he at the desk and they in the naugahyde chairs opposite—and called, “What is it?”

Eugene White stuck his head in. “Oh, there you are, Joe. We could use you out—”

“Come in, Gene,” Holt snapped. “Never mind that.”

Baffled, Eugene said, “Uh—we could—”

“Come in,” Holt said impatiently. “Come in and shut the door, this is serious. And you’re exactly the man to talk to.”

Evelyn half rose from her chair, saying, “Uncle Joe, this was supposed to be private!”

Robert Pratt said, “Doctor, we’ve been sitting on this thing for a week. We don’t want it broadcast to the world.”

“Neither do I,” Holt told them. “But you don’t want a doctor for this, you want Gene.”

Eugene, looking like a man suspecting a really atrocious practical joke, had come cautiously into the room and shut the door behind him. “All right,” he said guardedly, “what’s going on?”

Holt said to Evelyn, “Tell him.”

Evelyn half-turned in her seat and studied Eugene. Then she nodded and said, “All right. Bradford wants to defect to Red China.”

A doubtful smile touched Eugene’s lips. He glanced uncertainly at Holt for guidance, and it was obvious he thought the situation was either (a) the practical joke he’d been braced for, or (b) an unfortunately loony girl who had to be humored.

But then Robert Pratt said, “It’s true. I’ve talked with him, and it’s true.”

Eugene frowned at all of them, and looked to Holt for solid ground, saying, “This is on the level?”

“On the level,” Holt promised him. “Bradford Lockridge intends to sneak out of this country and go live in Red China.”

“Bradford Lockridge.”

“For the best motives in the world,” Robert Pratt said.

Holt nodded. “That’s what’s so bad about it. Sit down, Gene, let Evelyn tell you the story.”

There was a wooden-armed chair with a blue-cushioned seat just to the left of the door, into which Eugene sank with a stunned look on his face. “Yes,” he said. “Tell me.”

Evelyn told him, with interpolations from Robert Pratt, and Holt, listening carefully to this second recitation of the facts and Bradford’s stated motivations, saw how smoothly it all came together, so that young Pratt’s attempt to dissuade Bradford had to fail because he was trying to find the entry to a completely closed system.

When the two of them were finished, Eugene said, “And he’s been in correspondence with these people?”

Evelyn nodded. “But I don’t know how.”

“But you did see the Chinese when they delivered the first message.”

“Yes. Two men in the back of a Mercedes. With a chauffeur, also Chinese.”

“Did you notice the license plate?”

Evelyn turned to Robert Pratt, who said, “I’m sorry, no, we didn’t.”

Holt said, “The Secret Service should have a record of that.”

“Right,” said Eugene. “I’ll have to get in touch with Welling—” He broke off and said to Evelyn, “You realize I’ll have to talk to some people. This isn’t something that can be handled by we four in this room.”

“This is beginning to spread,” Robert Pratt said doubtfully. “What Evelyn is mainly concerned with is protecting Bradford’s good name. She doesn’t want a lot of publicity.”

Eugene said, “None of us do, man. We all want the lid on this as tight as we can get it.”

Evelyn said to Eugene, “You started to say Wellington.” She offered a thin nervous smile. “That’s all right, I’d already suspected Wellington had something to do with espionage. But he’s family, he’s Bradford’s son, so it’s all right. Just so it doesn’t get outside the family.”

“If at all possible,” Eugene told her, and turned to Holt. “Did he come today? I haven’t seen him here.”

“Bradford?” Holt shook his head. “No, he didn’t feel up to a mob like this. He phoned a little before noon and talked to them both, Greg and Audrey.”

Evelyn said, “And they’re going to stop in and see him after the honeymoon.”

Eugene looked at his watch. Calmly he said, “Then he could have left already, couldn’t he? He could have a three hour start on us right now.”

“No,” Evelyn said. “He promised me he wouldn’t leave today. He wants me to go with him, that’s why he told me about it in the first place. I haven’t given him an answer yet.”

Robert Pratt said, “It’s a stall that won’t work much longer, though. Bradford thinks now the answer is going to be no, that Evelyn’s going to want to stay in this country because of me.”

“He talks against Robert now,” Evelyn said in a small voice. “I think he still hopes he can overcome Robert’s influence on me.”

Holt said, “But he knows that Robert is aware of his plans and doesn’t agree with them. Even with this threat of his to call a news conference if anybody tries to stop him, he’ll probably want to make his move soon.”

“What a mess,” Eugene said.

Holt said, “Evelyn, has there been any other odd behavior from Bradford in the last few months? Anything out of the ordinary.”

“No, not really.” But then she said, “Well, yes, in a way. But that was because of the mess in Paris, that whole thing over there going so badly.”

“What was?”

“He was very short-tempered with Harrison, in July. You know what happened to Herbert.”

“I don’t,” Eugene said.

Holt explained to him, “Herbert Jarvis, Harrison’s partner.”

“His brother-in-law, yes. Died a few months ago.”

“Killed himself,” Holt said. “Out at Bradford’s place. I fudged the death certificate myself.”

Eugene held up a hand like a traffic cop. “Wait a minute. You people are hitting me with too much all at once. Herbert Jarvis killed himself?”

“I have no idea why,” Holt said. “Business worries, I suppose.” To Evelyn he said, “Weren’t they having trouble with some sort of real estate scheme in California?”

“They went to Bradford for help,” she said, “that’s what it was all about. That’s why they were there. And Bradford was very hard, very cold. He wouldn’t talk to Herbert at all, and he wouldn’t help Harrison, not until after Herbert killed himself. All he’d suggest was some sort of crazy idea for a four-hundred-mile pipeline across a desert.”

“A serious suggestion?”

“I don’t know. He kept saying it was, but it couldn’t have been. It wasn’t a sensible idea, it would have cost more than all the partners had together, and Bradford wanted Harrison to do it all by himself.”

“Why?”

“He said it was because Harrison never tried to do anything large and selfless for other people, so he’d never be remembered, but if he did this pipeline he’d be remembered as the man who built a city in a desert.”

Holt glanced at Eugene and found Eugene meeting his eye.

In a small voice, Evelyn said, “This is the same kind of thing, isn’t it? For himself, this time.”

Eugene said, “What did Harrison do?”

“Bradford finally helped him. Herbert killed himself, and after that Bradford made some phone calls and fixed things up.”

“So he can be reached,” Eugene said.

“Possibly,” Holt said.

“And he sent the bus for them,” Evelyn added.

“He did what?”

She told the story about the bus, and then Holt said, “Has there been anything else like that? Where he’s been harsher than usual, or more unnoticing of other people’s feelings?”

“I don’t think so. Maybe in small ways, day by day, but nothing like that. He’s shouted at the servants more than he used to, I think, but I just thought that was part of his agitation. First the business in France going badly, and then Harrison’s trouble and Herbert killing himself, and then getting all excited about running for Congress, and that rug being pulled out from under—”

“Running for Congress?” Eugene was lost again. “Bradford?”

Holt said, “That’s a part of it I was a witness to. Two or three months ago, he got the idea he’d take his old seat back in the House. Seems John Adams did the same thing, after his Presidency.”

“John Quincy Adams,” Evelyn said.

“Excuse me,” Holt said.

“It seems to me,” Eugene said, “there’ve been enough clues. The man’s been acting oddly for months. Surely somebody should have seen something before now.”

“Not necessarily,” Holt said, cutting in before Evelyn’s outrage could find voice. “He hasn’t been all that odd, and up to now there’ve been perfectly normal explanations for everything. Fatigue, disappointment, boredom. They could even be the explanation for what’s happening now.”

“Not the full explanation, surely,” Eugene said.

“Probably not,” Holt admitted. “But there was that television interview a week or two ago, did you see that?”

“The tail end of it, is all. I was at a late meeting.”

“He was perfectly all right there,” Holt said. “Blander than usual, if anything.”

“Well, I’ll tell you the reason for that,” Evelyn said sharply. “They cut out everything important he had to say.”

Holt looked at her in sudden interest. “That wasn’t the complete interview?”

“No! George talked to him for an hour and a half, and they cut a whole hour out of it. Everything really meaningful that Bradford felt was important to say.”

Holt said, musingly, “I wonder if they’d still have the parts they cut?”

Eugene said, “Worth a phone call.”

“George is still out in the garden, I believe,” Holt said.

“I’ll talk to him later. Joe, will you be free tomorrow and Tuesday?”

“I can be,” Holt said.

“I’ll set things up as quickly as I can,” Eugene said.

Evelyn said, “For what?”

“For a meeting,” Eugene told her, and added, “Family members only, I promise. But we’ll have to talk things over, so we’ll have to get together.”

“I can be there,” she said. “Wherever you meet, I can be there.”

“I think you should stay with Bradford,” Eugene told her. “I think you should be with him as much as possible.”

“Before you do anything,” she said, “anything at all, you’ve got to talk to me about it. If you want to have a meeting behind my back—”

“It’s not a meeting behind your back, it’s simply—”

“I know exactly what it is. All right, you think you’ll be able to talk more freely if I’m not there, because of the way I feel about Bradford. And probably because I’m a woman. All right. But before you do anything, come talk to me. Because if you don’t, and if I think you’re doing something to hurt Bradford, I’ll warn him. I’ll tell him what’s going on, I’ll even help him get out of the country. You talk to me before you do a thing.”

Holt said, “We’ll want Robert at the meeting, Evelyn. You trust him, don’t you?”

She turned her head to look at Robert, sitting beside her, and her expression softened. “Yes,” she said.

Robert reached over and rested his hand on her’s on the chair arm. “We’re all going to be on Bradford’s side,” he said. “You don’t have to worry.”

“That’s right, Evelyn,” Holt said.

She looked over at Holt again, and he was surprised at the cold strength he now saw in her eyes. “Is it?” she said. “I know I’m on Bradford’s side. I know I don’t want him to defect to China because that would be terrible for him, terrible in every possible way. Terrible for him. A lot of the rest of you are going to be worried about the national reputation, or your own future as relatives of a President who defected, or other things that aren’t really Bradford. But I just want you to know that anything you do, you’re going to have to go through me, and I’m on Bradford’s side.”

Holt suddenly smiled, delighted with the girl. “All right, Evelyn,” he said. “That’s good.”

iii

HOLT SAT AND WATCHED Bradford’s face, magnified in close-up on the screen in front of them in the darkness, and listened to Bradford’s amplified voice, and never got over his surprise at how rational it all sounded.

There was a faint distraction; sitting on his left, Meredith Fanshaw, junior Senator from Missouri, was taking notes, ballpoint pen on yellow legal pad. Taking notes? To Holt’s right, Sterling Lockridge simply sat and thoughtfully gazed at the film of his brother’s interview unreeling in front of them. In the row ahead, Holt’s nephew George fidgeted slightly whenever his own voice sounded to ask a question, so it was probably just as well there was no picture of George, the camera remaining focused for the full ninety minutes in medium close-up on Bradford’s face.

The film ended, the screen blared a sudden crackling white, and then there was soft darkness for a few seconds before the regular lights came on. The nine men in the small screening room cleared their throats and shuffled their feet and moved their heads around, but none of them looked at one another, and no one spoke. The feeling of discomfort and embarrassment was palpable, and Holt felt it as strongly as the rest.

Today was Tuesday, two days since the wedding and the earliest possible moment for the meeting. Holt had driven down here to Washington last night, the others had been arriving since yesterday, and now, at ten on Tuesday morning, they had all gathered here, smiling, greeting one another, asking questions. But there would be no answers until after the showing of the film.

They were keeping this private. Eugene, who had arranged the use of this screening room—and another room for after—had run the film projector himself, and now he came out of the booth at the rear and said, “Let’s adjourn to the conference room, it’ll be more comfortable to talk there.”

They all got to their feet, and Meredith Fanshaw called, “Gene, is the point of this that somebody wants to broadcast that thing? Surely we can put the lid on without a meeting.”

“That isn’t the point,” Eugene told him. “Let’s move to the other room, and then we’ll explain.”

Eugene led the way, and the others followed him, falling naturally into pairs, like schoolchildren. Holt and his nephew George paired off instinctively, not because of their blood relationship but because of their shared level of knowledge, and at the head of the line Holt saw Robert Pratt walking beside Eugene, undoubtedly for the same reason.

It was by now nearly noon, and Holt had breakfasted early at the hotel, but he wasn’t at all hungry. He was depressed, and nervous, and he wanted this thing over with as quickly as possible.

He was also nervous and depressed because he had no idea where they were. Eugene had called each of them, last night or this morning, to give them directions; they were to go to such-and-such an entrance to the Pentagon and tell the guard they were members of Mr. White’s party. Holt had done so, and had been escorted by a stolid-faced, thick-necked, crew-cutted, painfully clean and ironed young soldier up and down an infinity of halls, until they’d reached a lone elevator in a silent cul-de-sac. There the soldier had left him, with instructions to press GG. Holt had rung for the elevator, and when it had come it was self-service. None of the floor buttons had numbers, they all had letter combinations, and when he’d pressed GG the elevator had at once traveled down, though he had begun on the first floor.

There’d been no indicator inside the elevator to tell him what floors he was passing, or how fast the elevator was going, or how deep he was underground when at last it had stopped and the doors had slid open onto yet another impersonal fluorescent-lit hallway. Another soldier—for a second Holt thought it was the same one—had been seated at a desk facing the elevator, and after Holt had identified himself he was given further directions; all the way down to the right, then left, then the first right.

It had been like traveling in a dream, the endless corridor lined with closed doors, the unpeopled silence, the meaningless groupings of letters on the doors, and when he’d made the last turn and had seen Eugene White standing by an open doorway far away, that too had at first seemed dreamlike, and the oppressive feeling of menace that had been building up in Holt’s mind took Eugene White for its focus, an absurdity he’d rid himself of as soon as he was close enough to see Eugene’s worried and honorable and familiar face.

But it was back now, the feeling of oppression and heaviness, exacerbated by the filmed interview and this sterile corridor along which they obediently trooped in pairs, following Eugene. Eugene was State, not Defense; what was he doing in the Pentagon?

Eugene, at the head of the column, now opened a door, no different from any of the doors they’d been passing, and they all filed inside. And at once Holt’s sense of unreality disappeared. The room was perfectly ordinary, despite its lack of windows. A long oval conference table dominated the space, surrounded by a dozen chairs with Naugahyde seats and backs and wooden arms, the whole enclosed by a cream-colored acoustical ceiling, simple plain light-green walls and green wall-to-wall carpeting. Through that wooden door on the right would be the lavatory.

There were pencils and notepads and ashtrays on the table. Habitually placed, Holt supposed, doubting that Eugene would have thought it necessary to ask for pencils and notepads. Not for this meeting. None of them would have trouble remembering what was said in here today.

Besides himself and Eugene and Robert and George, the six as-yet-unaware members of the group were Bradford’s brothers, Sterling and Harrison, his sons, Wellington and Bradford, Jr., his nephew and editor, Howard, and his fairly remote in-law, Senator Meredith Fanshaw, included because they might be needing all the influence, all the clout, they could muster. Up to this point, they were keeping their promise to Evelyn; it was still in the family.

Eugene sat at the head of the table, with Holt to his immediate left and Robert Pratt to his right. He looked around, waiting for everyone to get settled, and then said, “I think Robert would be the best one to describe the situation. He’s been the closest to it, of anyone here.”

Holt looked across at Robert, and saw the discomfort in the young man’s face. Which was understandable; Robert was unknown to several people in this room, not a member of the family at all, and the announcement he had to make was going to be a shocker. Still, Eugene was right; Robert was the best qualified to make the announcement.

Which he did as bluntly as possible: “At this moment, Bradford is making plans to defect to Communist China.”

Holt, looking at them, saw nothing but frowning disbelief, but no one responded for a few seconds, until BJ—Bradford, Jr., the only man present in a military uniform—suddenly blurted, “That’s a lie!”

“It’s true,” Eugene said quietly.

BJ sprang to his feet. “It’s a damn lie! Who is this man anyway, I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

Softly, Sterling said, “He works for me, BJ. He’s a teacher at the university.”

“Then what’s he going round telling lies for?”

“I think we ought to listen to him,” Sterling said, “and make up our minds when he’s done.”

BJ frowned. “I’ll listen,” he said ominously. He sat down again, tensely, on the edge of the chair. “But I know right now it’s lies and foolishness.”

“I wish it was,” Robert Pratt said, and told them of Evelyn coming to see him a week ago, and why it was him she’d chosen to talk to, and what she’d said, and of his own conversation with Bradford.

When he was finished Harrison said, “Gene, do you have any corroboration for this? Or is it just Evelyn? I’m not saying anything against the girl, but it’s well-known there are kinds of hysteria that strike—”

Robert said, “I talked with Bradford myself.”

“Excuse me,” Harrison said, “but I don’t know you. It could be your motives are the best in the world, but I don’t personally—”

Eugene said, “Harrison, the film we saw is corroboration.”

Holt said, “And from what Evelyn told us, Bradford’s treatment of you last summer was also corroboration. Didn’t he have some wild scheme about a pipeline?”

“He was just making me sweat,” Harrison said. “That was never serious. And Evelyn shouldn’t be telling my business, that was no concern—”

Holt said, “Herbert thought it was serious.”

Harrison looked at him, startled, and said, “That’s private business. That’s nothing to bring up here.”

“I think it is,” Holt said, and told the table at large, “Herbert Jarvis killed himself because Bradford wouldn’t come up—”

“He did no such thing!” Harrison was on his feet, wild-eyed. “Just what do you think you’re doing, Joe?”

“I think I’m taking a serious problem seriously, Harrison. I think we can’t afford self-protective lies at this point. And Bradford was serious about a visionary impractical scheme to build a city in a desert, with a four-hundred-mile pipeline to bring in water. He was serious about it and wouldn’t think of any other possibility until after Herbert killed himself.”

“You read Herbert’s death certificate,” Harrison shouted. “God damn it, you can’t go shooting off—”

“I wrote Herbert’s death certificate,” Holt reminded him. “I lied on it, to cover up. And now there’s something else to be covered up, and you’re just wasting everybody’s time.”

Sterling said, gently, “Relax, Harrison. We’re all family here, nobody’s going to run to the papers with the truth about Herbert.”

“There was no need for him to bring it up,” Harrison said angrily, gesturing at Holt. He was still standing, leaning one hand forward on the table.

“I only brought it up,” Holt said, “because you wouldn’t acknowledge that Bradford was serious about the pipeline.”

“All right, he was.” Harrison spread his hands, as though to demonstrate the unimportance of the admission. “What does that prove? Nothing. What does it have to do with Communist China? Nothing.” He sat down.

“An impractical unrealistic plan for the betterment of mankind,” Holt said. “He worked one out for you, and now he’s worked one out for himself.”

Howard said, “That’s The Final Glory, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” George said. “I asked Evelyn about that, and she said he told her so specifically.”

Meredith Fanshaw had his note-bespattered legal pad out in front of him, and now he said, frowning at his notes, “That’s the title he mentioned in the interview, isn’t it?”

BJ said, in his parade-ground voice, “You’re all treating this as though it was real!”

“It is real,” Holt told him.

“It’s a joke,” BJ said, with total assurance. “I guarantee you, it’s a joke. He was pulling Evelyn’s leg. My father wouldn’t give aid and comfort to the enemies of this country, not for a second.”

“He would,” Eugene said, “if he thought he was helping world peace in the process.”

“He wouldn’t think such a thing,” BJ insisted. “He’s not a crazy man, he knows what can work and what can’t.”

“Like the pipeline?” Holt asked.

George said, “How about that interview? Does that sound like a smart politician?”

“There’s another explanation,” BJ said, loud and sure. “My father wouldn’t even consider these things, any of these things. There’s another explanation. Why, he’d have to be out of his mind before he’d—” He faltered, and stopped, and a look of uncertainty, painful and frightening, crossed his face. Then he shook his head violently and said, “No. My father’s too strong a man for that.”

Holt said to him, “Strong? What do you mean, strong?”

“I mean his mind is strong, God damn it, he’s too strong-minded for anything like this.”

“Nobody is too strong-minded for a mental breakdown,” Holt told him. “It just isn’t medically possible. Any brain, any brain, can malfunction.”

“Not my father,” BJ said stubbornly.

“Then he isn’t human,” Holt told him, impatient with BJ’s childishness. “He isn’t human, he’s God, and there’s nothing more to be said.”

Sterling said, “Joe, have you examined him? Do you have any medical reason to believe it’s mental?”

“I haven’t given him a thorough examination since before he went to France, back in June. I intend to examine him as soon as I can do so without alerting him as to what I’m up to. The fact of the matter is, I do have medical reasons to suspect a malfunction of the brain.” And he went on to describe Bradford’s recent medical history, the little strokes and the potential for a major stroke.

Harrison said, suddenly, “Are you talking about that faint he had when he was out in California last winter?”

“That was the first of the small-scale attacks, yes. The first we know about.”

“That was nothing more than a faint,” Harrison said. “Because of the sun, he wasn’t used to it.”

Holt said, “Did you have a doctor look at him?”

“No, why should we? It was a faint.”

“I looked at him when he got back,” Holt said. “I hate to pull rank on you, Harrison, but the reason they gave me a medical degree was because I had the schooling. What happened to Bradford in California was what we call a transient ischemic attack. A little stroke.”

Eugene said, “I think we ought to let the diagnosis go until after Joe’s had a chance to examine Bradford again. Right now, I think we ought to just face the facts and decide what we want to do about them.”

“Well, we want to stop him from going,” Fanshaw said. “That’s obvious.”

Eugene said, “Is it? You mean lock him up?”

“I mean stop him going. You don’t want to let him go, do you?”

“No,” Eugene said. “But stopping him might not be that simple.”

Harrison said, “Why not? Meredith said it, didn’t he? Stop him from going, that’s all.”

Eugene turned to him and said, “How?”

“How?” Harrison was getting agitated again. “What do you mean, how? Stop him, that’s how! There’s how many of us—ten? Nine of you. If you wanted to stop me from going out that door, you’d do it, wouldn’t you? You wouldn’t ask how, would you? Nine of you and one of me, you’d stop me!”

Howard, at the far end of the table, said drily, “Is that what you suggest we do, Harrison? Lock ourselves into a room with Brad the rest of our lives and keep him from getting to the door?”

“That’s supposed to be funny, I suppose,” Harrison said. “You know damn well that isn’t what I mean.”

“Then what do you mean?” Holt demanded. He didn’t have much use for Harrison at the best of times, and right now was finding him impossible.

“How do I know?” Harrison shouted. “Can’t ten grown men figure out a way to stop one man from leaving the country?”

Eugene said, very quietly, “That’s what we wanted to do, Harrison. That’s why I raised the question.”

“Well, let’s work out the answer, then!” Harrison said.

Holt and Eugene exchanged looks, while Howard said, “Why, thank you, Harrison. What a good idea.”

“I suppose that’s funny, too. You have a strange idea of when to be humorous.”

Sterling said, “The problem, of course, is that we don’t want this made public.”

Fanshaw said, “Why not?” and Holt looked at him in surprise. It was true that Fanshaw was the only elective officeholder present, and the elective officeholder lives or dies on publicity, but did he really think there was hay to be made out of this situation? Or did he simply fail to understand what public disclosure would do to Bradford’s career, to the way he was remembered in the history books?

Apparently, it was the latter, because he looked attentive and thoughtful as Sterling explained, saying, “In the first place, a man’s reputation is always based on what he did most recently. Bradford’s career is finished, his place in American history is assured, he will be remembered as one of the most important half-dozen twentieth-century American Presidents, because President is what he was last. I suppose you know the history of Benedict Arnold, who did great things for this nation, none of which are remembered. It was his final act, the betrayal, that determined what his whole career would mean.”

“So if this got out,” Fanshaw said, “you think history would remember Bradford not as a President but as a traitor?”

“No. I have no doubt we’ll succeed in keeping Brad from going over to the Chinese. But if the story gets out, what Brad will be remembered as is a madman. The Middle Ages saw several monarchs who were perfectly normal and adequate through most of their lives, but who went insane for one reason or another toward the end, and they’re all remembered only for the insanity. George the Third, for instance, known as Crazy George.”

Fanshaw nodded. “All right. For his own good, we have to keep this quiet, I can see that. We don’t want to tarnish his name at the very end.”

“That’s right,” Sterling said.

Holt said, “I think it has to be even more restricted than that. I think we have to keep this within the family. Not only no public disclosure, but no official disclosure even within the government.”

Fanshaw said, “That I don’t understand at all. Surely we’ll need the government’s help.”

Holt turned to the silent man sitting opposite him. “Wellington,” he said, “what would the government do?”

Wellington looked sour. Holt knew how he hated to have attention drawn to himself, and in fact he didn’t believe Wellington had said a word since they’d all entered the room. But now he said, slowly, “I’m not sure. They might agree to secrecy.”

“It wouldn’t be their primary concern,” Holt prompted.

Wellington had a nature violently opposed to committing itself. “That would be hard to say,” he said cautiously.

Eugene said, “Wellington, do you agree that we ought to keep this within the family?”

Holt glanced at Eugene in gratitude. That was the question he’d been trying to formulate himself, but it hadn’t occurred to him to state it so directly.

Wellington was like a mole dragged into sunlight, constantly turning away, trying to crawl back into his burrow. He now reluctantly faced this new tormentor and said, “That would depend.”

Eugene wouldn’t let him go. “Depend on what?”

“On whether or not it was feasible.”

Holt grew suddenly impatient. “Explain yourself, Wellington,” he said. “For God’s sake, this isn’t a Congressional committee, we’re all friends here.”

Wellington met Holt’s eyes—his own seemed blurred, hard to focus on—and said, “Are we? Very well. If the family could handle this, it would be better. If the family couldn’t, we’d have to bring in . . . others.”

“You mean lock him up.”

“That might still be done discreetly,” Wellington said.

“Ex-Presidents aren’t that invisible,” Howard said. “I would imagine Brad averages one call a week from the media, a reporter, somebody, wanting a statement on whatever’s news.”

Eugene said, “The point is, our first consideration would be Bradford. An official body, any official body, would naturally and properly have as its first consideration the national security.”

Wellington said, “Wouldn’t we all? In the last analysis, wouldn’t we all?”

Holt said, “What do you mean?”

Those blurred eyes turned to him again. “Hypothetical instance,” Wellington said. “You have a gun in your hand. Bradford is across the way, getting aboard a plane to take him to Peking. Would you shoot, or would you let him go?”

“I’d let him go,” Holt said promptly, and was surprised to see surprise in Wellington’s eyes. What sort of values did the man have?

Howard apparently wondered the same, because he said, “Of course we’d let him go. Wellington. Wellington, wouldn’t you?”

It seemed to Holt that Wellington’s head turned the way a tank’s gun turret swivels, and he could no longer remember why Wellington had always seemed so bland and dull in the past. Wellington said, “I’m not sure. To kill a great American? I would be reviled and vilified, of course, but would Brad? Having been stopped before he could do anything to smear his own record? He’d be given a hero’s burial, wouldn’t he? You people want to keep him from shame. I am his son, I would be willing to take his shame on my own shoulders.”

“We’re not talking about killing,” Sterling said, although they were. “We’re talking about saving Brad from himself.”

There was a small silence after that, and Holt knew it wasn’t because of what Sterling had said, but because of what Wellington had said before that. He couldn’t take his own eyes off Wellington, and he sensed that Howard and Eugene and George and Meredith Fanshaw were all gazing at him, too. Not staring, and not even shocked, really. Just gazing, studying, listening to Wellington’s words, listening to what words can do to facts. Two minutes ago, the thought of killing Bradford Lockridge—killing Bradford Lockridge!—was inconceivable, it was an enormity the mind instinctively shrank from. Now words had been said, tentatively, reluctantly, without passion, and something had happened to the sharp edges of revulsion. The concept of murder was suddenly blurred and hard to see clearly, like Wellington’s eyes.

George broke the silence at last, saying, “I want to ask a question.”

Everyone looked at him in relief—anything to distract the mind—and George said, “This may be stupid, but are we sure Bradford is wrong? I mean, what if he did go to China? Could he really be a force for peace?”

“Not for a minute,” Meredith Fanshaw said.

George turned to him and said, “How can you be sure? Bradford is still an important man, a well-known man. If he managed to explain his motivations, how can we be sure it wouldn’t do any good?”

Howard, sitting on George’s other side, said, “You answered that one yourself, George, a couple of months ago.”

“I did?”

“After you taped the interview, we talked about television images as opposed to real people. Remember?”

“Vaguely,” George said. “I believe I started drinking around then.”

Howard said, “I asked you what television would do if somebody like Bradford Lockridge did something crazy, and you said television would have to destroy him. In order to make it acceptable to the viewers.”

George frowned. “I did? Well, I’m not sure I was right. People like drama, television likes drama. What Bradford is talking about is personal statesmanship of the highest order. You know, he just might be able to bring it off.”

“No,” Wellington said. The word thumped like a bag of laundry in the center of the table, and for a few seconds no one else spoke. Then Sterling said, quietly, “I think Wellington’s right. It would be just too far off the beaten track. Once he did it, Brad would be branded as a crazy man no matter what he said or how fine his motivations.”

“He’d be Rudolph Hess,” Howard said. “That’s the exact parallel. In fact, Hess had more going for him than Brad has. He was still a young man, so he couldn’t be accused of senility. And he wasn’t retired, he was an active high-level member of the Nazi government. He had an impeccable reputation, perfect position and the most noble of motivations. But the instant his parachute opened over England he was a nut and nobody was ever going to take him seriously again.”

“That’s right,” Sterling said. “And not only did the Germans publicize the idea he was crazy, the English themselves took it for granted he’d had a mental breakdown. Everybody took it for granted. You can’t go that far from normal behavior, no matter what the reason, and still be considered sane.”

“All right,” said George. Holt, looking at him, nearly smiled at the realization that George had seen himself, for one glorious moment, as the interviewer with the inside track to the savior of mankind. The dream died hard, but it died, and George said, “You’re right, I guess. He couldn’t do anything but hurt himself.”

It was time to come back from the tangent. Holt said, “That’s why it’s up to us to decide what to do about it. It’s up to the family to protect him and make sure he doesn’t do himself an injury.”

Eugene, at the head of the table, said, “And our problem is complicated by the fact that we have to keep it a secret from Bradford, too. Whatever we do, we do it without his cooperation.”

“Without his knowledge,” Holt said. “If he discovered what we were up to, he could stop us in ten seconds flat.”

Meredith Fanshaw said, “How?”

Robert told him, “When I talked with Bradford, he warned me not to try to stop him, and not to tell anybody else. If he becomes aware of any attempt to keep him in this country, he intends to pick up a phone and call a reporter and have a news conference.”

Fanshaw said, “To announce what?”

“His intention to go to Peking.”

“He wouldn’t! What good would it do him?”

“He believes the glare of publicity would keep the people from stopping him.”

“It wouldn’t,” Wellington said, and everybody looked at him, amazed to hear Wellington volunteer an opinion. There was a little silence, but Wellington had nothing else to say, so finally Eugene said, “No, it wouldn’t. Bradford would be officially detained at once, that’s only natural. And committed to some sort of institution.”

Howard, in his most dry and bitter manner, said, “There’s a full glare of publicity for you. Bradford publicly crazy in front of a news conference.”

Turning to Holt, Sterling said, “Joe, we keep using the word crazy. I haven’t seen Brad since last spring, which is apparently before all this happened. Is he crazy?”

“That isn’t a question you can answer,” Holt started. “He’s had—”

Howard interrupted, saying, “Yes, you can. What if I asked you if I was crazy? What would you say?”

“I’d say no.”

Howard pointed at Sterling, across the table from him, and said to Holt, “Is my father crazy?”

“No.”

“All right. Is Brad crazy?”

“I can’t do it that way,” Holt said. “I’m sorry, I know what you’re trying for, but it just can’t be done that way. Brad is somewhere on the spectrum between sane and insane. He’s had—he’s probably had, I have to see him to find out for sure—he’s probably had recent brain damage. It doesn’t seem particularly severe or particularly extensive. He still behaves and performs much as he always has. To some degree his judgment has been affected, but that seems to be all.”

“It’s enough!” Harrison said.

Sterling said, “The reason I asked, I wanted to know if Brad could still make public appearances without his condition being obvious.”

Holt said, “So far as I know, he hasn’t deteriorated since that interview was shot, two or three months ago.”

Fanshaw said, “What about simply tucking him away somewhere, holding him incommunicado?”

“Sooner or later,” Howard told him, “some reporter would want to find out why Bradford Lockridge doesn’t grant interviews any more, doesn’t come to the phone any more, doesn’t attend any more party functions, hundred-dollar-a-plate dinners, that sort of thing. Sooner or later, somebody in the news media would smell a story in it, and find it.”

Sterling said, “Robert, how long do we have? When does he plan to leave?”

“I don’t know,” Robert said. “He wants Evelyn to go with him, and she hasn’t given him an answer yet, but I think he knows the answer’s going to be no.”

Eugene said, “It should be yes. She should tell him yes, and make him believe it.”

Robert glanced at him and nodded. “You’re right. So he’ll keep her informed of his plans.”

Holt said, “Could she convince him? It would be worse if he saw through it.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Robert said.

Fanshaw said, “In the meantime, what about the rest of us? There doesn’t seem to be anything to do. Bradford has to be stopped, but we don’t know how.”

“That’s one thing we’ll all have to do,” Eugene said. “Try to think of a way to stop him.”

Wellington said, “And intercept his correspondence.”

Eugene turned to him, saying, “Of course. You’re absolutely right, his correspondence with the Chinese.”

Howard said, “I’ll move out to the house, I can do that without making him suspicious. I’ll see what I can find.”

Holt told him, “I’ll be there by the end of the week, Howard. I’ll have to make an excuse to give him a medical onceover.”

Sterling said, “Robert, I think we should arrange a leave of absence for you from the university, and that you should take a place in Eustace or Chambersburg, somewhere close by, so you could be reached in an emergency.”

“Fine,” Robert said.

“As for the rest of us,” Eugene said, “at the moment I think there’s nothing for us to do but cudgel our brains. We want to stop Bradford without publicity, and we’ll have to do it without his cooperation, which is a tall order. I’m willing to serve as a clearing-house for ideas, a sort of liaison within the family. I don’t know if we’ll want any more large meetings like this, but if we do I can handle the arrangements. For now, I think we should adjourn for lunch and start to think things out. Unless there’s something else to say?”

They were all silent, waiting for someone to speak, and in their silence Holt heard a strange small sound, a kind of rustling or scuffing. He glanced around for the source of it, as others also started to do, and then he saw Howard and George looking across the table, and when he followed their eyes he saw that BJ was crying.

It was the damnedest thing. There he was, the total military man, ramrod-straight, strong-faced, iron-gray hair brushed straight back, uniform severe and immaculate amid all the civilian business suits, and he was crying. Seated at attention, the way he always was, shoulders back, spine straight, head erect, hands flat on the table, and he was crying. His face was red and distorted, tears were wet on his cheeks, the odd scuffing sound was his labored breathing, but through it all he made no movement. His hands didn’t go to his face, his head didn’t bow, his shoulders didn’t fold inward, he made none of the physical adjustments that people make when they weep. But he was crying.

Holt felt vast embarrassment and pity, and didn’t know what to do. There was nothing to do. BJ faced front, meeting no one’s eye. He seemed oblivious of the nine men around him.

None of them knew what to do. When Holt finally looked away from BJ he saw that everyone else had also been staring at him, embarrassment and pity were on every other face, and they were all equally helpless to find something to do.

But at least he could be left alone. Holt slid his chair back, and though the move made practically no sound on the carpet, everyone immediately turned to look at him. He got to his feet, saying nothing, looking at no one, and walked around the table to the door. As he did so, Eugene and Robert got to their feet, and then Howard, and then Sterling and Wellington together, and then Meredith Fanshaw, and then George, and finally Harrison. They all walked silently out to the hall, leaving BJ in there, sitting at attention, hands flat on the table, eyes straight ahead, crying.

In the hall, they didn’t look at one another. Eugene said, “This way,” his voice muffled, and they all followed him down the corridor.

4

WELLINGTON HAD LUNCH WITH Meredith Fanshaw, who didn’t really want to talk about the problem of Brad, but who wanted instead to talk about another problem, one involving a defense appropriation that was having some unexpected trouble in the Senate. Wellington understood that Meredith was simply on another of his fishing expeditions, trying to find out exactly where Wellington stood in the Washington hierarchy, where his protection was, essentially, and he parried the leading questions with the deadpan skill of long experience. Still, coming right after this morning’s bombshell, it was more of a strain than usual, so as unobtrusively as possible he cut the luncheon short. Besides, he’d be getting a phone call soon, and he wanted to be home for it.

“Remember me to Carol,” Meredith said. Wellington was married to a niece of Meredith’s, but blood was all the two had in common. Wellington said he would, knowing he wouldn’t, and also knowing that Meredith didn’t really give a damn whether he did or not.

It was a cloudy day, and getting cooler. Wellington, who drove a Chevrolet station wagon, turned on the car radio for the two o’clock news and heard that rain was anticipated toward morning. For the first time this season, Wellington switched on the car’s heater.

Wellington’s home was a large white structure on an acre and a half of clipped greenery in Bethesda. As he drove up the precise blacktop he reached into his glove compartment for the remote control box and depressed the button, and ahead of him the middle garage door (of three) retracted smoothly upward. He drove the station wagon inside, noticing that both other cars were out—Carol would be shopping, seventeen-year-old Deborah was at school—and pressed the button again to shut the door behind him.

The housekeeper was in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a cup of coffee that probably contained a dollop of rye, a copy of Ebony open before her. Wellington said, “If there are any calls, I’ll be in the den.”

“Yes, sir.” She barely acknowledged his presence. Wellington suspected that she knew about Carol’s affair with the Congressman from Kentucky, and therefore despised Wellington. Assuming—as Carol did, as the Congressman did, as everyone always did—that he knew nothing and was therefore a fool. Did they suppose his life could be private? The OA maintained a dossier on Carol’s extramarital affairs—four, in nine years—as a matter of course. Wellington hadn’t ordered it, but couldn’t stop it, nor could he stop himself from reading the dossier from time to time.

The den was a small many-angled room on the third floor of the house. The ceiling was the underside of the roof, and slanted down at various angles. There was a dormer window that began at the floor, and the available spaces of vertical wall had been covered with bookcases, all hammered together by Wellington himself. The books were as various and nondescript as the contents of a used bookstore on a side street in an old city, ranging from the Kuran and The Mayor of Casterbridge to The Wind in the Willows and The Story of O.

One shelf contained two dozen dark blue loose-leaf binders. Within the binders was Wellington’s stamp collection—North American, mostly, plus a few specialties like Andorra and the Third Reich—as well as his only secret. The one thing no dossier knew about him, nor ever would.

Entering the den now, he reached unhesitatingly for the seventh blue binder from the left and carried it across the room to the small battered desk near the dormer window. A wooden kitchen chair stood before the desk, a telephone and a water glass full of pencils and ballpoint pens stood on it.

Wellington sat down at the desk and opened the binder. Canadian stamps, mountains and moose. The formation of the binder was this: Within a clear plastic sleeve the stamps were mounted on sheets of white paper, two sheets in each sleeve, back to back. There were approximately fifty plastic sleeves in each binder.

Wellington flipped about halfway through the volume, then turned a few pages more slowly, studying the stamps. At last he stopped, and inserted his fingertips into one of the sleeves, and pulled out the sheets of paper. Separating them, he revealed a third sheet, containing hand-printing in neat lines with ballpoint pen, reading:

In what misery the eagle waits

The crag, the crevasse, the furthest sway,

The night of falling.

The death of death the eagle nears,

The sound of rushing river in the black

Blank underground.

The world of rope the eagle knows,

How long to reach, how wide, how far to burn,

Squeezing his genitals for wine.

Wellington read over several times what he had written, then opened a side drawer of the desk, and took the top sheet of a stack of yellow paper lying there. Lifting a pencil from the glass, he bowed his shoulders over the sheet of scratch paper on the desk, and slowly began to write.

For the next twenty minutes, he was totally absorbed. When he was finished, he had used three sheets of the yellow paper, he had crossed out line after line, and he had written three more stanzas, which he now carefully transferred to the original sheet of white paper, beneath the first three:

And down below the eagle’s beak

The windows in the tops of trees

Shine yellow pornographies.

And though he knows the eagle’s name

The wren, electric black and touched with death,

Leans in the lee of the stones.

While far above the eagle’s head

The cleansing storms of violet night

Trace his narrow wisdom.

Done with the copying, he slowly reread the entire poem, moving his lips, his head moving also with the rhythms. Satisfied, he put that sheet between the two sheets containing stamps and returned the whole sandwich to the plastic sleeve. Moving the binder to one side of the desk, he withdrew another sheet of yellow paper from the drawer and began to write again in pencil:

Alone, the old dog faced the children

Eager to teach it their games.

Of falling, of tying up, of punching and playing pretend

It doesn’t hurt.

Backing deeper into the darkness of the trees, the old dog

Explained

He would never be a child,

That good fortune was never to be his.

Though

The phone rang. He put down his pencil at once, but waited for the second ring before picking up the receiver. “Hello,” he said.

“Wellington?”

“Yes,” he said. “I thought you’d call.”

“How soon can you be here?”

Wellington closed his eyes. “Thirty minutes,” he said.

“Good.”

Wellington hung up. He pulled the binder close again, leafed through it, and stopped at the page one past the one he’d withdrawn before. He removed the sheets of white paper from this next plastic sheet, and once again there was an extra piece of paper in the middle, this one blank. He reread his yellow paper draft, crossed out the last two lines, and copied everything down to and including the line He would never be a child. Then he put the sandwich of white paper back together again, reinserted the papers in the plastic sleeve, and closed the binder.

Next he got to his feet and carried the binder over to its bookcase and put it away. Back at the desk, he put the pen and pencil back in the glass and gathered up the yellow worksheets. These he carried out of the room and across the narrow dark hall into the bathroom, where he burned them in the sink and ran water to carry the ashes down the drain. He then went downstairs, told the housekeeper—still reading Ebony at the kitchen table—to tell Carol that he might be late, and left the house. He got into his station wagon, backed it out of the garage, and drove back to Washington.

ii

THE MAN AT THE desk was listening to a tape recording when Wellington walked in. Wellington heard, “. . . without making him suspicious. I’ll see what I can find.”

That was Howard’s voice. It was followed by Joe Holt saying, “I’ll be there by the end of the week, Howard. I’ll have to make an excuse to give him a medical onceover.”

Black leather sofas faced one another from the left and right walls. Currier & Ives prints were massed on the walnut paneling above the sofas, and large framed portraits of George Washington and the current President frowned and smiled down from the wall behind the desk. The carpet was dark green, and on it stood a dark wooden chair with a spindle back and flat arms, facing the desk. Indirect lighting in gutters under the acoustical ceiling supplemented the fluorescent lamp on the desk.

On the tape, Sterling was saying, “Robert, I think we should arrange a leave of absence for you from the university, and that you should take a place in Eustace or Chambersburg, somewhere close by, so you could be reached in an emergency.”

Wellington sat down on the wooden chair. He watched the man behind the desk, who was watching the reels turn.

Robert Pratt’s voice came from the machine: “Fine.”

Wellington looked at his watch. Thirty-five minutes since he’d been phoned. So this was an act. Pointless.

Eugene White said, “As for the rest of us, at the moment I think there’s nothing for us to do but cudgel our brains. We want to stop Bradford without publicity, and we’ll have to do it without his cooperation, which is a tall order. I’m willing to serve as a clearing-house for ideas, a sort of liaison within the family. I don’t know if we’ll want any more large meetings like this, but if we do I can handle the arrangements. For now, I think we should adjourn for lunch and start to think things out. Unless there’s something else to say?” Then there was silence, in which a small sound gradually became apparent, a faint rasping noise.

The man at the desk said, “What’s that sound?”

“My brother crying,” Wellington said.

The other man glanced at him, lifting an eyebrow. “Bradford, Junior? The military man?”

In a toneless voice, Wellington said, “His fixation has always been on our father’s invincibility, and his own inability to measure up to the old man. He should probably be watched for a while now. Adolescent rebellion can be severe when it strikes a man of forty-three.” There were other faint noises on the tape now, rustlings and scrapings. Wellington said, “That’s all of it. They’re leaving now.”

The other man reached over and switched off the tape. He had a yellow legal pad on his desk—like Fanshaw’s—and he now picked up a yellow pencil and made a notation. Wellington sat and waited, watching the pencil move, and when he was done writing the other man said, “Tell me about Eugene White. He seemed to be running things.”

“He’s with the State Department.”

“I know all that business. Tell me who he is, and what makes him family.”

“Marriage makes him family. His wife is Bradford’s wife’s niece, and his daughter just married Bradford’s son-in-law’s nephew. There’s also some family relationship through my uncle Sterling’s wife.”

The other man shook his head. “I can’t trace out these families,” he said. “You all intermarry in the same tight circle, and after a while everybody’s in the same family.”

“It seems that way,” Wellington said, deadpan.

“I come from . . . the midwest. We didn’t have families like that. But then, we weren’t upper class.”

Wellington said nothing.

The other man peered at him. “Don’t start understanding me, Wellington,” he said.

“You come from Omaha,” Wellington said. “Your father was a grocer. You know I know that.”

The other man shrugged. “Habit,” he said, his tone betraying his irritation. “Eugene White,” he said.

“The jolly good boy,” Wellington said. “He has a place in Florida, and a boat, and he goes sailing. Very casual man, but an organizer by nature. Likes to put things in rows, with tags on them. That’s what he does for State, he’s a China watcher. He’s too casual to be a scholar, otherwise he’d be a college teacher now. Treats his work like a jigsaw puzzle, meaningless fun, and doesn’t take his job home with him.”

“Home life?”

“All happy families are alike,” Wellington said.

“So I’m told,” the other man said. Their eyes met, and neither said what he knew about the other, though each was aware of the other’s knowledge.

Wellington said, “He set this up because that’s his style. He organized a Little League team once, even though he doesn’t have a son.”

“Anything there?”

“No. He just has a compulsion toward organization. And he was one of the first involved in this thing, so it was natural for him to be the one to set it up. How did he happen to pick that conference room?”

“His course was determined for him,” the other man said.

“Anybody else bugging it?”

“The Navy, believe it or not. We smeared their tape.”

“Why the Navy?”

“We may never know. What about Dr. Joseph Holt? He was Lockridge’s physician in the White House, wasn’t he?”

“And still is.”

“Does that make him family?”

“His brother married my sister. It was his son that just married Eugene White’s daughter.”

The other man smiled, thinly. “It becomes funny after a while,” he said.

“Possibly. We don’t think about it, we’re used to it.”

“I know.” The smile disappeared. “Tell me about Holt.”

“Average man, average ability, average ambitions, average everything. Thrust into the bigtime because he became the nephew-in-law of the President. Nervous about it ever since, full of feelings of unworthiness. Joins good causes.”

“Anything on our list?”

“Not for several years. A few fringe things in the sixties, when that was popular.”

“Any trouble now?”

“No. He’d love to consecrate himself to a cause. He sees Bradford as it. He could be made to see other things.”

“Another happy family?”

“Yes.”

“Robert Pratt.”

“I don’t know him,” Wellington said. “I intend to find out about him. He seems to be involved with Bradford’s granddaughter, Evelyn.”

“Yes, we’ll get to her.” He looked down at his pad. “Meredith Fanshaw I know. He wouldn’t cause trouble. George Holt.” He looked up.

Wellington said, “Hen-pecked, nervous, ambitious, insecure. Cowardly.”

“Good.” The other man looked down again. “Harrison Lockridge. I know him, too. Sterling Lockridge and Howard Lockridge.” He looked up. “Is that where our trouble lies?”

“Yes.” Wellington turned his head suddenly, and blinked at the prints on the side wall.

“Wellington?”

He faced the other man again. “A son must be forgiven moments of weakness,” he said.

“Of course. And there’s no reason things can’t be worked out.”

“That would be best,” Wellington agreed. “Easiest to live with.”

“But tell me about Sterling and Howard just the same.”

Wellington nodded. “Father and son,” he said, his voice still emotionless. “Sterling is the most solid man I know, bar none. Bradford has always been theatrical, which was good for politics but bad as a character trait. We see where it’s led.”

“Sterling doesn’t have that?”

“He has Bradford’s strength without the theatricality. He also has position and prestige. I doubt he could be intimidated, and I know he couldn’t be bought. I don’t know how we’d handle him.”

“Persuasion?”

“Unlikely. He doesn’t have our priorities. None of them have. You heard the way they reacted to my hypothetical case.”

“Sterling pretended he hadn’t heard it.”

“He didn’t want to think ill of his nephew.”

“You?”

“Me.”

The other man made a note. “We’d better do some prying,” he said. “Just to be on the safe side. What about the son?

“Howard is a belligerent liberal. He has the theatricality, but less strength. You know, Bradford and Sterling are a tough act to follow. We’ve all been affected by it, from their younger brother Harrison through my cousins Howard and Edward to BJ and me. We’ve all kept our sights low, one way and another.”

“Edward?” He frowned at his notes. “Sterling’s son Edward? He wasn’t there, was he?”

“He’s with our embassy in Paris. You know him, his son, Edward Jr., is with that expatriate radical group over there.”

“The high school boy?”

“That’s the one.”

He smiled bleakly. “The theatricality keeps cropping up, doesn’t it?”

“It does.”

“Let’s return to Howard. He’d be a hothead, would he?”

“Yes.”

“Which makes him less troublesome than his father. A hothead can always be made a fool of.” His pencil moved again on the paper. “One more person,” he said. “The granddaughter, Evelyn. Evelyn Canby, is it?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about her. She’s the key to this whole thing, you know.”

“I know. She’s a widow, late twenties, one small daughter. Her husband was with the Army, killed in Asia.”

“Unfortunate.”

“Yes,” said Wellington. Voice still flat, he said, “She might be unwilling to make another sacrifice for the nation.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“I know.”

Their eyes met, and unspoken hostility and resentment arced between them for just an instant. But it seemed to be no more than a repetition of an old moment, as though they had long ago understood that the feelings would never burst out into the light. The other man looked away first, glancing down at his notes again as he said, “Tell me about Evelyn Canby.”

“I’m not sure about her. Women are harder to read, they have less individual life styles. In her youth she was an ordinary cheerful girl. Her parents were killed in an air crash, and then her husband died. She lives alone with her grandfather, and she’s very quiet. I’m not sure sometimes if she’s dull all the way through, or if she’s bright inside with a dull surface. She dislikes me, I’m not entirely sure why. With all the deaths around her, she’s very protective of her grandfather.”

“More trouble.”

“But a woman. And a young woman. Sterling is still the main concern.”

“I disagree,” the other man said. “Evelyn Canby is the only one in Bradford Lockridge’s confidence. She’s emotional and over-protective, and in the last analysis she’s running the show.”

“I wouldn’t say she was running the show.”

“I would. I did. You people at that meeting today, you can’t make any decision at all without clearing it with Evelyn Canby. You know that, Wellington.”

“She has to be consulted, yes, but—”

“She has veto power.”

Wellington considered. “I suppose she does,” he said. He sounded faintly surprised.

“And if she smelled anything in the wind at all,” the other man said, “she’d warn Lockridge. Sterling wouldn’t, he’d wait to be sure, so would any of the others, but Evelyn Canby would blow at the first sign.”

Wellington nodded reluctantly. “Yes,” he said. “You’re right.”

“Is there any chance at all of getting her out of there, replacing her with some other family member?”

“None.”

“I didn’t suppose there was. All right, she’s the key. We’ve got to know what she’s doing and what she’s thinking every minute.”

“I don’t believe you’ll find her complex.”

“What about this man Pratt? How close are they?”

“I don’t know. It’s a fairly recent relationship, though.”

“We’ll have to find out. He might even be sympathetic, if approached properly.” He made a note. “Is there anything else? Anybody else I should know about?”

“Not so far. There may be.”

“We’re taking a chance, you know. He could pop any time.”

“You don’t have him covered?”

“Of course I have him covered,” the other man said irritably. “That isn’t the point. What you were all saying at that meeting is perfectly true. Having Bradford Lockridge stuffed away in an asylum is almost as bad a public black eye as having him do a Lord Haw Haw in Peking. I don’t want him to pop because I don’t want to have to put him under restraint.”

“Agreed.”

“It’s chancy. But your idea is still worth trying first. If the family can work out a way to contain him without a news leak, fine. If they can’t, I suppose it’s Dr. Holt we’ll have to go to work on.”

“Why him?” Wellington asked.

“Because with Sterling and Howard and the granddaughter in the picture, it’ll have to look one hundred per cent natural. One slight suspicion that it wasn’t natural and all three could blow. For that, you can’t do better than the family doctor.”

“I’m hoping it won’t come to that,” Wellington said.

“We all are.”

“Is there anything else?”

“No. Keep me in touch.”

“I will,” Wellington said, and got heavily to his feet. He started for the door, and the other man called his name. He turned and looked back toward the desk, and the other man said, “I don’t suppose you’ll answer this, but I have a question. For my own information only.”

“I’ll answer it if I can.”

“Did you know the Navy would bug?”

Wellington frowned. “Why should I?”

“That would give another reason for you telling me the situation,” the other man said. “You see the way it works. This way, the Navy has a smeared tape, I have the only existing record, and you have access to me. If you’d kept it a secret, the Navy would have the only record and you wouldn’t be able to affect any of the decisions.”

“Clever of me,” Wellington said.

“Of course, if you claim it, I’ll want to know how you knew about the Navy.”

“Then I don’t claim it,” Wellington said.

The other man frowned at him. “I wish I knew, one way or the other,” he said finally.

“Some things just remain mysterious,” Wellington said.

“I know. I can’t stand that.”

“I know.”

The other man pointed a finger at him. “You’re understanding me again. Don’t do it.”

“Sorry.” Wellington nodded at the portrait beside George Washington. “Has he been informed?”

“Not yet. I have a private briefing with him Friday. I’ll tell him then.”

“Should I come with you?”

“I’ll give your arguments,” the other man said. “And don’t worry about it, in any event. He’ll go along with you. He’ll avoid the alternative as long as he can. Presidents get very nervous when they think about killing other Presidents.”

5

EVELYN LOOKED AROUND THE small room—patterned linoleum floor, aged wooden furniture, peach-colored curtains on both windows, three bare light bulbs in the old-fashioned ceiling fixture—and said, “Are you really going to live here?”

“It was the best I could do on short notice,” Robert said. “With any luck I won’t be here long.”

She went over to one of the windows, pushed aside the curtain, and looked out. Three stories down was a weedy and bare-patched back yard, enclosed by three different kinds of fencing: chain link on the left, white picket on the right, tall gray vertical wood slats at the rear. From a tall pole at the rear of the yard clotheslines dipped down and up to pulleys attached to the back of the house, one of them just to the left of this window. To left and right were similar yards, poles, lines. Straight ahead was either a giant block-long mirror or the backs of houses and lots identical to these. A slight odor, something like damp wood, like a long-empty barn, had been in her nostrils since she’d first entered this building.

Robert, coming up behind her, said, “I would have liked to find a place closer to you, but Eustace is just too small a town. I didn’t want to be surrounded by people wondering who I was and what I was doing.”

“Chambersburg isn’t bad,” she said. “You’re only seven miles from Eustace. Remind me to write down the phone number before I leave.” She turned away from the window, smiling at him and saying, “It’s nice to have you so handy, you know, no matter what the reason.”

They were standing close together. He reached out and put his hands on her waist, not to draw her in but merely to hold her there, the touch gentle yet firm against her body, making her feel very slender and light and delicate. It was a soothing touch, and at the same time exciting, and she was surprised to feel the languorous warmth start to build within her. That wasn’t what she’d come here for.

As though he could read her mind—or perhaps her eyes—he smiled at her and said, “I keep telling myself I shouldn’t be thinking about sex now, there must be something wrong with me. There’s serious important things I’m supposed to think about.”

“I know,” she said. Her voice had become more languorous, too, and her eyelids seemed heavy. Her body was heavy and light at the same time, like a white porcelain jar full of honey.

“I must be shallow as hell,” he said. He still had made no move to draw her in.

“You must be,” she said. She knew her smile was lewd, she could feel the lustfulness of her expression, and the awareness only made her smile the more, and the more lewdly.

“Did I ever tell you,” he said, “that the afternoon is my favorite time for sex?”

“You’ll have to get a night job,” she said, and their smiling mouths touched in a kiss that began as gentle but developed a quick urgency. He whispered her name, his lips moving against her lips, and she stroked her palms and fingertips luxuriously down his long back.

He was finished undressing before she was, and strode across the room to be sure the door was locked. He was such a large man, wide but flat, the football player still evident in him, that it always surprised her to see him, when naked, move with grace and agility. Somehow a body that strong looking, that solid looking, should move more slowly, more solemnly.

He came back smiling, his hand outstretched for her hand, to lead her to the bed in mock solemnity. He flipped the spread and blankets down, shook his head at the pale sheet, and said, “You know this thing is going to squeak.”

“Do you care?”

“It worries me terribly,” he said, and pushed her shoulder so that she fell on her side on the bed. She twisted around to lie full length, and he dropped beside her, pulling the top sheet up over them. “Come under here,” he said, ducking his head under the sheet. “I have secrets to tell you.”

The bed didn’t squeak, it rapped, like a loose shutter in a high wind, but more rhythmically. And they played beneath the sheet like children playing hooky, even though this was the day of the big test.

At different moments Evelyn would think of the problems waiting outside this warm white cave, but each time she impatiently pushed the thoughts aside. Later, later. The cave filled with the musk of their possession, of it and of one another, and the shutter rattled faster and faster in the wind, and she made a long wind-murmur of completion and contentment and delight against the warm column of his throat, and stroked the rigid muscles of his back, and the wind subsided, the shutter was silent, the cave collapsed around them in warm white folds of sheet.

He was the first to move, rolling onto his side next to her, but she turned and put one arm over him, murmuring, “Don’t get up yet, don’t go away.”

“Fine,” he said. “Let me pull up the blanket.”

She wriggled upward, and the covers covered her to the nose, and she lay pressed against him, her head supported by the pillow of his shoulder. She could feel the chest movement of his breathing, she could faintly hear his heartbeat, and his near arm was protectively and reassuringly around her.

But her mind had started to tick again. She frowned and fretted, but hooky was over for now, her mind wanted to be active, the weight of their real-life situation had overtaken her again and there was no escaping it.

“Drat,” she muttered, and rubbed her head against his shoulder.

He said, “You, too?” He sounded amused.

“All I want to do is lie here, but my stinking brain won’t let me.”

“You want to know about the meeting.”

“Yes, damn it.” She pushed away from him and sat up. “I’ve been wanting to know about it for two days. But I did enjoy just being here.”

His head was propped on both pillows, and he was smiling indulgently at her. She moved as though to get up, but his hand moved under the blankets and cupped her thigh. “You don’t have to get out of bed,” he said. “We can talk right here.”

“All right. But give me a pillow.”

He laughed and sat up and arranged the two pillows against the scarred wooden headboard so they could sit side by side. Then he said, “The meeting didn’t come up with any answers. Mostly it was getting people like Harrison and Bradford, Jr. to—”

“BJ,” she said.

“Right. Mostly, it was getting them to believe it. Then it was decided I should take a leave of absence from school and come down here, to be handy in case brawn was needed. Also, Howard is going to move in at the estate, in case brains are needed.”

“You have brains,” she said. She didn’t like him to denigrate himself, even in fun.

“Okay, so Howard’s there for the brawn. Also—”

“Oh, phooey.”

Grinning, he reached over and tousled her hair. “Stop interrupting.”

“I definitely will,” she said, mock solemn. “At once.”

“Good. Also, Dr. Holt is going to find some excuse to come give Bradford a check-up.”

“He doesn’t need an excuse,” she said. “I made Bradford promise to have a check-up before leaving. He’s supposed to call Joe, but he keeps stalling about it.”

“Lean on him,” Robert advised.

“I will.”

“And I’ll call Holt and tell him not to worry about an excuse, but to wait for the call.”

“Good. What else?”

“We want to know how Bradford’s communicating with the Chinese,” he said. “I got the impression Wellington was going to look into that. Also Howard will see what he can find out after he moves in. He’ll probably want you to help.”

“Whatever I can do. What about when Bradford decides it’s time to go?”

“No decision yet. No ideas. We can’t even just quietly lock him away in the attic or something, because, as Howard pointed out, Bradford’s still a public man, he’s expected to still make public statements from time to time. If he suddenly became unavailable, some enterprising reporter would want to find out why.”

“That’s so awful anyway,” she said. “Locking him away somewhere. That would kill him, it really would. I think humiliation would kill Bradford faster than anything else on earth.”

“You could be right. Anyway, everybody’s supposed to think about the problem and hope somebody will come up with something in time.”

“What if nobody does?”

“We’re not asking that question yet. Oh, yes, and they want you to tell Bradford you’re going with him.”

“Tell him I am? Why?”

“So he’ll keep you up on his plans.”

She frowned. “I don’t think he will anyway, not the details. But all right. Except, how do I get him to believe it? He thinks now I’m going to stay because of you.”

He shrugged and said, “I suppose you’ll have to tell him we had a fight.”

“Over what?”

“Over him. I said he was crazy or something, and that did it.”

“I’m not good at lying like this,” she said. “The whole idea of it makes me scared.”

“I know,” he said, smiling reassuringly at her, and reached out to pat her hand, saying, “It shouldn’t be for very long.”

“God, I hope not. Was that all from the meeting?”

“So far. Has there been anything else from Bradford?”

“No. He spends almost all his time in the library these days, reading. He isn’t doing any work on The Coming of Winter at all.”

“That’s the next volume in the memoirs?”

“Yes. I don’t think he’s gone near it in over a month. Howard has a perfectly legitimate excuse to come stay for a while.”

“I suppose Bradford’s too interested in his future now,” Robert said. “He doesn’t care very much about the past any more.”

Evelyn drew her knees up, still covered by the blankets, and leaned forward to rest her folded forearms on them. “Joe thinks he’s had a stroke, doesn’t he?”

“He isn’t sure yet, but he thinks so, yes.”

“The real thing this time, not the little ones like he had before.”

“Yes.”

“That’s awful,” she said. She looked at him, feeling very strongly now a sense of the waste involved, the waste of a valuable man, a fine brain. “There’s nothing to be done, if he’s right,” she said. “Is there? The damage can’t be fixed.”

“That’s the way I understand it,” he said, and in his troubled expression she saw that he empathized with what she was feeling.

“He’ll always be like this, from now on,” she said. “Erratic, full of impractical schemes, a little impatient with people slower than he is, and never knowing there’s anything wrong.”

“Yes.”

“What if we told him?” She peered into Robert’s eyes, as though he really might have the saving answer somewhere inside his head. “What if we said, Bradford, this is what’s happened to you, this is why you’re thinking these things, acting this way, what then?”

“He wouldn’t believe you,” Robert said. “I’m sorry, Evelyn, but he’d just think you were lying for an ulterior motive, he’d think you were simply trying to thwart him.”

“I hate this,” she said, and found, to her surprise and annoyance, that she was crying.

At once he drew her in against himself, his arms around her. “I know,” he whispered. “I know, I know.”

“I hate it,” she said bitterly, words muffled against his chest as she held him tight, clutching him close because he too was impermanent, because everything ended, all good things became bad and stopped. “I hate it,” she said in helpless anger, “I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.”

ii

THAT EVENING, AFTER PUTTING Dinah to bed, she went to the library to talk to Bradford. She’d put it off as long as she could, but now the only thing to do was get it over with. Not letting herself pause for second thoughts, she walked into the library, shutting the door behind her, and said, “I’ve made up my mind.”

Tonight he was reading a book called China After Mao, by a well-known reporter from The New York Times, in a pre-publication copy sent to him by the publisher’s publicity department. Books were constantly being sent to Bradford, but only rarely did he respond with a comment they could use in their advertising. Now he put a green leather bookmark in to keep his place, closed the book on his lap and said, “About staying?”

“About going,” she said. The words stuck in her throat, then, until she blurted them out: “I want to go with you, Bradford.”

He was surprised, and showed it. “With me? Are you sure?”

She turned away, looking for the other chair, and sat down, doing so partly because nervousness was making her weak but also because she needed a distraction, an excuse not to meet his eye.

Bradford was saying, “I didn’t expect this, Evelyn. I was resigned to going alone.”

“I couldn’t have you leave by yourself,” she said, and though what she was saying was a part of a larger lie, there was emotional truth behind it. She did care for him very much, she couldn’t let him journey out into the darkness without her. With that kernel of truth within the lie, it became possible to look at him again, to look at his face and show her own.

He said, of course, “What about Robert?”

She had rehearsed for hours a long explanation about a fight, Robert having said bad things about Bradford and so on, showing himself to be not really interested in her in any long-range way, but now that the moment had come she just couldn’t say it. It was embarrassing to tell such a story, but that wasn’t the only reason, or even the main one. With some sort of instinctive mystic fear, she recoiled from putting it into words because it might then come true, and she would have lost Robert because of words out of her own mouth.

But she had to say something. She hesitated, feeling the silence, feeling Bradford’s eyes on her, knowing that Bradford’s mind—however altered—was still keen, and she moved her hands vaguely, trying to find a way to say what she was unable to say, and growing more and more frightened that her silence would reveal to him the truth.

But he misinterpreted her hesitation, saying, “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. There was trouble between you, eh?”

“Yes,” she said. She almost smiled with her sense of relief; he had absorbed the story without her having to say the words.

“Nothing that can be fixed up?” His concern for her was obvious, and real, and touching.

“It can’t be fixed up,” she said. She didn’t know what expression her face should carry, but the strain of indecision must itself have given her a look that matched Bradford’s idea of what had happened, so that he remained deceived.

He said, “Are you sure? This isn’t just a lover’s quarrel.”

“No. It’s over for good, I’m sure of it.” Now that the lie had been communicated to him, it became easier for her to speak of it, it became only play-acting and didn’t count.

“If that’s true,” he said, “I have mixed emotions. I know you cared for Robert, I know he could have been important to you, and I’m sorry it had to come to an end.”

“Well, it was better to end now, I guess,” she said. Should she act more depressed about it? Or perhaps angry. Or maybe merely cold and impersonal would be best. She didn’t really have an attitude planned, she was improvising from step to step and was constantly afraid she was about to say something or do something that would strike a wrong note and ignite his suspicions.

But it hadn’t happened yet, because he said, “On the other hand, you know how much I was hoping you’d come with me, so I can’t help being glad that it has ended and you will come.”

“I’m glad, too, in a way,” she said. “I mean, I’m glad the split happened now, and not after you left without me.”

“So that leaves only the one last question,” he said.

“When we leave.”

“Oh, no. I know when we’ll be leaving, approximately. The question is, what about Dinah?”

“Dinah?” For just a second, Evelyn was so disoriented that she thought Bradford meant his dead wife, but then she realized he had to mean the living Dinah, his four-year-old great-granddaughter. But what about her? “I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

“There’s no question in your mind?”

“Question? No. Question about what?”

“Do you intend to bring her with us, is that it?”

“Bring—” Astonishment blanked Evelyn’s mind completely.

“Because if you do,” Bradford went on, quiet and earnest, “are you sure that’s the best for her? I’m not sure you’ve given this enough thought. You and I are at an age where we can decide our own lives, but Dinah’s a child. If she comes with us, she’ll be raised in an alien culture, she may never feel that she truly belongs anywhere. She may grow up to hate us both.”

“I see,” Evelyn said slowly, trying to think about this new development. Because this was all make-believe, it was only play-acting, she had never even considered Dinah. But of course Bradford thought it was all real, so he would consider all these other elements.

Bradford was saying, “But could you bear to leave her behind? I suspect you haven’t thought about this. You’ll have to, you know. And you may decide to change your mind again, you may decide it would be best after all if you stayed here. For Dinah’s sake.”

“No,” she said firmly. “I want to go with you, that’s definite.”

“Then what about Dinah? Do you want her to come with us, or to stay here? I’m sure Howard and Grace would be happy to take her.”

Evelyn had no idea what to answer. Suddenly the conversation had become a trap, a trick question to expose the fact that she was lying. Which answer would be suspicious, and which would not? She tried to imagine herself truly in the situation he thought she was in, tried to imagine she really was leaving this country forever to go live behind the Bamboo Curtain with Bradford. Would she want to bring little Dinah into that exile? Could she bear to leave the child behind?

It was no good. The situation wasn’t possible, she couldn’t visualize herself in it, she couldn’t begin to guess what her response would be. She finally had to shake her head and say, “I don’t know. I’m sorry, I just don’t know.”

“There’s still a few days,” he said. “If you want her to come along, she can travel on your passport. If you want her to stay, it just so happens that Howard is going to be here.”

She wasn’t supposed to know anything about that. She said, “He is?”

“He phoned this afternoon while you were out. He insists on coming here for a week or two, he wants me to work on The Coming of Winter. As though I had time to think about the past now. I tried to talk him out of it, but you know how Howard is.”

“Yes,” she said, allowing herself a small smile because Bradford would think it referred to Howard.

“I didn’t want him to get suspicious,” Bradford went on, “so finally I said yes, he could come, and he’s driving out tomorrow.”

“With Grace and the children?”

“No, just by himself. What we can do, if you decide to leave Dinah, is leave Howard a letter explaining the situation and asking him to take over the child’s guardianship. You know Grace would be happy to do it.”

“Yes, she would,” Evelyn agreed.

“So you think about it. Either way is all right with me.”

“But you think I should leave her here.”

“It would probably be best for the child. But how would you feel, in exile, never able to see her again for the rest of your life?”

“Miserable,” Evelyn said honestly.

“Of course, it might not be that bad. I don’t expect a miracle, you know, I don’t expect to arrive in China and have the heavens at once open and rain peace down on all the world. But I do think I can start a gradual thaw, and it might be that within a very few years you could come back here after all. It might even happen soon enough for me to come back, though I’m not counting on it.”

“I’ll think about it,” Evelyn said, and got to her feet. Then, remembering another matter, she said, “About Uncle Joe.”

Bradford grinned. “I thought you’d never ask. I phoned him today, I told him we were thinking of taking a Thanksgiving trip to California, and I wanted a check-up before I left.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Evelyn said. “I’m glad.”

“He’ll be here Tuesday. He was ready to drop everything and come right away, but I told him there was no emergency, it was just a check-up, and knowing how Howard is the first few days he’s here it wouldn’t do Joe any good to show up anyway, so he finally agreed on Tuesday. If I forget to tell Howard about it tomorrow, you remind me, will you?”

“Yes, I will.”

“I want him to have a few days to get used to the idea. And you do some thinking about Dinah.”

“I will,” she promised.

iii

THE NEXT DAY, FRIDAY, Howard came, arriving at about four o’clock in the afternoon. The white Mercedes came driving up to the door in the thin autumn sunlight and Howard emerged with his battered old black suitcase, like an unsuccessful salesman of religious articles stepping out of absolutely the wrong car.

Evelyn met him at the door. “Bradford’s gone for a walk. He said to tell you the manuscript is in his office and he hasn’t done any work on it.”

“The manuscript?” Howard put his suitcase down and opened his topcoat, while Evelyn shut the door. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, naturally, the manuscript. I keep forgetting that’s why I’m supposed to be here.”

“If you don’t pester him about it, the way you usually do, he’ll suspect there’s something going on.”

“I’ll try to remember.” He peered at her and said, “This must be a hell of a strain for you, leading a double life all of a sudden.”

“I’m supposed to be thinking now,” she said, “about whether or not I want to bring Dinah along.”

“To China?”

“Yes. I can’t make up my mind what to tell him.”

But Howard was suddenly thinking about something else. “They rhyme,” he said.

She frowned at him. “What does?”

“Dinah and China. What do you suppose a psychiatrist would say about that? Bradford’s wife Dinah dies, and he wants to go to China.”

“She’s been dead almost three years,” Evelyn pointed out.

“Yes, I suppose.” He shook his head, making a crooked grin of self-mockery. “I have the wordsmith’s mentality,” he said. “Language explains everything. What are you going to tell him?”

Now she was at a loss. “Tell him about what?”

“About Dinah and China. Your Dinah, taking her along.”

“Oh. I don’t know. I’m going to see Robert this evening, I thought I’d ask him. And I’ll call Joe from Robert’s place. By the way, Bradford wanted me to tell you that Joe’s coming here Tuesday to give him a check-up. The idea is, you’re supposed to start getting used to it now, having Joe break into your work schedule.”

“Mm. I suppose I’d better act irritated about that, too.”

“It gets easier to play-act after you’ve done it a while.”

“I hope so. Robert’s moved, has he?”

“Yes, he’s in Chambersburg. I have his address and phone number written down. I’ll give them to you.”

“Good. I’ll want to talk with him. If you’re going in there this evening, maybe I’ll come along.”

“All right,” she said, but something must have shown in her face, because he looked at her and grinned suddenly, saying, “Two’s company?”

“No, no, that’s all right.”

“I can talk to him tomorrow,” Howard said. “You have your evening with him.”

“No, that isn’t right, this is important. We shouldn’t be—”

“But you should be,” he said. “Everybody should be, as often as possible. That’s my theory of world peace. If everybody did, every time they wanted to, there’d be no more war. Come on, show me my room.”

She returned his smile, despite herself, and said, “Oh, all right. Come along.”

He picked up his sagging suitcase and followed her up the stairs. “Besides,” he said, as they climbed, “you might forgive me, but Robert never would. I may be a bleary-eyed old married man, but I know top-grade woman when I see it.”

“Howard,” she said, not even trying to hide her pleasure at the compliment, “has anyone ever told you you were incorrigible?”

“Incorrigible? Or encourageable? If you mean I can be encouraged, you’re absolutely right. But not by you, you’re going with a friend of mine.”

“A man of honor,” she said, laughing, and led the way down the hall to the room she’d had made up for him.

“Completely honorable,” he agreed. “Also, Grace has this vast network of spies.”

“You’re good for my spirits,” Evelyn said. “I can’t tell you how glad I am you’re here.”

He plopped his suitcase on the bed. “Which brings me to a serious subject,” he said. “My main reason for being here. Not what Bradford thinks, but the true reason.” He shrugged out of his topcoat and tossed it on the bed beside the suitcase. “I’m supposed,” he said, “to try to figure out how Brad’s communicating with these people. We want to be able to intercept the messages if we can, so we’ll know exactly what’s going on.”

“Yes, Robert told me.”

He looked at her. “You don’t have any ideas?”

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t. I haven’t seen anybody suspicious around here, any strangers or anything like that, not since that first time the Chinese came here in the limousine.”

“Well, while I’m not making believe to be a tough editor concerned with his manuscript, I’m supposed to pussyfoot around here pinching maids to see if they have notes hidden in their girdles.”

“That should be interesting work,” she said. She went over to one of the windows to raise the shade, and said, “Here comes Bradford.”

“Back from his walk?”

Howard came over to the window with her, and they both watched him coming up through the near orchard, surrounded by the twisty nearly leafless trees. He had his walking stick with him, a gnarled old ash stick presented to him during his state visit to Ireland when he was President. He still had a good stride, long and springy, and with his tweed jacket and his hiking shoes he looked as hale and healthy as any man alive.

Howard said, “What’s that he’s carrying?”

Evelyn had seen it, too, a small brown package tucked under his free arm, slender and flat. “I don’t know,” she said.

“Did he have it with him when he left?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”

Howard frowned, and watched Bradford stride closer, and then disappear around a corner of the house. “Does he go for hikes a lot?”

“He always has, whenever the weather’s good. He’s been doing it less lately, he seems to spend almost all his time in the library, reading. He’s given up a lot of things he used to do.”

“But he still walks.”

“Sometimes. You think he goes out to meet a messenger from the Chinese?”

“It’s possible, isn’t it?”

“Someone on the property, right here on our land? It doesn’t seem possible, but I guess it is, isn’t it?”

Howard said, “Go on down and see if you can find out what’s in that package.”

“I’ll do my best,” she promised. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Right.”

She left his room and went down the front stairs and through the house toward the kitchen, meeting Bradford in the hall on the way. The package was still under his arm, but he’d left his jacket in the closet by the rear door. She came toward him, wondering how to ask what that was he was carrying, but he made the question. “There you are,” he said. He looked pleased and secretive. “Come on upstairs, I have something to show you.” With his other hand, he patted the package.

“Something to show me?”

“Come along.”

She went with him, retracing her route as far as the second floor, where he turned toward the back library. As they walked down the hall she said, “Howard’s here, he just arrived.”

“Yes, I saw his car from the ridge.” But he didn’t seem very interested in Howard right now.

They went on into the library, and Bradford carefully closed the door before unwrapping the wrinkled brown paper from around his package and taking out the contents, two flat pamphletlike things with dark-green pebbled covers. United States passports.

He was grinning like a boy. “They finally came,” he whispered, opened one to glance inside, and handed it to her. “Here you are, this one’s yours.”

Yes, it was. It was exactly like her own passport in almost every way, the differences few but crucial. Like the name: Ann Thornton, it said. And the occupation: journalist. And on the page listing those parts of the world where American citizens were currently forbidden to travel, an official-looking stamped permission appeared, giving her the right to travel in and to Communist China. The People’s Republic of China, it said.

“You’ll have to sign it,” Bradford said. “With that name, of course. Here, I’ve got a pen over here.”

She went over to the desk, carrying the passport, sat down, took the pen, wrote Ann Thornton. She kept thinking, The People’s Republic of China, and it suddenly seemed as though she really were going there, a conveyor belt of some kind had just been activated and she was sliding slowly but inevitably forward, and nothing was going to stop it after all, not the family, not anything, and at the far end was spread The People’s Republic of China, and darkness, and a future she couldn’t imagine.

Bradford said, “Like to see mine?” His boyish pleasure still showed in his smiling face as he extended his new passport toward her.

“Yes, thank you.”

The Chinese had them unrelated. Marshall Allan was to be Bradford’s new name, and he too was now a journalist. And he too had the rubber-stamp permission to travel to The People’s Republic.

“It won’t be long now,” Bradford said.

“No, it won’t.”

“You’ll have to make up your mind about Dinah very soon.”

“I will, I promise.” Then she looked at the passport again and said, “But can I take her? A journalist traveling with a little girl, would that look all right?”

“I don’t see why not. It would be unusual, I suppose, but no one will pay us that much attention. We’ll simply be a pair of journalists on an assignment, and you’re taking the opportunity to show your daughter a bit of the world. If you decide to bring her along.”

She said, “Well, I have till Tuesday anyway.”

“Tuesday? Why till then?”

“That’s when Joe’s coming to give you the check-up” She looked up at him with sudden frightened suspicion. “We aren’t going before Tuesday, are we?”

He grinned, teasing her. “That would be something, wouldn’t it? Duck out on Joe before he even got his stethoscope stuck in his ears.”

“But we won’t do that, will me?”

“No, dear,” he said, and in an odd gesture reached out and patted her head. “Don’t worry, we won’t run out on Joe. I’ll have him put your mind at rest before we go anywhere.”

iv

“EVELYN! HEY, EVELYN!”

She struggled upward from deep deep sleep, her head muffled in pillow and darkness and almost palpable layers of slumber, swathing her head like soft black cotton. Someone was joggling her shoulder, annoyingly, causing her discomfort, dragging her up from sleep. And calling her name.

She’d been dreaming of wooden stairs, with wooden railings, up the clapboard side of a building. Like a building in an old western town, but endlessly high, and the outside stairs going up and up along the side of the gray clapboard building. No windows. Stairs going up, old wooden stairs, and the sky far above, and nothing below. Not a frightening dream, but like a dream of duty.

She didn’t know her eyes were open until she noticed the slightly paler black rectangle of the window, and then at once Robert re-entered her memory, and she recognized the voice, she recognized the presence of the man beside her in the bed, shaking her shoulder, and she sat up, abruptly awake, saying, “What’s the matter?” Thinking, Bradford’s gone, he left without me.

Robert said, “We fell asleep.”

The statement made no sense. She knew she’d been asleep, why talk about it? The point was Bradford, had he gotten away or had somebody stopped him? She sat there in the dark trying to assemble words into a coherent question, and her eye was caught by a moving green circle in the darkness. When she understood that it was the luminous dial of Robert’s watch she was seeing, her fright and confusion fell away like seed husks and she said, “Oh. I’m supposed to be home.”

“It’s after three o’clock,” he said. “I’m going to turn the light on now. You ready?”

She put a hand over her eyes. Ready.

The bedside lamp he switched on was very small, giving off a minimum of illumination, but at first it hurt her eyes anyway. She squinted in what seemed like a glare, looking at the seedy room they had now twice made home, and beside her Robert was pushing the covers off, was getting to his feet, was padding naked across the room to pull down the window shades.

“I don’t know how it happened,” she said, blinking, gradually getting used to light and to being awake. But she did know how it had happened; she had wanted the uncomplicated pleasure of going to sleep here, of acting as though there was nothing terrible waiting for her anywhere.

This afternoon Howard had arrived at the estate, and then Bradford had come back from his walk with the false passports, and she had spent the rest of the afternoon and the dinner hour in a state of nervousness and near-hysteria. Those passports, with the real faces and the empty-sounding names and the glib smoothness of the rubber-stamped lies, had lifted her awareness of the situation to a new level, frightening her to the point where rational thought was almost impossible. A short conversation with Howard had helped somewhat, calming her enough so that she could make her departure from the house quiet and unsuspicious, but it had been Robert who had really restored her to herself. And, in a long telephone call, Uncle Joe. Until at last she and Robert had come back to this bed, and switched out the troubles of the world around them, and now it was three in the morning.

Robert said, “Do you want coffee? Instant.”

“Yes, thank you,” she said, and got out of bed, and padded off to the bathroom.

A shallow alcove off his main room contained what the landlady called a kitchenette, being a sink, a narrow oven, a two-burner stove and a low freezerless refrigerator. When she returned now from the bathroom he was just coming from that alcove with two cups of coffee. She took hers, thanked him, sipped at it, and in silence they both dressed.

He was ready first, and said, “What will you tell him, if he’s still up?”

“He won’t be,” she said. “But if he asks tomorrow, I’ll tell him I had a blow-out. I’ll tell him I went to a movie in Hagerstown and had a blow-out coming back.” She put on her second shoe, and stood. “It’ll be all right,” she said. “He really doesn’t pay that much attention these days. To details.”

“I suppose that’s a part of it,” he said. “The effect of the stroke, I mean.”

“That’s awful, isn’t it? Taking advantage of his illness.”

“That’s not exactly what we’re doing,” he said.

“It feels like it.” She finished her coffee.

“The people who gave him those passports,” Robert said, “they’re the ones taking advantage of his illness.”

“Well, they don’t know it’s because he’s ill. But you’re right, I know what you mean. Do I have everything?”

They both looked around. “I think so,” Robert said. “I’ll walk you down to the car.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know I don’t. I want to.”

She smiled at him. “It was so nice to fall asleep here,” she said.

“I liked it myself,” he said. “I don’t know why it is, but I sleep best with your head on my shoulder.”

“I’m your teddy bear.”

He grinned, and patted her behind. “You’re a lot more fun than a teddy bear.”

“Am I?” But at the look in his eyes, she stepped quickly away, saying, “No, we better not start. I have to get back before morning.”

They left the room together. It was on the third floor, and opened onto a stairwell and hall lit by twenty-five watt bulbs in ceiling fixtures, two on each floor. In the dim light, the wallpaper looked even more decrepit than it was, but the old wooden banisters and stairs were given rich tones they lacked in daylight.

The street outside was deserted, Evelyn’s Mustang being one of only four cars parked on this block, and the newest. It was just out front, and they stood beside the car in the chill air for a moment to whisper together, and kiss, and whisper some more. They kissed a second time, this one long and lingering, and then she opened the car door and got in and drove off. In the rear-view mirror she could see him standing on the uneven sidewalk looking after her still as she turned the next corner.

It was only a ten minute drive from Robert’s place to Eustace, and then a very few more minutes up the private road to the house. Evelyn took this last stretch at a fairly slow speed because sometimes there were deer on this road at night, particularly at this season. But tonight there were no deer; tonight there was a man in black clothing and a darkish strange face that at first she took to be American Indian but suddenly realized was Chinese.

He was standing just at the edge of the blacktop as she came around a curve, half a mile before the gate, and he stepped forward as though he’d been waiting for her. She automatically took her foot off the accelerator, because there was someone moving in front of the car, and it slowed, and then her brain caught up with events and she thought, Oh, my God, they’ve come to take us away tonight!

But it wasn’t her he wanted, after all. He shaded his eyes with one hand, peering at the car through the glare of its lights, and she saw his surprise when he made out the line of the Mustang. At the same time, she was rescinding the earlier order to her right foot, she was telling it to mash down on the accelerator now, to take her away from there.

They both acted at the same time, so that just as he ducked to the side, running off into the trees, the car surged forward, and all at once he was gone and she was past the spot where he’d been. And in the rear-view mirror there was nothing but a faint red-tinged darkness of road and tree trunks, dimly illuminated by her tail lights, the picture turning clearer and more red as she pressed down on the brakes and brought the car to a stop.

She rolled down the side window. There was nothing to see, nothing to hear. The man was gone, he might never have been. But she felt cold and nervous, and the empty black night just beyond the open window was too frightening. She rolled the window up again, and drove on.

The young night man came out of the guard shack to open the gate for her when she reached it. She rolled the window down again and asked him, “Was everything quiet tonight?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. He was cheerful, but mostly silent, a local youth who was probably in awe of the wealthy and famous people whose gate he guarded. “Same as every night,” he said.

She couldn’t tell him, of course. She couldn’t tell anyone who didn’t know the situation. But was there any danger for him? What was the Chinese man doing on their road, in the middle of the night?

In the end she said nothing, and drove on through the open gate and toward the house. She would tell Howard in the morning.

A few lights were always kept burning at night in the house, and now she could catch quick glimpses of them through the trees. Unconsciously, she drove a little faster.

6

HOWARD SAT ALONE IN Bradford’s office, at the desk, the manuscript of The Coming of Winter spread out before him. So far as he could see, Brad had done nothing on the manuscript at all in the month since he’d last looked at it. And he very much doubted that Brad ever would do any further work on it in the future.

“It’s a God damn shame,” he said. He had the habit, when working, of talking to himself, which he never did at any other time. But there was something about sitting at a desk with a manuscript laid out in front of him to be worked on that seemed to call for commentary, for a kind of oral footnoting of his relationship with the book at hand.

And his relationship with this particular book was a sad one, summed up in what he had just said. It was a shame, a God damn shame, and he felt a helpless bitterness over the abandonment of this book by its author. They had been building something here, Brad had been building it and Howard had been helping him, and now the construction was to be left forever incomplete.

What a fine plan it had been, too. The most comprehensive memoirs of any American President, seven volumes of careful detailed accurate reconstruction of the political life of one of the most important individuals of the twentieth century. There would have been nothing in American literary or political history to match it, nothing anywhere to match it except the memoirs of Winston Churchill. It was Churchill, in fact, that Howard had kept for his model from the very beginning, prodding Brad toward substance and truth whenever the older man would have been contented with a mere recital of facts. And though he’d known Brad’s books would never approach Churchill’s in eloquence, he had hoped that otherwise they would have emerged Churchill’s equal. And he believed they would have, and he’d been delighted and inspired—probably more so than Brad himself—at the thought of taking part in the books’ creation.

Naturally, they had always known Brad might die before the seven volumes were completed, but death was a natural enemy, an expected interruption, and therefore acceptable, however much it might be regretted. What was not acceptable was what had happened; to have Brad still available in this world, and yet unavailable, no longer interested, no longer really Brad in any sense that mattered.

Bradford Lockridge had loomed large in his nephew Howard’s life for as long as Howard could remember. His father, Sterling, had always deferred to Brad, and in many ways owed him his position in the world. Howard himself, though he’d chosen a career remote from politics, had found the ways eased by his relationship to Senator Lockridge, and then President Lockridge, and now ex-President Lockridge. And it was in this relationship that he’d found his greatest satisfactions; as compiler and annotator, editor and friend, and ultimately he hoped as biographer, Howard had made the reconstruction of Brad’s life the central purpose of his own existence.

So it was his own meaning to himself that was now being threatened by whatever had happened to Brad, and he couldn’t help a mournful frustrated bitterness as he looked at this abandoned manuscript spread out on the desk, left behind like a dead pony along an Indian trail. And he couldn’t help an optimism he knew to be illusory, the doomed hope that when Joe Holt arrived here Tuesday he would discover Brad’s problems to be temporary and reversible. They were not, they were permanent and irrevocable, but he went on hoping.

In the meantime, what was to be done? About a third of The Coming of Winter was in complete manuscript form, another sixth was in Brad’s rough first draft, and a full half existed only in notes, outlines, isolated pages and folders full of researched facts. It might be possible for Howard to finish the construction of this volume, though the second half would be much skimpier than the first, would lack the first-hand details that lifted these books above the level of simple history texts, but what about the remaining two volumes? The Servant of the Nation and Toward Tomorrow were barely in seed, each book now no more than a thick folder of outlines, correspondence and lists of questions to be checked. Those books could be created, no doubt, by a team of researchers and ghost writers with Howard at their head, but they would be valueless. No, that was an overstatement; they would be run of the mill, there would have been no real purpose in having done the work. Without Brad, they would not have the breath of life.

The other title Brad had introduced, The Final Glory, existed in Howard’s mind only as an irritation, a source of anger. The title did not refer to any book; so far as Howard was concerned, The Final Glory was the title of the tragic and humiliating last chapter of Brad’s life, and a nastily ironic title it was, at that.

His feeling of helplessness and frustrated rage had driven Howard into this room this morning after breakfast, but the same feelings now kept him from actually doing any work on the manuscript. He had looked at it, he had shuffled the parts of it back and forth, but aside from observing its abandonment he had done nothing, and he’d been here now for over an hour.

Brad had poked his head in a while ago, and had seemed to find amusement in the sight of Howard sitting there at the desk. “Hard at work?” he’d said. “Fine. Keep at it.”

Before Howard could think of a response, Brad had gone away again, and since then Howard had been alone with his thoughts and the dead embryo of manuscript. He knew he shouldn’t really stay in here, he should be out and around, he had more important things to do. Primarily, he was supposed to seek out the lines of communication between Brad and the Red Chinese, that was his first purpose in being here. And, since Evelyn had told him last night about the phony passports, there was a certain urgency about the task.

But still he sat here, brooding over the manuscript. In a way, this was a wake, he was paying his last respects to a dead idea, the idea that had animated the last eight years of his life.

When the door opened, he thought it was Brad again, and he steeled himself not to be angry, but when he looked over at the door it was Evelyn coming in, the first he’d seen her today. “Hello,” he said, and guiltily stood up from the desk, as though he’d already intended not to waste any more time.

She shut the door behind her and said, “Bradford just left for another walk.”

“He could be meeting them again.”

“I saw one last night,” she said.

“Saw one? One of the Chinese?”

“Yes. I—stayed late at Robert’s.” She showed a sudden touching embarrassment, and hurried on. “When I drove back, a little after three, there was a man standing beside the road. He was Chinese, and he was dressed all in black.”

“On the private road?”

“Yes. On the other side of the gate.”

“What did he do?”

“I think he was waiting for somebody, and he thought I was them. Then, when he saw I wasn’t, he ran off into the woods.”

“Did you tell anybody?”

“No. There wasn’t anybody to tell. I asked the man on the gate if there’d been anything happening, and he said no.”

Howard walked around the desk, frowning. “Three o’clock in the morning. What the hell are they doing out there at three o’clock in the morning?”

“Maybe they’re going to kidnap him.”

“No, they wouldn’t. They don’t have to, he’s cooperating. It’s easier for them to let him do it himself.”

She said, “Then why was he there?”

“I don’t know. Which direction did Brad take?”

“Off through the orchards. North.”

“I’ll take a walk myself,” Howard said.

“Shall I come with you?”

“No, you stay here. I’ll be back in a little while.”

“All right,” she said, and her reluctance affected his own attitude, and he left the office and went downstairs thinking, What am I doing here? I’m thirty-seven years old, I’m overweight, I’m a book editor, I wear glasses, I am not a counterspy. What am I doing here?

It was the kind of crisp fall day when the sun keeps ducking behind fluffy clouds and then reappearing, chilling by its absences but never quite warming with its presence. There was a slight breeze, and Howard was glad he’d stopped off for a mackinaw on the way.

There’d been two or three night frosts so far, none of them deep, and the ground was still soft as Howard set off away from the house through the orchards in the general direction that Brad had taken. He walked with his shoulders hunched inside the mackinaw, his hands in the pockets, and he kept looking around in all directions as he walked. From time to time he glanced at the ground, thinking that Indians and other trackers would undoubtedly be able to follow Brad’s trail with no difficulty at all, but he himself saw nothing there to be read. I’m a ground illiterate, he thought, and found himself possessed by a passing regret that he hadn’t taken more interest in the Boy Scouts as a youth. One never knew what expertise would turn out to be helpful.

Past the orchards was meadowland, virtually clear of trees, and tending upward on a slight slope toward a ridge half a mile or so away, where the woods began. The meadow grass was slightly damp underfoot, and far off he could hear the faint sounds of birds. The feeling was bucolic, the atmosphere seemed to say, “There are no problems. Rural simplicity is the only truth. The true purpose of a walk in the woods is enjoyment, not the chasing of Chinese spies.”

It also made him think of Thanksgiving, now less than a month away. Pumpkins, mince pie, hayrides. His last hayride had been twenty-two, twenty-three years ago, when the family had lived in Indianapolis. Long before Sterling became president of Lancashire University. Long before anything.

The ridge. Ahead of him, the land sloped down again, this face covered by trees and underbrush. To the left the ridge slanted downward, to the right it slanted upward. He turned right, following the high ground. A montage of childhood memories was filling his mind, and as the echoes of his boyhood relationship with woods and fields came back to him he gradually felt less foolishly out of place here. His stride became more assured, he took his hands out of the mackinaw pockets, and he looked around with both more confidence and more pleasure.

The ridge came to a sort of peak at last, with woods on only one side, and sloping meadowland on the other three, so that he had a clear view in three directions. He could see the house, quite far away now beyond the stunted tree shapes of the orchards. He could see over the wooded lowlands to the next ridge. But no matter where he looked, he saw no one, nothing. No movement.

He wasn’t quite sure what to do at this point. Brad’s estate covered several square miles; it would be pointless to just keep tramping back and forth, hoping to stumble across something. He knew Brad had come out in this general direction, but that was all.

He stood there for three or four minutes, and suddenly Brad himself appeared, far down the ridge, coming out of the woods and striding along toward the house. His walking stick moved in a jaunty but purposeful manner, and even from here Howard could tell, in the way Brad moved and held himself, that he was pleased, he thought things were going well.

Howard had marked the spot where Brad had emerged from the woods, and now he moved in that direction himself, going a few steps down the far side of the ridge first so as to be out of Brad’s sight. He moved briskly along, his route generally downhill, and when he reached the spot he turned right and entered the woods.

It was cooler in here, and damper, and a bit darker. There was also more of a muffled feeling, as though sound wouldn’t travel as well. Howard moved more slowly, looking all around, and doing his best to keep going in a straight line. One of the things he did remember from his boyhood was how easy it was, in the woods, to wind up walking in a circle.

He traveled for ten minutes, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, and suddenly emerged onto another meadow. He moved out across it, and came to a narrow dirt road that crossed his path from left to right.

This would be the perimeter road, marking the edge of Brad’s property. Howard looked both ways along it, and saw nothing. But then he sniffed, catching an odor that didn’t blend with his memories of Thanksgiving and hayrides and childhood expeditions in the woods: automobile exhaust.

He looked down at the dirt road, not expecting to be able to read tire tracks any more readily than footprints, but saw something better; a smudge of black on the weeds between the dirt ruts. He hunkered down and touched the black, and it was still damp.

They’d been here. An automobile of some kind had been here. It had been stopped long enough for oil to have dripped down onto the weeds from the engine. And then it had gone.

Howard straightened, still smelling the faint acrid stink of automobile exhaust, looking at the black smudge on his fingertip. Everything around him was very silent.

ii

THE BLUE COACHMAN WAS an excellent restaurant, and therefore did a brisk weekend trade. Downstairs was very public, with the tables close enough together for no conversation to be truly private, but upstairs was a darker, quieter room, with thick-cushioned high-backed booths, and it was one of these Howard had specified in making the reservation, knowing they would be able to talk in complete privacy there.

Robert had not yet arrived when Howard and Evelyn got there. They sat facing one another in the booth, ordered a round of drinks, and ate rolls while waiting. Howard didn’t feel much like small talk and apparently Evelyn agreed, so they sat there together in a comforting silence.

Robert and their drinks reached the table at the same time. He ordered Jack Daniels on the rocks, sat down beside Evelyn, and when the waitress left he said to Howard, “From what you said on the phone, I got the idea there’ve been developments.”

“Small ones,” Howard said. “I’m sorry if I tantalized you with that call, but I thought I shouldn’t say too much over a pay phone.”

“No, I understand,” Robert said.

Evelyn said, “I hate it that we can’t call you from the house.”

“But we can’t,” Howard said. “We don’t know who’s on the extensions.”

Evelyn nodded. “I know that.”

“Tell me what’s happened,” Robert said.

So Howard told him about Evelyn seeing the Chinese last night, and about his own walk in the woods this afternoon. When he was done, Robert said, “That seems almost too simple. He walks from the house to that dirt road, they drive up in a car, there’s a conversation, they give him passports, and that’s it. You’d think somebody would see them at it. It shouldn’t be that easy.”

Howard said, “Why not? It’s isolated out there, no one ever uses that road—” he caught a quick glance between Robert and Evelyn, but ignored it for the moment “—and nobody else lives anywhere near there.”

“They have to have a base somewhere,” Robert said. “They can’t just drive around in cars and lurk in the woods all the time, they have to have a base of operations. And they have to be able to go to and from it. How are they doing that? How can they operate in the middle of rural Pennsylvania, a group of who knows how many Chinese, traveling back and forth between their base and Bradford’s estate, and nobody notice them? Look, I’m only one man, and I’m Caucasian at that, but I couldn’t take a chance on staying in Eustace because I’d be wondered about. How are these Chinese doing it?”

“I don’t know yet,” Howard said. “That’s one of the questions we’ll have to answer. Here comes the waitress.”

They were silent as the waitress arrived with Robert’s Jack Daniels and three menus. After she left, Evelyn said, “What I want to know is why that man was waiting beside the road at three o’clock in the morning. What did he want there? He wasn’t planning to meet Bradford, not there and not at that time of night.”

Robert said, “Surveillance, I suppose.”

Evelyn looked bewildered, but the instant Robert said the word Howard knew he was right. “Of course!” he said. “Robert, you’ve got it.”

“I don’t understand,” Evelyn said.

Robert told her, “They’re keeping an eye on the house, that’s what it means, and you probably showed up for a change of shift.”

Evelyn said, “But why? They know he’s there.”

Howard said, “But they’ll want to know if anybody else is onto what’s going on, if Brad’s plans have been discovered by anybody who wants to stop them. So they keep an eye on the house and watch who comes and goes. You can bet they asked Brad today who I am and what I’m doing there.”

“They’ve got a fish on the line,” Robert said, “and they don’t want to lose it.”

“We can’t beat them,” Evelyn said. Howard looked at her in surprise, and her expression was stricken. “We just can’t,” she said. “They’re professionals at this, they know what they’re doing, they know things we can’t even guess at. But we’re just making it up as we go along, hoping for the best, not really knowing what we’re doing.”

“That’s our only choice,” Howard said. “There’s nothing else for us to do, you know that.”

“But we can’t win,” Evelyn said.

Robert said, “It isn’t quite that bad. We do have some advantages, you know. They’re strangers here, and we aren’t, and that has to count for something. And your family has its own professionals, in a lot of different fields. We aren’t completely helpless.”

“Plus,” Howard said, “we know about them, and they don’t know about us. That’s the big advantage.”

“Then what are we going to do?” she asked, as though there wasn’t any possible answer.

Robert told her, “The first thing we have to do is find their base. We’ve got to be able to keep an eye on them, just as they’re keeping an eye on us.”

Howard said, “That means Robert and me in the woods for the next few days.”

Evelyn frowned at both of them. “But what if they find you there?”

“That’s not the way we want it to work,” Robert said.

“But what if it does?”

“If it does,” Howard told her, “we’re in trouble. If we just sit around and do nothing, we’re in worse trouble. Evelyn, don’t turn defeatist on us now.”

“I’m sorry. It just sometimes seems like such an impossible thing to do.”

“Then it will take a little longer,” Howard said. Seeing the waitress heading their way again, he reached for his menu and said, “Now let’s eat. I for one am starving.”

iii

HOWARD SQUATTED ON HIS heels, his back against a tree trunk, and gazed moodily through the trees to the empty dirt road out there in sunlight. Off to his right, he knew, Robert was also crouched, watching and waiting.

It was two in the afternoon, Monday, two days after the dinner in the Blue Coachman. Yesterday he and Robert had spent practically all of the daylight hours out here, seeing no one, hearing nothing. Late last night Robert had come back from Chambersburg, Howard had met him out by route 992, and they had walked in the private road practically all the way to the gate, seeing no one, hearing nothing. And now today they had taken up their vigil again, they had been here three hours now, and they had seen no one, they had heard nothing.

Where were they? Weren’t they ever going to show up again, the yellow bastards? If the Chinese had the house under surveillance, where were they? If they came along this road to meet with Brad, where were they?

From time to time he thought about tomorrow, when Joe Holt would be coming to give Brad a check-up. That was their deadline, the end of the safe period. Brad had promised Evelyn he wouldn’t leave until after Joe had seen him, and there was no reason to suppose he wouldn’t keep that promise. Nor was there any reason to suppose he’d want to hang around very long after Joe’s visit. Any time after tomorrow he could make his move.

And they had no counter-attack, no plan, no anything. They hadn’t even managed to make contact with the enemy. If they didn’t find the Chinese today, or tomorrow at the very latest—

There was a faint crackling to his right. He turned his head and saw Robert coming this way, moving slowly from tree to tree. Howard pushed away from the trunk behind him and straightened to his feet, feeling the stiffness in his back. He stretched, arching his back, and waited for Robert to reach him.

Robert walked over with an irritated expression on his face. “I just don’t know, Howard,” he said. “You’d think we’d have seen something by—”

“Hush!” Howard held up a hand, and they both listened.

“A car,” Robert whispered.

Howard nodded, and moved quickly forward toward the road, Robert behind him. They stopped behind trees near the edge of the woods, hearing the car approach from their left, and after a few seconds a small black Renault went by, traveling at about twenty miles an hour. There were two men in the car, both Chinese, both facing front.

“By God,” Howard said softly.

Robert said, “Do we follow them, or do we go the other way to see where they came from?”

“The other way,” Howard said. “They went down that way, they’ll be coming back. Somewhere they have to turn off this road.”

“We’d better stick to the woods,” Robert said. “Just in case there’s more of them around.”

“Right.”

They started off to the left, staying within the darkness of the woods but keeping the sunlit road always visible to their right. On this side they were walking on Brad’s land, but the woods past the road was part of a large undeveloped tract belonging to the State of Pennsylvania.

They had walked perhaps half a mile when Robert stopped and said, “What’s that?”

Howard, seeing him gazing at the road, looked in that direction too and saw nothing. “What’s what?”

“There’s some sort of turnoff on the other side. Come on, let’s take a look,”

They went over to the edge of the woods, listened, looked all around, and stepped cautiously out into the sunlight. So far as they could tell, they were alone.

Now Howard could see it, too, an even skimpier road that turned off this one and disappeared in among the trees on the far side, away from Brad’s land. As the perimeter road was mostly dirt, with a low line of weeds and grass down along the mound of the middle, this turn-off was mostly weeds and grass, with two dirt ruts to mark where occasional automobiles had passed.

Robert went to one knee beside the turnoff and said, “Howard, look at this.”

Howard went over and looked, and saw nothing.

“Don’t you see?” Robert traced a curve along the ground with one finger. “Here’s a tire track. That Renault has a narrower wheelbase than most of the cars that’ve used this road. You can see its tracks.”

“Maybe you can,” Howard said.

“Yeah, I can.” Robert got to his feet again and peered down the secondary road. “That’s where they came from.”

“Then let’s go look,” Howard said.

“Right.”

They walked side by side along the twin ruts, looking all around, listening. It occurred to Howard that neither of them was armed, and that perhaps they should have been. But all they wanted to do was find the Chinese agents’ base, not engage in a war with them. Still, walking deeper into the anonymous woods, he reflected that it would be a comfort to have a gun in his hand.

The Chinese did. They appeared all at once, stepping out onto the road ahead of them from behind trees, both carrying what looked to Howard’s untrained eye to be some sort of thin machine gun made mostly of lengths of pipe. They were there silently, abruptly, and there was no time for Howard or Robert to think of anything to do. There was nothing to do. They stopped in their tracks.

One of the gunmen motioned with the evil-looking barrel for them to come on, to keep walking forward. Howard said, out of the corner of his mouth, “What do we do?”

“I don’t know.” Now the other one was also motioning, and both were looking slightly irritable and impatient.

Howard said, still out of the corner of his mouth, though it made no real sense to talk that way, “If they wanted to shoot us, they’d have done it already. Maybe we should do what they say.”

“I guess we don’t have any choice,” Robert said. He sounded bitter.

Howard started forward, Robert beside him. They passed between the two agents, who stepped out of the way and gestured with their guns for them to keep moving. They continued to walk on down the road, and without turning around Howard could sense that the two gunmen were following.

The land here sloped gradually downward, and the air was progressively cooler and more damp. This part of the forest was very old, with tall, heavy, thick-trunked trees, their interlaced branches forming a roof that kept out the sun so that there was little undergrowth, only the damp mulch of last year’s leaves and here and there a slender sapling struggling up despite the lack of sunlight. The double-rutted road twisted and curved around tree trunks and odd jutting corners of boulders emerging from the ground.

There was something ahead of them. They walked on, and it was a truck, a huge tractor-trailer, the cab painted green and yellow, the trailer silver with green and yellow lettering, EAST-WEST MOVERS Coast-to-Coast Service. It seemed incredible that anyone had managed to drive that truck in here, but there it was, facing the other way, the rear doors standing open but the space covered by a black cloth hanging from the top. A set of metal steps leaned against the tailgate.

They approached the truck, and now one of the gunmen trotted past them and turned to face them and direct them toward the rear of the truck. They obediently angled that way, and Howard said, “I guess we’re supposed to go inside.”

“I guess so.”

Robert went up the metal steps first, and through a central slit in the black cloth. Howard went up after him, stepped through, and inside Wellington was standing there holding his finger to his lips and motioning to Howard to move in from the entrance. Robert was staring at Wellington with blank-faced astonishment, and two more Orientals were there, both holding long-barreled pistols. As Howard gaped, completely bewildered, the Orientals pushed by him, moving toward the entrance. One of them was silent, but the other murmured, on the way by, “Xin lôi ông.” His voice was nasal, the inflection sing-song.

Wellington gestured urgently for Howard to come closer to him and farther away from the entrance. Howard obeyed, looking back, and saw the two men, both dressed in black, step through the curtain, pushing their long-barreled guns ahead of them. As they went out, there were strange coughing sounds—phut, phut—four or five of them, and then silence.

One of the men stuck his head back in and said to Wellington, “Môt phút.” The word sounded so much like the noises he’d just heard that Howard looked at the man to see if he was smiling, if some sort of joke was under way, but the man looked serious.

Wellington said, “Có.”

Howard, unable to restrain himself anymore, started to say to Wellington, “What the hell is—”

The man in the entrance said, in an angry undertone, “Yên lăng!”

“Yes,” Wellington said softly. “Be quiet, Howard. Wait.”

So Howard was quiet and waited. The man in the entrance disappeared again, and Howard took the time to look around at the interior of the trailer.

It reminded him mostly of a Marine radio shack he’d seen on Oahu sixteen years ago, when he’d been a PI officer in the Navy. Illumination was furnished by three bare light bulbs hanging from wire strung along the top of the trailer, the light gleaming on a card table, half a dozen metal folding chairs, and a bank of what looked like fairly complex electronic equipment. Rolled up in a far corner was what looked like several sleeping bags.

Howard glanced at Robert, who returned his look with a headshake and an exaggerated shrug. Howard nodded, agreeing that it was impossible to figure out what the hell was going on here.

There was a faint sound, gradually increasing, and Howard and Robert exchanged another glance, both recognizing it as a Renault engine. The other agents were returning to their nest.

Wellington seemed to be listening as intently as the others. Howard, looking at him, realized for the first time just how incongruously Wellington was dressed; dark-gray suit, white shirt, dark-figured tie, black topcoat. And black rubbers over black shoes. The topcoat buttons were open, but the suit coat was closed. Wellington looked like an insurance man who had somehow wandered onto a battlefield.

Outside, the Renault engine grew very loud and then stopped, and for a few seconds there was silence. Then two car doors slammed, and then again the phut sounds, this time fainter because farther away. And then they too stopped.

When the entrance curtain was shoved open, Howard jumped as though there’d been an explosion. But it was only the same man as before, who this time said to Wellington, “Tôt lam.”

“Tôt,” Wellington said.

“Chò dây.”

Wellington said, “Bao lâu thì xong?”

“Năm phút,” the other man said.

“Tôt.”

As the man disappeared again, Wellington turned to Howard and Robert and said, in a conversational tone, “We’ll have to stay in here for about five minutes.”

Howard said, “Can we talk now?”

“Yes, it’s all right now.”

Robert said, “Are they Chinese?”

“The men who were in here with me? No, Vietnamese.”

Howard said, “You speak Vietnamese?”

“Some. Not a great deal.”

Shaking his head, Robert said, “I don’t get it. What are Vietnamese doing here?”

“Toward the end over there,” Wellington said, “it was safest for some of our friends to leave Vietnam and come to the states. The useful ones.”

But what are they doing here? And what are you doing here?”

“The same as you, actually,” Wellington said. “Finding the Chinese base.”

Howard said, “Is this it?”

“Yes. That equipment there has been tapping Bradford’s phones.”

“The two men who brought us here, were they more Vietnamese?”

Wellington smiled with one side of his mouth. “No. They were Chinese.”

“And the men in the Renault?”

“Also Chinese.”

“What happens to them now?”

“They get buried, I believe,” Wellington said. “Sit down, both of you. I think we ought to talk.”

All three sat down at the card table, and Robert said, “How many people do you have working around here?”

“Just the two you saw. And they don’t know the situation. They don’t know any more than they absolutely have to know.”

“But who do they work for?”

“I have a high enough position, where I work,” Wellington said delicately, “that I can ask to have the two men assigned to me without having to explain what I want them for.”

“What do you want them for?” Howard asked him.

“To take over from the former tenants of this place,” Wellington said. “From this point on, whenever Bradford comes out to make contact with his Chinese friends, it will actually be our friends that he’ll talk to.”

“But won’t he be able to tell they’re not Chinese?”

“Would you?”

Howard said, “I’m not as well-traveled as Brad.”

“The fact is,” Wellington said, “the Vietnamese look quite similar to some Chinese types. Close enough for the purpose. An Oriental might not be fooled, but it isn’t an Oriental we’re trying to fool.”

“All right,” Howard said.

Robert said, “What’s the advantage of it, though?”

“The advantage,” Wellington explained patiently, “is that there’s going to be one unavoidable delay after another in the Chinese plan to help Bradford get out of the country. Every time he comes out to see if it’s time to leave yet, our men will regretfully explain that another problem has come up, another small delay.”

“That’s good,” Robert said. “That’s really good.”

Howard said, “But how long can it work? Won’t he get suspicious after a while, or at least impatient? How long can you keep him hanging that way?”

Wellington shrugged. “Maybe a week, maybe a month. Depending how rapidly his mind is deteriorating, maybe forever.”

“I don’t think it’s deteriorating,” Robert said. “I think there was a change, and now there’s a new stability.”

“We’ll see what Joe Holt has to say. He’s coming out tomorrow, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

Howard said, “All right. It gives us more time, and that’s good. But it isn’t a permanent solution.”

“I didn’t say it was,” Wellington said calmly. “But it does give us time, a little more time.”

Howard said, “What about the Chinese? Not these ones here, the ones behind them. Won’t they try to re-establish contact?”

“I imagine they will. We’ll have to keep it from happening. Somebody will have to actually be with Bradford at all times from now on.”

The man stuck his head in again, saying, “San sàng.”

Getting to his feet, Wellington said, “Cam ón. All right, we can go now.”

They went outside, and the two black-garbed Vietnamese were standing near the dusty black Renault. None of the Chinese were anywhere in sight.

Wellington and the two men spoke together briefly, and then Wellington said, “I’ll walk with you as far as the perimeter road.”

The three of them walked on up the twin ruts, going back the way they’d come. Looking back, Howard saw the two Vietnamese going up into the rear of the truck.

Robert was saying, “Was it one of the Chinese or one of your men that Evelyn saw the other night?”

“Yes, that was unfortunate,” Wellington said. “That was one of my men. I was afraid Evelyn might mention it to Bradford, who in his turn would mention it to the Chinese. Fortunately, it didn’t happen that way.”

Howard said, “Why didn’t you tell us what was going on? That way, there wouldn’t have been any danger of something like that going wrong.”

“Yes, you’re right. The habit of secrecy, I suppose. I thought it best to let you continue to believe the family was working unaided until I had a concrete accomplishment to present to you. Frankly, I was afraid several members of the family would have objected if I’d said I wanted to bring in outsiders.”

“You’re right,” Robert said. “They would have. Don’t those two back there speak English?”

“About as well as I speak Vietnamese. They could make themselves understood if they had to. They had more pressing problems to think about just then, I suppose that’s why they didn’t attempt any English.”

They walked on in silence until they reached the perimeter road, where Wellington said, “If you strike off in that direction, you’ll come to the blacktop road fairly soon. Then the house will be to your left. And your car, Robert, will be to the right. I go this way now.”

Robert stuck out his hand, saying, “I think you saved our lives. Thank you.”

Wellington looked surprised, and then a kind of bland emptiness of expression settled on his face, and he shook Robert’s hand and said, “You’re very welcome. I was pleased to be there at the right time.” He nodded to Howard, and released Robert’s hand. “I must go.”

They stood a moment, watching Wellington walk away along the perimeter road, buttoning his topcoat. Howard thought, Why do I mistrust him so? Why do I dislike him so? There was no answer.

iv

HOWARD SAT IN AN uncomfortable chair in the depressing room Robert had taken in Chambersburg, and observed how Robert and Evelyn behaved when in one another’s presence. Somehow, though they acted normally, with their usual habits and patterns and ways of speech, they were nevertheless totally different. In Evelyn, it was the difference between a cloudy day and one bright with sun. In Robert, the difference was subtler, less easy to define: an infusion of strength, of tone, of some extra dimension. In any case, it was both pleasant and saddening to be in their presence, as it is always to be in the presence of a couple newly in love.

It was Tuesday evening, and while they waited for Joe Holt to come over from Eustace and tell them the results of his examination of Brad, Robert was giving Evelyn a more detailed description of their encounter yesterday with the Chinese and Wellington and the Vietnamese than Howard had done after the event. Finishing his story now, Robert said, “Walking back to the car, all I could think about was what you’d said in the restaurant about them being professionals who know what they’re doing and us being amateurs making it up as we go along and hoping for the best. And you were right. If it had just been us amateurs out there on the Lockridge team, it would have been all over. Howard and I walked right into their arms.”

“Babes in the woods,” Howard said. “That’s exactly what we were.”

“You might have been killed,” Evelyn said. She and Robert were sitting side by side on his sagging sofa. They were holding hands.

“I know it,” Robert said. “Thank God it turned out we had professionals on our side.”

“Wellington is so sneaky,” Evelyn said. “He never tells anybody what he’s doing. I wish he’d talk to us. What if he’s doing other things, too?”

Howard said, “I’ve been thinking about that, and I think we ought to do something about it.”

Robert said, “The question is, what?”

“I’m not sure. But I don’t like this feeling that he isn’t really one of us. You just said ‘the Lockridge team,’ and Wellington just doesn’t give me the impression of being part of that team.”

“He acts like he’s above it,” Evelyn said. “As though we were children, and he was the grown-up.”

“In yesterday’s situation,” Robert said, “that was exactly the way it was.” To Howard he said, “But I know what you mean, he really isn’t one of us. You could tell that from what he said at the meeting.”

Knowing that Robert meant the comment about killing Brad to save him from disgrace, Howard gave him a quick frown and headshake; it was nothing to tell Evelyn.

Who had already pounced on Robert’s statement, saying, “What did he say?”

Robert had obviously understood Howard’s signal, and now didn’t know what to do. Howard rescued him, saying to Evelyn, “He seemed too willing to turn the problem over to some government agency.”

“He doesn’t have any confidence in us,” Evelyn said.

Robert said, “I hate it that we proved him right. We needed him yesterday a hell of a lot more than he needed us.”

“In any case,” Howard said, “he’s given us more time. And I think we ought to use some of it to get the family organized better, and get Wellington to let us into his confidence. I’ll call Gene White tomorrow and see about setting up another meeting.”

“I keep having the feeling,” Evelyn said, “that there’s something we should be doing. But I don’t know what it is.”

Robert said, “Maybe if Wellington—” and was interrupted by a knocking at the door.

“I’ll get it,” Howard said, and as he’d expected, it was Joe Holt. Howard held the door for him, and Joe stepped in saying, “I had a time finding this place.”

“Most people don’t look for it,” Howard said.

It was strange how habit overpowered one’s sense of urgency. Howard was more than anxious to hear Joe’s medical opinion of Brad, and he was sure Robert and Evelyn both felt the same way, but everyone had to go through the usual host/guest routine first, Robert getting Joe’s drink order and going to make it, Evelyn assuring herself that Joe had a more or less comfortable seat, and even Howard himself engaging in a bit of small talk about driving conditions coming out here from Philadelphia. But at last everyone settled down, and there was a little silence, and then Joe said, “It was what we thought.”

Evelyn said, “A stroke?”

“Yes. Without actually getting him into the hospital for a lot of tests, I can’t define the thing exactly, but I can make a rough estimate. It hit somewhere in the left hemisphere of the brain, and the damage it did was severe without being extensive. The main thing is the personality change, of course, and that’s primarily the result of a slackening of the reins, a lessening of self-control. The other symptoms are slight, and mostly unimportant.”

Howard said, “What other symptoms?”

“He has a very slight hemiparesis, primarily in the—I’m sorry, I use the words I think, let me start over. There is a very slight paralysis of the right side, primarily in the right leg. That’s what makes him limp when he’s tired.”

Remembering the sight of Brad striding over the meadows, Howard said, “I haven’t noticed any limp.”

“He doesn’t have any when he’s rested and feeling good. But if he’s tired, at the end of the day, or if he’s feeling discouraged for some reason, he does have a slight limp. He also has the symptom that complicates everything else, called anosognosia, which is an inability or refusal to acknowledge that there’s anything wrong. He won’t notice the limp, for instance, and he certainly won’t recognize the personality change.”

Evelyn said, “Can he ever change back?”

“No. I’m sorry, but it’s a one-way street. Any further changes he might undergo will only take him farther away from the person he used to be.”

Robert said, “Will there be more changes?”

“I can’t say. Probably, but not necessarily soon.”

Howard said, “So stopgap solutions won’t do, will they? We need something permanent.”

“Reasonably permanent, yes. Why, what stopgap solutions are you talking about?”

Howard then told him about yesterday’s encounter with Wellington, that the Chinese agents in contact with Brad had now been supplanted by a couple of Vietnamese furnished by Wellington, and that it would now be possible to stall Brad for an extra week or two, perhaps for as long as a few months. Unless the Chinese managed to regain contact with him themselves. He also mentioned his and Robert’s feelings of uneasiness about Wellington, and Joe said, “Yes, I know what you mean. One has the feeling he’s playing his own game.”

“I think we should have another meeting,” Howard said, “and define Wellington’s relationship to the rest of us.”

Joe said, “Shall I call Gene? I can give him a ring tomorrow, when I get home.”

“Yes. That would be fine.”

“And yet,” Joe said, “I don’t think we could do without Wellington. I don’t just mean in your case yesterday, but overall. I think we’ve entered his world now, whether we like it or not, and we need him to be our guide.”

“If he’ll only level with us,” Robert said.

“Amen,” said Howard.

7

SUNDAY. EVELYN STOOD AT the second-floor window of Dinah’s play room and watched Bradford walk out away through the orchard, his stick moving in his hand. Was he limping slightly? He did seem to lean on the stick a bit more than usual. Or was that simply the result of suggestion, of hearing Uncle Joe say that Bradford had an occasional limp?

The last five days, since Joe was here, had been calm on the surface, almost pleasant because of the temporary reprieve Wellington had managed, but beneath the surface tension had been building, like an unvoiced scream, and the center of the tension was Bradford.

He wasn’t taking the delays well. He hadn’t actually said anything about it, but Evelyn knew that was the trouble. Each day, when he returned from his walk, he would be silent and angry for a while. Wellington’s Vietnamese assistants must be having an increasingly difficult time of it.

And there was another source of tension, within the house, which was Howard. Again, the problem was delays, this time stupid and pointless delays. Both Uncle Joe and Eugene White were trying to organize another family meeting, this one larger and more comprehensive than the last, with the agenda not only to include the problem of Wellington but also the larger problem of getting together a volunteer force of men from the family to help guard Bradford and keep the Chinese from re-establishing contact. Every day that went by, the danger of the Chinese making another attempt was increased. Every day, Bradford grew more difficult to keep in check. And yet, they couldn’t seem to get the meeting organized.

Evelyn couldn’t understand it. All these excuses, all these postponements. It was perfectly true that these were busy men, most of them with important and time-consuming jobs, but it wasn’t a silly social get-together at stake here, it was something of vital interest to everybody in the family. Because Bradford was the family, its core and leader and the cohesive force that bound them all together, just as several decades ago it had been Bradford’s father who had been the central strength of the family. Bradford’s success had filtered out to help all the rest of them, from Sterling’s presidency of a university to Harrison’s reception of defense contracts. And Howard’s position as editor. And George’s position in television. And Joe’s reputation and position as a doctor. And on and on, spreading out to in-laws, so that the Bloor family in Cleveland and Baltimore were more important in banking circles than they would otherwise have been, and the Wellington family in Boston was more important in legal circles than they would otherwise have been.

And yet people were stalling and delaying. Not Howard or Uncle Joe or Eugene White. But people like Harrison, who offered excuses but who really meant he didn’t want to travel back from California again. And George, whose television production schedule was suddenly much more full than it had ever seemed before; but Evelyn thought she detected Marie in that, trying to keep clear of a situation that might turn sticky. And one or two of Elizabeth’s relatives among the Bloors. And William Wellington, in Boston.

How could people behave like that? Didn’t they realize what they owed to Bradford? How could they face themselves in the mirror?

Howard was off in Chambersburg again today, making more phone calls, trying to goad or persuade or shame all the different family elements into picking a definite time and place for the meeting. With Bradford off on his now daily walk, Evelyn was—except for the servants and security men—alone in the house.

Bradford was still in sight, though quite far away, when Evelyn faintly heard the sound of the main doorbell. Who would that be? She turned away from the window, told Dinah she would see her in a little while, left the room, and made her way to the front staircase and down.

Greg and Audrey. A maid had just let them in and was about to show them into a side parlor. These were the newlyweds, Evelyn’s cousin Gregory Holt and Eugene White’s daughter Audrey, at whose wedding Evelyn and Robert had told Uncle Joe about Bradford. Bradford had phoned his congratulations to them on the morning of their wedding, and it had been arranged they would drop in for a visit on their way home from their honeymoon.

“Hello!” Evelyn called, from halfway up the staircase, and skipped on down, smiling, delighted to be in the presence of happy and carefree people. “It’s good to see you!”

“The moochers have arrived,” Greg said, grinning, and Audrey slapped at him and told him he was terrible. They kept managing to touch one another, and stood so that their arms and shoulders were in contact.

Evelyn said, “What can we offer you? Have you had lunch?” She motioned to the maid to wait for instructions.

“As a matter of fact,” Greg said, “we’re starving.” He was deeply sun-tanned still from his Mediterranean tour with the Navy. Audrey, beside him, seemed as small and white and delicate as a Dresden doll in contrast.

“Lunch,” Evelyn told the maid, then asked Greg, “And something to drink first?”

“You could twist my arm,” he said. If he weren’t so obviously innocent and happy, his manner would have been cloying; as it was, it seemed merely naïve and was therefore enjoyable.

“No hard liquor for me,” Audrey said. “I’ll just go to sleep.”

“White wine,” Evelyn suggested. “Chablis?”

“Perfect!” Audrey said, and Greg said, “Just what the doctor ordered.”

Evelyn told the maid, “We’ll be in the small dining room.”

“Yes, Miss.”

“Come along, you two,” Evelyn said, automatically picking up Greg’s style, and led the way down the hall. “How was your trip?”

“Perfect,” Greg said. His grin seemed a permanent fixture on his face, like his nose.

“I’d never seen the Laurentians before,” Audrey said. “My God, they’re so beautiful.”

“I’ve never seen them in the fall,” Evelyn said. “Fred and I went up there skiing once, up above Quebec, but that was in the middle of winter.”

“You’ve never seen autumn colors,” Greg announced, “until you’ve seen the Laurentians in October.”

“You’ll have to go some year,” Audrey said, and suddenly looked flustered, and then lamely said, “But of course it’s beautiful around here, too.”

Evelyn couldn’t figure out for a minute or two what Audrey’s problem was. She’d embarrassed herself just now, but how?

Oh, for heaven’s sake, because of Fred! Evelyn almost laughed at the realization; Audrey had suddenly remembered that Evelyn was a widow now, and was making the assumption that her life was therefore essentially over. As with Ann Gillespie in Paris, once again, the same comparison. It would be cruel to suggest a light-hearted romantic journey to Ann. But not to me, Evelyn thought, smiling to herself, and suddenly wished Robert was here so she could introduce him.

They went on into the dining room and sat down at the table by the window, where they could look out at the orchards through which Bradford would be returning. The conversation stayed in the Laurentians, and after a moment the Chablis was brought in, and Evelyn found herself relaxing more and more in the casual company of these children.

Children? Gregory was twenty-three, Audrey was nineteen or twenty. Evelyn thought, I’m less than four years older than he, and suddenly realized her birthday was coming Tuesday. She would be twenty-seven years old the day after tomorrow, and what with one thing and another she’d absolutely forgotten all about it! That had never happened to her before, to forget her own birthday.

But that wasn’t the point. The point was that Gregory and Audrey both seemed so young, incredibly young. Why was that? Was it only because they existed for this little while without problems, so that they made such a total contrast to Evelyn’s picture of herself? But it seemed somehow as though they were years from responsibility, that they were lambs gamboling in the meadow. She thought of telling Greg about the situation with Bradford—he was family, he was young, he could be useful—and it just seemed ridiculous. She kept the conversation on a pleasant surface level.

They were eating lunch when a maid came in and told Evelyn there was a phone call for her. She excused herself, and went to a nearby room where there was a phone.

The voice was rough, hesitant and familiar. “Miss? This is Jimmy, down to the stables. We’ve got a sort of problem here, Miss.”

Something wrong with the horses? Something wrong with Jester? “What is it, Jimmy?”

“Well, Miss, the Major just come in with his uniform on and shot one of the horses.”

She had no idea what he was talking about. “The Major? What Major?”

“Mister Bradford’s son, Miss. Bradford, Jr. The Major. He’s sitting out in the yard here crying, and I didn’t know what to do.”

ii

IT WAS TRUE. BJ, dressed as always in his uniform, was sitting on the ground in the thin sunlight, his legs splayed out in front of him, his left hand shielding his face with fingers spread, his right arm out at an angle to the side, hand flat on the ground with palm up as though the Colt automatic Army issue .45 lying on the fingers was anchoring him in that position.

Jimmy, an elderly man, in charge of the stables for nearly forty years, was standing by the open stable door, holding his battered hat in one hand and a wadded-up handkerchief in the other. With the handkerchief, he was distractedly wiping first the inside rim of the hat and then the back of his neck, over and over. None of the other boys was anywhere in sight, though Evelyn could sense several pairs of eyes watching from just under cover. From the stable came a continuous rush of confused and nervous sounds, stamping and neighing; the animals in there were agitated, and were not being seen to.

Evelyn approached Jimmy first, as being more likely to give rational answers to her questions, but before she could ask anything he volunteered an answer she didn’t particularly care about, saying, “It was Laker he shot, Miss. Shot him dead. Came in crying, waving that gun around, shouting things, shot Laker right direct in the head. The boys went—”

“What was he shouting?” They were both speaking in guarded tones; quite clearly Evelyn could hear the rasp of BJ’s sobbing.

“Nothing you could make out, Miss,” Jimmy said. “Just what you might call gibberish. Then he shot Laker, and stopped where he was for a minute, looking at what he’d done. And then he came out here and sat down, and I called you.”

“Is Laker still in there?”

“Yes, Miss. We haven’t done a thing, I just went round the corner to the office and phoned you.”

“That’s why the other horses are so upset. Get Laker out of there. Have the boys take him out the other way.”

“Yes, Miss.” But he didn’t move yet, expecting further orders.

Evelyn looked again over at BJ. The sobbing seemed to be gradually less, but he hadn’t changed his position. She wondered about going over to take the gun away from him, but decided not to. He was quiet now, and it might upset him to have someone try to disarm him. She wondered briefly what it was all about, why he’d done such an incomprehensible thing, but it wasn’t a useful question at this point and she cast it to one side.

Jimmy was still waiting. She turned back to him and said, “This hasn’t happened. As far as the boys are concerned, as far as talking to anyone about this, it hasn’t happened.”

“The boys don’t carry tales, Miss.”

She doubted a blanket statement like that could possibly be true, but she didn’t argue the point. She said, “I don’t, simply mean in town, Jimmy, I mean here, too. They’re not to tell anyone up at the house, and that includes Mr. Lockridge.”

“Oh, I see, Miss,” Jimmy said, nodding. “You don’t want him to know about his son.”

“That’s right,” she said, improvising. “It wouldn’t be good for him at his age. That’s why I don’t want any talking about this at all, because I wouldn’t want it to get to Mr. Lockridge.”

“I’ll be sure the boys understand that, Miss.”

“Good. Have them take care of Laker, and calm the other horses.”

“Yes, Miss.”

“And they’d better stay out of sight of the yard for a while.”

Was there a ghost of a smile on Jimmy’s face? All he said was, “Yes, Miss, they will.”

“I’ll use your phone.”

“Yes, Miss, of course.”

He made a hospitable gesture toward his office with his hat, accompanied by a small movement that might have been meant as a bow. Evelyn nodded, and turned away, going down the clapboard wall to the office entrance and inside, amid the smells of leather and horse and earth. She called the house and had Greg brought to the phone, and told him, “There’s a problem down at the stables. I don’t want anyone there to know about it. There really isn’t time to explain everything now. But could you come down here?”

“Of course.”

“Make some excuse to Audrey. And if Bradford gets back before we’re done down here, I don’t want him to know there’s any trouble.”

“Audrey can handle that.” Greg sounded very different now, quick and competent and serious. “I’ll be right down,” he said.

“Thank you.”

She went back outside. BJ had changed position slightly now; he had stopped crying, and his left arm was now down away from his face, his hand resting on the tan ground between his legs. He was gazing at nothing, his expression stricken. His right hand was still in the same place as before, the gun resting on his open fingers.

Evelyn chewed her lower lip. The truth was, she was very frightened, and didn’t want to be involved in this. Whatever had happened to BJ, he was surely not rational now, and the irrational terrified Evelyn, it always had. One never knew what an irrational reaction was going to be. If she went over to him, would he recognize her as a friend, a relative, a woman, someone who meant him no harm? Or would his mind see something entirely different, something she couldn’t guess at? And would it see something he would want to kill? If he raised the gun and fired, it would be the mistaken notion in his head he would be shooting at, but it would be Evelyn he would hit.

But the gun had to be taken away from him, and some attempt had to be made to talk to him, contact him. The situation couldn’t be left this way indefinitely.

If he shoots Greg, she thought, I’ll never forgive myself. And how could I go up to the house and break the news to Audrey?

It was that last thought that decided her, and she moved abruptly out from the doorway into the sunlight. She slowed at once, but kept moving forward, not walking directly toward BJ but moving in a kind of arc, like a golf ball following the slope of the green toward the cup. She moved more and more slowly, the closer she got to him, but he paid no attention to her, he didn’t even seem to be aware of her presence.

She reached him, stopped in front of him and just to his right. Slowly, she bent her knees and squatted in front of him. More slowly, as though reaching for a dozing rattlesnake, she reached her hand out toward the gun. Her fingers closed on the barrel, she took a breath and held it, she closed her eyes, opened them again, and flipped the gun up from his hand as though it were a spatula and she was flipping pancakes. He started when the gun left his fingers, his eyes widened as though something had frightened him, but he still didn’t look at her, and she continued the spatula movement, lifting the gun up into the air, the weight of it surprising, the metal warm to her fingers, and when she had it at shoulder height she flipped it sideways with a snap of her wrist so that it spun through the air like a boomerang, landing a dozen feet away and sliding another foot in a sudden puff of dry dirt.

Evelyn breathed again. She put one hand on the ground in front of her for balance and said, “BJ.”

No response.

“BJ, it’s Evelyn.”

Still nothing. She spoke to him, quietly, reassuringly, and nothing happened on his face or in his eyes. He stared away at nothingness to her right. His frightened reaction when she’d taken the gun away was the last change she saw him make.

She glanced over her shoulder, and saw Greg trotting down the path from the house. Giving up the attempt at communication, she got to her feet, backed away, went over to get the gun where it was lying in the dirt, and carried it off to put it on the desk in the office. She came out again, and Greg was just arriving, puffing slightly, looking from her to BJ sitting on the ground. “What the heck is going on?”

“Something’s happened to BJ, something mental. He came into the stables and shot one of the horses. I have no idea why.”

“Good God!”

“Then he came out here, and he’s just sitting, he won’t respond when I talk to him or anything. I took the gun away from him, he didn’t fight me for it.”

“We’d better take him up to the house,” Greg said.

“There’s another problem,” she said, and looked around to be sure none of the boys was anywhere close. “We’ve been having . . . trouble with Bradford,” she said.

“This Bradford?”

“No.” She nodded toward the house. “Bradford. He had a stroke, and it’s affected his mind, and there’s a problem. I don’t know if this is connected or not, I don’t see how it could be. But I don’t want Bradford to know about it. There are things we have to hide from Bradford, and if he finds out about this it might lead him to other things.”

“This goddam place is an iceberg,” Greg said. “Nine-tenths below the surface. What’s going on around here?”

“You call your father,” she said. “Tell him about BJ, what the situation is now. Ask him what we should do.”

“He knows about Bradford?”

“Oh, yes, of course. I’ll explain the whole thing when there’s more time.”

“Right,” Greg said, and started for the office when a black Renault suddenly turned into the yard and stopped. He glanced at the car and at Evelyn: “What’s that?”

“I don’t know,” she said, as both doors opened and two Chinese got out, both wearing black shirts and slacks. Then she saw that one of them was the man she’d seen that night, so that meant they weren’t Chinese, they were from Vietnam and they worked for Wellington.

They both looked expressionlessly at BJ, and then walked over to Evelyn and Greg. Ignoring Greg, one of them handed a folded slip of paper to Evelyn, who opened it and saw:

WELLINGTON 202 992-7149

Greg said, “What is it?”

“I’m supposed to call Wellington.” At the total confusion on his face, she almost laughed, then realized the laughter would be hysteria and forced it back. “You’re right about the iceberg,” she said. “This is more of the underwater part. I’d better call Wellington.”

She went into the office and dialed the number, and it rang fifteen times. She was about to give up and dial again when it was suddenly answered by a woman saying, “Seven one four nine.”

“Wellington Lockridge, please.”

“Who is calling, please?”

“Evelyn Canby.”

“One moment, please.”

It was less time than that. Wellington came on at once, saying, “The first thing is, keep Bradford from finding out.”

“I’m perfectly capable, Wellington,” she said. She’d been doing well, beautifully well, and she knew it, and Wellington’s manner was offensive to her. “I don’t know how much you know about—”

“BJ. I know what he did.”

“All right. I’ve already made sure the boys in the stable won’t do any talking. I have Greg Holt with me, and we’re about to call his father and see what we should—”

“No, my men will take care of BJ, they’ll take him off your hands.”

Glancing out the open doorway, Evelyn saw the two Vietnamese continuing to stand there, BJ continuing to sit in the middle of the yard. She said, “Why? Where are they going to take him?”

“What difference does it make? Away. You don’t want Bradford to stumble across—”

“No,” she said. “We’ll do it my way. BJ is not going to be carried off by any of your men.”

“Evelyn, don’t be hysterical. The best solution—”

“I’m not hysterical. I’m telling you what isn’t going to happen.”

“There’s no point to this,” he said. He sounded irritated.

“Wellington,” she said, “I don’t like you, and I don’t trust you, and I am not going to have BJ taken away to some mysterious destination by—”

“He is my brother, Evelyn. Give me credit for some humanity.”

“Why should I? I’ve never seen it appear.”

“Evelyn, obviously BJ has had some sort of mental breakdown. He needs to be taken care of, he needs psychiatric care.”

“Where?”

“I have a connection to a sanitarium where—”

“No. No place like that. I mean it, Wellington.”

“. . . All right. James Fanshaw. Will that satisfy you?”

“I don’t know who he is.”

“My brother-in-law. Meredith Fanshaw’s nephew. He’s within the family, Evelyn, I know how much that means to you.”

“There’s no need to be sar—”

“You’re right. James Fanshaw is a psychiatrist in New York. I’ll have BJ taken to wherever he recommends, and have Fanshaw handle him personally. All right? I’ll call him now and tell him the situation, as much as I can over the phone. You can call him yourself afterwards, and check up on me.”

“All right,” she said.

“Let me speak to one of my men.”

“Yes. Hold on.”

She put the receiver down on the desk and went outside. “He wants to talk to you.”

The Vietnamese nodded, and one went inside while the other kept watching BJ, who hadn’t moved. Evelyn heard the one inside say, into the phone, “Pham dây.” Then, after a pause, “Không.” Another pause, and, “Tôi sê dùng máy diên thoai nào?” And finally, “Tôt lam. Chào ông.” And he hung up.

Evelyn could feel Greg staring at her, hopelessly lost. Glancing at him, she patted the air in a small sign to let him know she would explain everything later.

The Vietnamese who had talked on the phone came out of the office carrying BJ’s gun. He held it up by the barrel, showing it to Evelyn, and gave a friendly smile, which amazed her. With his other hand, he waggled a finger back and forth, as in disapproval, and very slowly said, “Bad. Bad.”

It took her a few seconds to realize the word was in English, and then she was flustered, understanding that the man was attempting to make a small joke, to help her relax. Her returning smile was far too sunny, and she said, “Oh, yes, it’s very bad. Yes, you’re right, I hate guns.”

The Vietnamese nodded and smiled, and put BJ’s gun away in his hip pocket. Then he grew serious again, glanced at his companion, and the two of them went over to BJ. They bent over him, one on each side, and Evelyn could hear them murmuring to him, but whether it was English or Vietnamese she couldn’t tell. In either case, there was no response from BJ, so after a minute they took him under the arms, gently lifted him to his feet, and walked him away to their car. He went without protest. At the car, they opened the passenger door and one of them clambered into the small seat in the back, sitting sideways with his feet up. The other urged BJ into the passenger seat in front, then closed the door and walked around to get behind the wheel. He waved through the windshield at Evelyn, who found herself waving back, and then backed the Renault in a tight U-turn and drove it on out of the yard.

Greg said, “I’m going to be a very old man before you get done explaining all this.”

“You’re probably right,” Evelyn said, smiling at him. For some reason, she felt rather good, much better than she’d felt all week. She supposed it was the release of tension through action, however pointless and incomprehensible the action might be. And it was also a relief to have finally spoken out to Wellington, and not only that, but to make him back down!

“Start soon,” Greg said, meaning the explanation.

“Right. On the way back to the house.”

They walked slowly, but they still had to pause for a minute by the slanted sundial for Evelyn to finish the explanation. Greg said, “This started the day I was married.”

“That’s when I told your father, yes. It started a week before that, when Bradford first asked me to go with him.”

Greg turned to look up at the house. “Bradford Lockridge,” he said. “My God, it seems impossible. It doesn’t seem right. He’s supposed to be safe from rotten things like that.”

“When you see him—”

“Oh, sure! I won’t let on.”

“Good.”

“I won’t tell Audrey till after we leave, so she won’t have to pretend.”

“Fine,” Evelyn said, and the front door of the house opened, and Bradford was standing there.

Greg’s face lit up in a sunny untroubled uncomplicated smile. “Bradford!” he called. “I could hardly wait to see you! Have you seen Audrey? Isn’t she beautiful?” He went striding toward the house, chipper, happy, seeming very very young, and Evelyn followed.

iii

ALL DAY LONG, SHE had labored under the feeling she’d been cheated somehow, she was the victim of something unfair. Today, Tuesday, the sixth of November, was her twenty-seventh birthday. She should be cheerful today, she should be surrounded by people anxious to make a special occasion out of her day, she should have no problems to distract her mind.

It was unfair, and because life was being unfair Evelyn too became unfair. She shouted at Dinah three times before lunch, in each case puffing some tiny misdemeanor all out of proportion, so that in the afternoon Dinah stayed silently and mournfully out of the way, and Evelyn walked around with a load of guilt on top of everything else.

Bradford had forgotten her birthday, that was another thing, for the first time in her life. Whether it was because of the uncertain memory given him by his illness or the steadily increasing irritation he obviously felt at the delay in leaving here she didn’t know, nor did it really matter. Her life was being taken from her, that was her feeling, in small mean chunks, and today she found herself very resentful of Bradford for imposing this responsibility on her. Normally she understood that the responsibility was her own decision, that if she was in the role (stock in so much of fiction and so much of life) of the younger person who has sacrificed herself to the care of someone older, she had done it herself, and gladly, without Bradford’s request or desire. But today that awareness was only annoying, and to be thrust aside; she wanted to blame someone, and she didn’t want the someone to be herself.

An additional source of trouble was Howard, whose rage with the rest of the family was increasing day by day. There was no one he could really get at among the malingerers, but his fury had to find release somewhere, and more and more he was letting it out at Bradford, costumed as irritation over Bradford’s abandonment of The Coming of Winter. It was natural and to be expected that he would prod Bradford on the subject, and it was probably true that he did feel annoyed by it, but the pressure of his more generalized rancor was forcing him to be harsher with Bradford than he’d ever been before. Bradford seemed unaware of him at times, at other times remained haughty and aloof, but every once in a while lashed back with un-Bradford-like viciousness, accusing Howard of being a coat-tail rider, attacking him with small-minded nastiness.

The situation couldn’t last much longer, and her birthday only hammered home the truth of that. Some more stable, long-term solution had to be found. Evelyn knew that already some members of the family hoped that Bradford would merely die and thus solve the problem for them, and today for the first time she saw that she herself could eventually come to the same way of thinking. To actively want Bradford dead would be horrible, but the impulse was already within her, and unless something happened soon to change the situation it would have to eventually surface.

She said as much to Howard that evening, as the two of them rode in his Mercedes toward Chambersburg to meet Robert. He listened soberly, driving with both hands high on the steering wheel, and said, “I know what you mean. We’re all of us turning nasty, I can feel it. And right now, the farther we get away from the estate the better I feel.”

“I know. Isn’t that awful?”

“Something has to be done,” he said, “and I can’t even get the bastards together to talk about it. We’ll all snap like BJ, and Brad will be the last one walking around loose.”

“I wonder if he’ll ever be all right again,” she said, meaning BJ, and Howard only shrugged. She had phoned James Fanshaw Sunday evening, from Robert’s place, and he did exist, he was Wellington’s brother-in-law and Meredith Fanshaw’s nephew, and he had already arranged for BJ to go to a sanitarium on Long Island. He had also contacted the Army, to let them know where BJ was.

Robert had had to explain to her, Sunday night, how Wellington, down in Washington, had known so fast about BJ. Obviously his Vietnamese had continued using the Chinese equipment to tap Bradford’s phones, including interior calls, and had heard Jimmy’s call to her. They must have some direct line to Wellington’s office, and they’d passed the word to him at once, and he’d told them what to do. Once again, the speed and the prior planning of the professional.

She remained pleased at having spoken so bluntly to Wellington, but at the same time was now embarrassed at the memory of it. Hadn’t she, really, attacked him for just those qualities that made him indispensable? If the family was going to use him because of those traits, it didn’t seem right to simultaneously attack him for their possession.

She thought of talking to Howard about that, but decided not to; she didn’t feel like poking any of the aching teeth right now, and they traveled most of the way to Chambersburg in silence.

Robert’s building, as grubby as ever, had taken on a warm patina by now in her mind. What few pleasant memories she was storing up these days had mostly to do with this seedy rundown building, its creaking stairs, that familiar door at the third floor rear, and the shabby one-room apartment within.

Tonight, Howard didn’t knock. He pushed open the door, and Evelyn frowned to see that the room was in darkness. Had Robert gone out to the store or something? Had something happened?

Howard was facing her, and hadn’t noticed the darkness. “After you,” he said, with a tiny bow.

She moved forward, telling herself not to be silly, and fumbled for the light switch beside the door as she crossed the threshold. Then a hand pressed into the middle of her back, she was shoved forward, the door slammed, and for one open-mouthed second she was in total darkness.

Then the lights came on, and everybody shouted, “Surprise!”

A surprise party? At a time like this? For God’s sake!

Robert. Howard. Uncle Joe and Aunt Margaret. Greg and Audrey. All smiling, all pleased with themselves. And how could she show them she was furious, she thought they were stupid and thoughtless and shallow? To do a thing like this, when everything was so tense, when that second of darkness would be bound to terrify her . . . But she couldn’t let them know any of that, of course, she had to clutch at her shattered nerves and try to smile and act pleased, because they had meant well. But she could have punched their happy faces.

There were presents on the bed, in wrapping paper. Joke presents, like a paperweight, and nice presents, like a deerskin jacket, an original from Paris. And there were drinks, and the others all continued pleased with themselves, and it was impossible to go on being angry.

A little later, it occurred to her that she’d managed to find fault with both ends of the spectrum today. Bradford had forgotten her birthday, and she’d objected to that. Robert and Howard and the others had remembered it, and tried to make it normal and happy and memorable, and be darned if she hadn’t objected to that, too. The combination of that thought and a few scotch and waters lifted her spirits considerably.

It turned out that Greg and Audrey were staying at a motel just outside town, that Greg had now joined Robert as a part of the stand-by force, and that Audrey desperately wanted some assignment, something to make her feel that she too was a useful part of all this.

Most of the talk avoided the central subject, though, as everyone made an obvious effort to keep the evening light and cheerful. Evelyn did manage one brief discussion with Joe about BJ and James Fanshaw; Joe had talked with Fanshaw on the phone Sunday night, and had met him in New York yesterday, and had filled him in on the whole Bradford situation. Fanshaw had agreed with Holt’s prognosis that Bradford would never return to his original mental state, and had suggested that BJ’s shooting of a horse had been his way to keep from shooting his father. BJ seemed to be suffering a severe case of blighted hero worship. The father who had always been perfect was no longer perfect; the son whose own life had been affected in not entirely beneficial ways by living in the shadow of that perfect father had been unable at this point to accept his father’s fallibility; he had come to the house to destroy the imperfect father, had been driven by too many conflicting desires and inhibitions, and had shot the horse as a way to draw attention to himself and force someone else to take over the reins of his life; at which point he had stopped communicating with the outside world entirely and was now in a state of catatonia in the Long Island sanitarium. “Fanshaw,” Joe said, “seems like a good man. I wish I’d known about him before, he’ll probably be very useful.”

They were off that subject, and onto the subject of skiing in the Canadian Laurentians, when the knock sounded at the door a little before eleven. They at once all became silent, and watched Robert go to the door and open it.

The landlady stood there, peeking curiously past Robert’s shoulder as she said, “Telephone for you, Mr. Pratt.”

“Right,” Robert said. The phone was in the hall, down on the first floor. “Be right back,” Robert said, and went out, shutting the door.

Joe and Howard both made small attempts at conversation while they waited, but it was impossible. This is how easy a happy mood can be killed now, Evelyn thought, and waited, listening to the silence.

At last Robert came back, looking depressed and in a vague way startled. “That was Sterling,” he said, shutting the door behind him. “At nine-thirty this evening Elizabeth died, of a heart attack.”

8

WELLINGTON, READING THE DOSSIER on his family that he was not supposed to know existed and that his superiors were not supposed to know he had access to, came across the information that his daughter, Deborah, now seventeen, was no longer a virgin. It had occurred nine days ago on Monday, the twenty-ninth of October, while Wellington had been at Bradford’s estate, replacing the Chinese with his own men and incidentally cooling out Howard and Robert. The defloration had been accomplished by a young man named Lister, on the living room floor of his home in Chevy Chase, his parents being out for the evening. Lister’s high school yearbook photograph was attached; Wellington, looking at it with cold hatred, vaguely recognized it as a face he’d seen a few times around the house. But he took so little interest in the house and the doings of the people there, he had always taken so little interest, that he couldn’t say now for certain whether he and Lister had ever actually exchanged words in any sort of conversation.

He closed the dossier. He never dipped into it without regretting it, but knowing it was there made it impossible not to dip in. Like having a chance to know the future, when even if one suspects he will only learn the grim details of his own imminent death he cannot stop himself from looking.

This was one of the particularly bad times. Not as bad as the first of Carol’s affairs, nothing again would ever be that brutal, but close. And this was no way for a man to learn such a thing about his daughter, it was vile and crude and nasty. As well as pointless; what had Deborah’s introduction to sex to do with Wellington’s reliability?

The worst of it was that he could never respond to the things he learned in here. The dossier did not exist, so he could not know its contents, so he would have no reason to take action. Not against any of Carol’s four lovers over the years. And now, neither against Lister nor for Deborah. Nor for himself. Again like one who knows the immutable future, he had total knowledge but it never changed anything. He was a spectator to his own life, aware of it all but helpless, like a ghost who can be neither seen nor heard. He hung above the life he lived, in agony but unable to move, impaled on this dossier like a butterfly run through with a pin.

The phone on his desk rang: the unmarked line. He answered, and the familiar voice said, “If you have a moment.”

“Of course.”

He hung up. On the way out of the office he gave the dossier to his secretary, to return surreptitiously to the files. Of course, the surreptitiousness was unnecessary, since long ago she had reported him to their common superiors, but he was certain she behaved just as circumspectly as though she hadn’t. It was this farce of pretended ignorance, wonderful in its ubiquitousness, that eventually squeezed all the juice from life.

There was no tape recording running today, when Wellington entered the office. The man at the desk looked up from a typewritten report he was reading and said, “Sit down.” After Wellington sat, he said, “Minor business first. We have approval for you to go ahead in Port au Prince.”

Wellington lifted an eyebrow in mild surprise. “On the side of the angels for once.”

“It won’t be angels who rush to fill that vacuum,” the other man said. “On the matter of your father, I submitted that plan of yours and we just got an approval.”

“Good,” Wellington said. He showed no emotion.

“I suppose you’re already aware of this, but I recommended it be denied. My own vote went for death.”

“I thought it would,” Wellington said.

“It’s simpler than your plan, it’s safer, it’s neater, and God knows it’s cheaper.”

“The family will absorb part of the cost,” Wellington said.

“You can’t be sure of that. You haven’t talked to them yet.”

“They’ll do it.” Wellington nearly smiled. “We can have that meeting now,” he said. “That will please Howard.”

“Was there any trouble stalling it?”

“No. There were a few points where pressure could be applied.”

The other man leaned back in his chair, brooding at Wellington. “Circumstances alter cases,” he said. “No one is unemotional after all. If it hadn’t been your father, you would have been the first to see the only sensible thing to do was kill him.”

“Probably.”

“If he wasn’t an ex-President, the President wouldn’t have gone along with a risky idea like yours.”

“That could very well be.”

The other man brooded a half-minute longer, then shook his head and sat forward once more. “The Chinese have been very unhappy about your intercept.”

“I expected they would be. I thought they’d have tried something by now.”

“They will. You lost an in-law last night.”

That seemed to be a change of subject. Was it? Wellington nodded, saying, “Yes. My Aunt Elizabeth.”

“Anything in it?”

“No. It was a death from natural causes.”

“You’re sure.”

“Completely. Her heart gave out.” Wellington shrugged slightly. “There are natural deaths in this world.”

“Not so many. It turns out we have files on her. She goes back to the Dies Committee.”

This time Wellington did smile. “A great deal of trouble,” he said. “A leftist from birth to death. I was very fond of her.”

“Yes, I know. A part of your perverse streak. They intend to grab Lockridge at the funeral.”

Wellington frowned. “How solid is that?”

“Grade A, absolutely sure.” He picked up a manila envelope and tossed it onto Wellington’s side of the desk. “That’s what we have. Not very much yet. I’ll try to get more.”

“The funeral’s the day after tomorrow.”

“I know.”

Wellington opened the envelope and read the recap of agents’ reports. The Chinese intended to kidnap Bradford in Lancashire on Friday, during the course of Elizabeth’s funeral.

The other man waited till Wellington finished reading and looked up, and then said, “A question is now raised.”

“Who stops them?”

“Exactly. Do we reveal ourselves to your family? I would prefer not to. Could we manage an unobtrusive block without your family’s cooperation? Doubtful. Could we trust the family to protect Lockridge themselves? Risky.”

“They’ll have to be told,” Wellington said. “About the grab, not about us. I’ll organize them, but we’ll keep a unit of our people in the background, just in case.”

“You are taking on a dangerous responsibility.”

“Your skirts will stay clean,” Wellington assured him. “Everyone is aware this is my baby.”

“Just so you’re aware of it,” the other man said.

ii

RAISED GOLD LETTERING ON the broad oak-veneered doors read COLLINS, WELLINGTON, SMART, Attorneys-at-Law. Down the left hand door in more gold letters ran a ladder of names, not in alphabetical order. Fourth and fifth from the top were William Wellington and Walter Wellington. Third from the bottom was John Bloor.

The elevator opened onto this massive-doored entrance, flanked by leatherette sofas on one side and a receptionist’s desk on the other. Even more impressive than the doors were the receptionist—a stunning blonde—and the button-bedecked beige telephone switchboard on the desk in front of her.

Wellington stepped from the elevator with Eugene White and Meredith Fanshaw, with whom he had flown up from Washington. In his usual manner, he hung back and allowed Eugene to deal with the receptionist, who had apparently recognized Meredith and would have preferred to do her talking to him.

The law firm of Collins, Wellington, Smart had opened for business here in Boston nearly eighty years ago, the Wellington in the firm name having been the father of Bradford’s wife, Dinah, and the source of Wellington Lockridge’s first name. Bradford himself had worked here for seven years after getting his law degree from Harvard and before first running for Congress in the family’s home district in Pennsylvania.

Unlike the common practice of law firms, Collins, Wellington, Smart had chosen not to change its name as old partners had died or retired and been replaced by new men. There was no longer anyone named Smart connected with the firm, though there were still several Collinses. The William and Walter Wellington listed on the door were grandsons of the founder Wellington, themselves now both men in their fifties. John Bloor, Robert Pratt’s former college roommate, married Walter Wellington’s daughter, Deborah, adding another intra-family entwining of the type that Wellington’s superior down in Washington took such proletarian offense to.

The firm’s original offices had been in the second story of a four-story brownstone building near the Common, from which it had gradually expanded until, by the end of the Second World War, it had spread through the entire building. The firm also owned the building by then, having bought it in 1937 and redubbed it Collins House. A fine example of nineteenth-century Boston architecture, Collins House had been rich in dark woods and heavy fireplaces and tall narrow windows, high ceilings and intricate moldings and complex chandeliers, all elements tending toward the encouragement of the concept of Collins, Wellington, Smart as a settled and reliable old legal firm.

But progress is inexorable. The time had finally come when Collins House stood in the path of urban renewal, when the wiring was hopelessly inadequate for modern office machinery and air-conditioning, and when even some of the older partners were casting envious glances at the new forty-story chrome and glass ant farms being constructed all over New England by insurance companies who didn’t know what else to do with their money. After a great deal of wrangling between the traditionalists and the modernists the move, eleven years ago, was finally made, and as Collins House fell to the wrecker’s ball the firm of Collins, Wellington, Smart moved into the twenty-sixth and twenty-seventh floors of the Alliance Assurance Building on the other side of the Common. Some of the old mantelpieces and pier glasses had been carried over from Collins House and now appeared in odd corners of various offices, like the Ghost of Elegance Past.

The change of locale for this second family meeting had been Wellington’s only significant defeat so far in this affair, and even so it was a defeat he didn’t particularly mind. Eugene White had been prepared to set up the second meeting in the same place in Washington, but Howard had raised an objection that no one had been successfully able to argue against, pointing out that although a dozen fairly important individuals might be able to meet once in official Washington on unofficial business without attracting much attention, they would never be able to do it twice. Particularly with the expanded attendance list this time. If everyone showed up—and they should—they would be nineteen strong.

Of the ten who had been at the original meeting, eight would be present today, being all but BJ, now hospitalized, and Sterling, staying home today because of Elizabeth’s death. (A lucky break, that, in a way; it would be hard to tell how Sterling would react to the suggestion Wellington was going to make.) The other eleven included William and Walter Wellington and John Bloor, the three family members with the law firm; Sterling’s other son, Edward, here from his diplomatic post in Paris for the funeral; Walter Wellington’s twenty-one-year-old son, Thomas, and his New York stockbroker cousin, Mortimer; Joe Holt’s son Gregory; James Fanshaw, the psychiatrist; John Bloor’s father, a Cleveland banker, Edward Bloor; and another pair of banking Bloors, these from Baltimore, Albert Sr. and Albert Jr. The only reasonably safe location outside Washington for these nineteen men to meet was the motion picture screening room in the twenty-sixth floor offices of Collins, Wellington, Smart.

Now, in apparent response to a phone call from the receptionist, the impressive doors of that law firm opened and out came a short, stocky man of about thirty-five, who introduced himself as John Bloor, shaking hands around and smiling in a muted fashion, as though already in rehearsal for tomorrow’s funeral. He told them that most of the others were already present, and then led them down a series of airy, carpeted halls with off-white walls. Small functional cubicles could be seen through every doorway. From the bareness of the walls, this was one of the firms that maintained an approved list of pictures and other items that might be hung in the cubicles.

The screening room, trapezoid-shaped, was about half full. Wellington and Eugene, both being speakers, moved to the front row, Eugene exchanging half a dozen greetings on the way, Wellington moving more invisibly. The room had gray fabric walls, a pockmarked baffle-filled ceiling that looked like a futuristic city model upside down, and a featureless heavy-looking gray curtain closed over the screen.

Wellington did not sit, but stood in a front corner, considering the men in the room. They were his raw material, and he studied them carefully before starting to deal with them. He had two things to do with them today: first, to organize them into an effective defense for Bradford at the funeral tomorrow, and second, to convince them that his plan for Bradford’s future was not only feasible but the best possible answer. On the latter questions, he would have to do so even though he couldn’t state to them directly that the alternative was Bradford’s death, though he would attempt to make them understand that allusively. Unfortunately, people tend to disbelieve the possibility of violence in their own spheres, and several of these men would not be able to think about much of anything but the drain Wellington was proposing to put on their wallets.

The door opened again, and a final group came in: Howard Lockridge, Robert Pratt, Gregory Holt. Wellington, having done a head count, went over to where Eugene was chatting with Edward Lockridge, and said, “We’re all here, Gene.”

“Are we? Good. I’ll introduce you in just a minute, all right?”

“Fine,” Wellington said, and went to sit down in a corner of the first row.

Gene called the meeting together. He thanked them for coming. If Wellington were a smiling man, he would have smiled; by exerting pressure in one direction, he had stalled this meeting for over a week, and by exerting pressure in the other direction he had brought the meeting into existence in less than a day. He wondered how Howard would react to that, if he knew it. Badly.

Gene spoke briefly. All of them in the room now knew about Bradford, so that explanation didn’t have to be gone through yet again. Gene’s opening remarks were therefore very short, finishing with, “Because he has something important to say to us, I’d like to start by turning the floor over to Wellington Lockridge.”

Wellington got to his feet, and turned with slow reluctance to face the eighteen pairs of eyes out there. He was voluntarily giving up a kind of named anonymity for the first time in his life, and the experience was difficult and unnerving. He was used to creating his effects indirectly, through others, after quiet private conversations, but now a situation had come along that was forcing him to change his style. There wasn’t time to handle this in his usual way; besides, in this case he wouldn’t trust anyone else to carry the ball.

He thought briefly of his superior, in Washington, and of his statement of yesterday: “If it hadn’t been your father, you would have been the first to see the only sensible thing to do was kill him.” Sensible? The man didn’t know the half of it, he didn’t know how Wellington’s secret soul hated the exposure he was bringing on himself now. Sensible? Had it been anyone but Bradford, Wellington would have seen him boiled like a lobster before doing this.

But none of it showed. Wellington, as usual, looked merely stocky, quiet, calm, uninteresting, and slightly rumpled. His voice carried without strength as at last he began to speak:

“I have two things to tell you about today. They both have to do with Bradford. One has to do with a plan for a more permanent way to contain Bradford than the one we’re using now. I’ll explain it to you in a minute, and I hope you’ll agree to it. Unfortunately, we have very little time, and the agreement or disagreement must come now, at this meeting. We can’t go home and think about it for a week. If we’re going to go ahead with this plan, there’s a certain amount of preparation that must be done. There’s also expense involved; I’ve made up a tentative list of what each of us should be able to contribute.”

There was a stir at that, as he’d known there would be. Hit a man’s wife, burn his flag, slap his face, (rape his daughter) but don’t touch his wallet. Wellington didn’t permit the agitation to build, but continued talking into it, saying, “If we’re going to go ahead with this plan, I’ll have to make a phone call today, at the conclusion of the meeting. If we’re not, I hope someone out there has another plan to suggest, because time is getting short and we desperately need a realistic method for keeping Bradford contained. Very soon, we aren’t going to be able to hold him any more with the methods we’re using now.”

Mortimer Wellington, stockbroker from New York, forty-three, distinguished-looking, raised a hand and said, “What methods are you using now?”

It was a digression, but Wellington was willing to take a little time if it meant building their interest. “Primarily,” he said, “Bradford’s granddaughter, Evelyn Canby, whom he asked to go with him, has agreed to go, so that he’ll keep her aware of his plans. He has been in direct contact with the Communist Chinese, who were maintaining a small base in the woods near his Eustace estate. We have replaced those men with Orientals in our employ, who so far have managed to keep Bradford reasonably content with a series of delays.”

Howard Lockridge said, “He’s losing patience now. He’s getting very annoyed.”

“That’s part of why we’re running out of time,” Wellington said. “Another reason is that the Chinese, upset at having lost direct contact with Bradford, mean to kidnap him tomorrow during Elizabeth Lockridge’s funeral.”

That got the reaction he’d expected, and he stood back now and watched them grow excited and gradually absorb what he’d told them. And as he watched, it seemed to him impossible to turn this group into an effectively functioning counter-operation arm by tomorrow. It was true there were nineteen of them, including himself, but of the nineteen only six were under thirty-five: John Bloor, thirty-four; Robert Pratt and George Holt, thirty-one; Albert Bloor, Jr., twenty-eight; Thomas Wellington, twenty-five; and Gregory Holt, twenty-three. Though most of the nineteen had gone through some sort of military training, only Thomas Wellington and Gregory Holt had done so recently enough for it to matter. They were not, after all, among the most promising of material.

When they finally sorted themselves out, now, at least three of them asked the inevitable question: “Are you sure?”

“My information is positive,” he told them. “There is no question of its accuracy.”

A half dozen, in various wordings, next asked him what they should do about it. He said, “The important thing to remember is that we won’t have Bradford’s cooperation. We can’t tell him we know what’s going on. If he knew what was up, he’d be in favor of it, he’d want to be kidnapped. So we have to take care of this without his help, and even without his knowledge. Not only can’t the Chinese capture him, we can’t let them get near enough to say a word to him.”

“How?” The question was general.

“We’ll have to discuss techniques,” Wellington told them. “But before that, I want to get back to the first subject, the plan for a really permanent solution to this problem.”

They wanted to stay with the kidnapping, and a number of them said so, but he shook his head and said, “I told you about that when I did because I wanted you all to understand the urgency of the situation and the danger we’re all in until we have Bradford safely and permanently controlled. But I want to talk about the plan now because I have to make that telephone call if we’re going ahead with it. There’s a lot that will have to be done.”

“All right,” Howard said irritably. “What’s the plan?”

“Yes,” Wellington said. He looked at them all, their faces cautious, curious, but at least potentially skeptical. He took a deep breath. He started to talk.

9

LIKE MOST TOWNS OF consequence dating from Colonial times, Lancashire, Pennsylvania, was founded on the banks of a river, that being then the most natural means of transportation. The river in this case was the Susquehanna, which meanders across the southern tier of New York State, down through eastern Pennsylvania, across a corner of Maryland, and empties at last into the top of Chesapeake Bay, between Baltimore and Wilmington.

The town of Lancashire, population thirty-four thousand, stands on the west bank of the Susquehanna, twenty-five miles north of Harrisburg, where the Turnpike goes through. Its principal products are canvas sporting goods and plastic dinnerware. It is the home of Lancashire University, a large multi-colleged state-supported educational center with twelve thousand students.

Seen from the air, Lancashire appears as a patchwork quilt, bunched against the curve of the river bank on its eastern edge, and then spread out to the left of that as though to dry. The cluttered, bunched-up section is downtown, with its old storefront buildings packed tightly together, its main street with angle parking on both sides, the recent black oblongs of parking lots, and the one unexpected swatch of green in front of City Hall. Away from downtown and the river, the town is composed of neat houses and neat lawns on a neat gridwork of streets. The high school, with its football field in back and concrete parking lot in front, stands out markedly from the rest of the grid, as do Lancashire Memorial Hospital and the two cemeteries, Holy Cross and Greenland.

Lancashire University is outside the town proper, making its own smaller grass-green and brick-red quilt on the southwestern outskirts. A north-south road, following the river, twice blessed with route numbers (11 and 15), separates the campus from the Susquehanna before entering the town to become River Street, the main downtown thoroughfare, and then emerging again at the north end of town, traveling between the river and Greenland Cemetery before passing the city limits and heading on northward for its mitosis across from Sunbury.

Within a forty-square-mile rectangle north and west of Lancashire, bordered by four secondary roads, one of them not even numbered, there is nothing but woods and an occasional farm. In a farmhouse in a wooded fold of hills in this section on the morning of Friday, the ninth of November, ten men sat and discussed their plans for the day. Two were Chinese, eight were American. The Americans were a dissident splinter group formed by recent disruptions within the Progressive Labor party, one of the old-time American Communist party schisms that had come into an unexpected belated flowering of prominence in the late sixties. Throughout the sixties, while Stalinist and Trotskyite schisms saw themselves fading into irrelevance and obsolescence, Progressive Labor was firmly Maoist, hitching its wagon to the star from the East and riding the wave of polarization into the seventies. China was Progressive Labor’s heaven then, as Russia had been for the equivalent radicals of the thirties. (“I have seen the future, and it works.”) With the death of Chairman Mao, and with China now in a strong anti-Mao reaction—much like Russia’s de-Stalinization period—Progressive Labor and the other American Maoist groups now considered China merely one more enemy in a world already swarming with opponents.

Not all the members of Progressive Labor, however, agreed with this policy. The cult-of-personality specter was raised again, party meetings grew louder and less coherent, and by now Progressive Labor was progressively factionalizing itself out of existence. The radical left, after a heady period of national and international influence in the late sixties, was bickering its way back into its more usual irrelevance.

The eight Americans in the farmhouse northwest of Lancashire were members of the Twelfth of July movement (TOJ), a splinter of a faction from a schism of Progressive Labor, so far removed from its origin that Progressive Labor hadn’t yet bothered to denounce it. The Twelfth of July movement, named after an obscure event in radical politics during the period when Progressive Labor was taking over the Students for a Democratic Society (SDS), saw its true allegiance not to Mao, and certainly not to Progressive Labor, but to China, which it saw as the source of a world-wide revolutionary movement for peace and freedom and the end of capitalism.

The eight TOJ members were all young men in their early or middle twenties, all Caucasian, all looking like normal upper-middle-class young men, with neat clothing, cropped hair and shining beardless jaws. Until yesterday, however, they had looked much different: bearded, hairy, dressed either dirtily or extravagantly. They considered themselves to be currently in disguise, and all were proud of the sacrifice they had made in shaving and getting crew-cuts, and yet their faces, their personalities, their backgrounds, who they were, shone through much more clearly now than they had done before yesterday.

Their histories were all more or less the same. All had been college students during the sixties, all had been caught up in the adventure and challenge of a society to be changed by its brightest young, all had suffered police violence and arrest, most had been expelled from at least one college, all had made their sacrifices light-heartedly and without any real understanding of the consequences, and all by now understood what those consequences were. Society, in effect, had cast them out. There were no blacklists, there was no longer any organized harassment, but there didn’t need to be. They had police records, and they lacked college degrees, a combination that automatically closed the door to any employment appropriate to their class. With the working class firmly right-wing since 1968 and becoming more so with every passing month, it was very difficult for them to find jobs of any kind; no union would accept their membership applications, and no right-thinking American workingman (flag decal on car window) wanted to be associated with them.

It was no wonder they, and the thousands like them, clung to the idea of revolution; only after a total upheaval of society would there be any chance of their returning to their original favored position in the social structure. In refusing the plea of some Senators the year before to pass a general amnesty for the political prisoners and the exiled war protesters and all the other shattered remnants of the American Revolution of 1968–69, Congress had sown a wind that could yet give these eight men the social catastrophe their blighted lives required.

In the meantime, their present hopes lay with China, which meant that when they’d been approached by Chinese agents to assist China in her undercover work within the United States—with the assurance that they would never be asked to cooperate in anything against the people (as opposed to the government) of the United States—they had agreed at once. Their help until today had taken only minor forms, but today they would assist in a major way.

They’d been shown the correspondence between Bradford Lockridge and the Chinese. The conversion of this man, formerly one of their most-hated enemies, had delighted them, was one of the most hopeful signs in years of their eventual victory. The information that Lockridge was being forcibly detained by his family confirmed their ideas of Establishment villainy, and they were proud to assist in wresting Lockridge from its clutches.

The two Chinese were middle-aged men, seasoned agents who knew how to take available amateur material and turn it into a useful short-term force. Their base was six hundred miles farther north, in Montreal, where an extreme radical offshoot of the Free Quebec separatist movement was also in active cooperation with Chinese espionage, and where a plane was ready to take Lockridge to Vancouver for transfer to another plane for the flight to Peking. From this farmhouse to Montreal, Lockridge would travel in safety and comfort in the rear of a delivery van now parked behind the farmhouse. The van was marked Penn-Can Delivery Service, and bore New York State license plates. Ontario plates were stored in the van, ready to be put on after they had crossed the unguarded border on one of the back roads above Malone, New York. The interior of the van had been carpeted, and furnished with an easy chair, two tables and a reading lamp. There were also magazines and books for Lockridge to read, including a picture book of the area around Peking. A chemical toilet had been installed in one corner, and an intercom system would permit Lockridge to speak, if necessary, with the driver.

Inside the farmhouse, the two Chinese agents were going over the plan one last time with the eight Americans. The Chinese would not take an active part in Lockridge’s rescue, because of their high visibility in a Caucasian city, but would wait here at the farmhouse for the eight—and Lockridge—to return.

Now they were ready. They solemnly shook hands all around, and the eight left the house. Outside were three automobiles—green Chevrolet, tan Mercury, maroon-and-black Pontiac—into which the eight sorted themselves, and drove away, down the deserted dirt road through woods and past other abandoned farm houses to the blacktop road which would lead them to Lancashire.

ii

THE HOUSE OF THE President of Lancashire University was a large rambling brick structure across the highway from the campus itself, between the highway and the river. The sloping lawn leading from the rear of the house to a wooden dock and broad concrete steps at the river had been one of Elizabeth’s joys, though of course these days the river was polluted and no longer useful for swimming and fishing. But the view was still beautiful, at every season.

Elizabeth’s body lay in the living room, where it had been since Wednesday afternoon. Sterling had continued to stay in the house, joined by his two daughters-in-law, Howard’s wife Grace and Edward’s wife Janet, the latter there with Edward from Paris. The rest of the family had assembled in town last night and this morning, most of them staying at one of the motels on the highway, Wellington and one or two others staying at Lancashire House, the old hotel in town. Bradford had come up this morning by car, accompanied by Evelyn and Howard and (as though fortuitously) by Gregory Holt; a car full of young men from the family, Thomas Wellington and Albert Bloor Jr. and Robert Pratt (considered family now) and George Holt, had followed Bradford’s Lincoln the whole way.

Upon arrival in Lancashire, Bradford found himself at once flanked by Harrison on one side and by Senator Meredith Fanshaw on the other. It was not unnatural that they should stay close to him from that point on, from the instant he left the car in front of Sterling’s house.

Family members seemed to be spread all over town, and an amazing number of them seemed to have sprouted hearing aids, unobtrusive flesh-colored plastic buttons, usually in the left ear. Wellington had supplied these items, which were sophisticated miniature walkie-talkies. Unfortunately, there hadn’t been time to train the family in the use of throat mikes, so communication was strictly one way, but at least it was possible for Wellington to move his forces around.

William and Walter Wellington, both fiftyish Boston attorneys, drove up and down the route between Sterling’s house and Greenland Cemetery for an hour before the funeral procession was to begin, looking for anything out of the ordinary. The radio receivers in their ears crackled slightly from time to time, but were otherwise silent. Wellington had given them the code number four; instructions to them would be preceded by that number.

In the church, which would be the one stop on the route, James Fanshaw sat in a rear pew with Joseph Holt, the two discussing in low tones the mental health of both Bradford Lockridges, Senior and Junior. They also kept glancing around for anything that didn’t look just right. And they kept listening to the transmitters in their ears for Wellington to say the number three.

In the cemetery itself, Eugene White sat in his car just off the gravel road on a high spot where he could see most of the cemetery just by turning his head. Beside him sat Mortimer Wellington, forty-three, New York stockbroker, well-padded by affluence. The number they were waiting for was five.

A great deal of rapid but careful work had gone into the preparations for the funeral. In the first place, it had been limited to family; an abridged explanation of the situation had been given Sterling, so he would understand anything out of the ordinary in the handling of the funeral, but though he had at once volunteered to take an active role it had been decided that even this crisis should not be allowed to intrude on his farewell to Elizabeth.

There were to be seven cars following the hearse and flower car, with five family members in each, making thirty-five in all. There were also James Fanshaw and Joseph Holt at the church, Walter and William Wellington driving back and forth along the route, and Eugene White and Mortimer Wellington at the cemetery, they having been the six chosen because none of them was directly related to Elizabeth, and so would not be particularly noticeable in their absence. And finally, Earl Chatham, who had missed yesterday’s meeting but had flown in from the coast last night, and whose number was six, was staying at Sterling’s house while the rest of the family was gone for the funeral. This made a total of forty-one relatives and in-laws surrounding Bradford.

The procession left the house at twelve-twenty, the church ceremony being planned for one o’clock. Slowly the mourners filed out of the house into cold November sunlight and entered the cars.

The first car took Sterling, and Elizabeth’s two banker brothers, Albert and Edward Bloor, and their wives, Rosemary and Elaine. Albert had what looked like a flesh-colored hearing aid in his left ear; his number was seven.

Beginning with the second car, the order of passengers differed wildly from the usual. The second car contained Bradford, his brother Harrison, Meredith Fanshaw, Howard Lockridge and Gregory Holt. Fanshaw wore the hearing aid, and his number was one. The seating arrangement was: Bradford in the middle of the rear seat, Senator Fanshaw on his left, Harrison on his right, Howard and Gregory in two jump seats in front of him. With all four around him that way, he couldn’t see outside very well, but there was no reason for him to want to see outside. He had, in any case, been moody since hearing of Elizabeth’s death, probably because it reminded him of the shortness of the time he also had left.

The third car contained the same four young men who had escorted Bradford up from Eustace: Thomas Wellington, Albert Bloor, Jr., Robert Pratt, George Holt. Robert Pratt had the hearing aid, and his number was two. With the four young men was Evelyn, there against Wellington’s wishes, but determined to be no more than one car away from Bradford.

In the fourth car rode Wellington, with his transmitter and his wife Carol. John Bloor, Boston attorney, also rode in that car, haying been unseated from the car in front by Evelyn, and Edward and Janet Lockridge from Paris completed the group.

The last three cars were full of wives. In car five, Harrison’s wife Patricia; Howard’s wife Grace; Joe Holt’s wife Margaret; William Wellington’s wife Sara; and Walter Wellington’s wife Milicent. In car six, Earl Chatham’s wife Patricia; Eugene White’s wife Sandra; James Fanshaw’s wife Rita; Mortimer Wellington’s wife Mavis; and a young widow, Katherine White, Elizabeth’s niece and John Bloor’s sister. And in the last car, Albert Bloor Jr.’s wife Jane; George Holt’s wife Marie; John Bloor’s wife Deborah; Gregory Holt’s wife Audrey; and the only teenager present, Wellington’s seventeen-year-old daughter, no longer a virgin, Deborah.

The cars moved off, headlights burning. Earl Chatham watched them leave from an upstairs window, hearing the undertaker’s men dismantling the platform and other equipment in the living room. By the time everyone got back, the undertaker’s men would have cleaned up and departed, and the caterer’s men would have laid out coffee and drinks and sandwiches.

At the first turn, Wellington looked to his left, and saw, parked where it should be, the car containing Walter and William Wellington. Its presence there meant they’d seen nothing alarming along their route.

Wellington spoke into his transmitter: “Four. Precede us by a minimum of a block. If anything bothers you, develop horn trouble.” He had shown them, early this morning, how to rig their car simply so as to wind up with a stuck horn at will.

The cortege was moving slowly, so the Wellington brothers had no trouble passing them and moving out in front. Wellington watched them go by, and said into his transmitter: “Three.” That was James Fanshaw and Joseph Holt, in the church. “We are en route.”

In the church, Fanshaw wordlessly got to his feet and walked outside. Holt waited a moment, then stood and began to walk around the perimeter aisles of the church, strolling slowly along as though interested in nothing but the stained glass windows. Outside, Fanshaw strolled back and forth on the sidewalk, studying the faces of the people who passed and the looks of the automobiles parked across the way.

Their route formed the two sides of a triangle of which the river was the base. From Sterling’s house to the cemetery was the base line, more or less straight, following the river. The church stood in about the middle of town; to get to it, the funeral procession had to travel northwest, at an angle away from the river. Afterward, it would travel northeast to the cemetery, at an angle in toward the river again. And finally it would return to Sterling’s house down the base line of the triangle.

The first leg of the triangle, from house to church, was a distance of twelve blocks, including two right turns and one left turn. In the seventh block, a tan Mercury suddenly bolted from a side street and rammed the flower car broadside. Two young men, upright-looking and neatly dressed, jumped from the tan Mercury and began to shout at the driver of the flower car, blaming him for cutting them off. They seemed unaware of the funeral procession, which had of necessity come to a stop.

Wellington, four cars back, had seen the accident unclearly, but he knew about it. Though he had nothing so obvious as a hearing aid in his ear, a small tinny voice was speaking in it, describing the accident in fast monosyllables. This was a second line of defense, about which the family knew nothing, a thin line of men, sprinkled along the sides of the triangle, in communication with Wellington and with one another: professionals, ready to step in if needed.

Wellington, into the transmitter: “One.” That was Meredith Fanshaw, in the second car beside Bradford. “Cover.”

Fanshaw leaned forward in the seat, saying, “Interruptions?” That was the word he was to use in giving the others Wellington’s instruction to cover.

At once, the four men around Bradford were all leaning forward, moving back and forth, pointing this way and that, discussing the reason for having stopped, so surrounding Bradford with gestures and bodies and talk that he couldn’t possibly see or hear anything that was going on outside.

Ten seconds had passed since the accident. A green Chevrolet was passing the stopped cortege on the left. Wellington said, “Two. Shield.”

The doors of the third car, behind Bradford’s, opened, and out spilled the four young men who had been tailing him all day. Robert Pratt and the spectacled, balding-at-twenty-eight-but-handball-enthusiast young banker, Albert Bloor Jr., trotted forward to stand on the left side of Bradford’s car. George Holt and twenty-one-year-old Thomas Wellington hurried to stand on the right.

The green Chevrolet stopped beside Bradford’s car, arriving at the same time as Robert Pratt and Albert Bloor Jr. The Chevrolet’s right-side doors opened, and three young men climbed out, one from the front, two from the back, leaving the driver. At the same time, the two young men from the Mercury began to move down from the flower car on the other side.

Robert held one of the young men against the side of the Chevrolet, so he wouldn’t be able to roll with it, and hit him three times in the face. Meanwhile, Albert was holding the other two off with weaving jabs.

Across the car, George Holt and Thomas Wellington stepped forward to greet the pair from the Mercury.

Wellington, into the transmitter: “Four.” Walter and William Wellington. “Return. Block green Chewy.”

Bradford, trying to see past everyone, said, “What’s going on out there?” Vague confused movement, that’s all he could see.

Gregory, purposely misunderstanding as they all crowded even closer to Bradford, “Some sort of accident. I sure hope it doesn’t hold us up long.” Everyone else agreed, at length.

In Wellington’s car, John Bloor said, “I better get up there with them.” He got out of the car, and trotted forward.

The young man Robert had held against the car was now on the ground. Robert and Albert Jr. were struggling with the other two, no one able to get an advantage in the narrow space between the Chevrolet and Bradford’s car. On the other side, Thomas Wellington had one of the young men from the Mercury down and was straddling him and hitting him. The other one from the Mercury had George Holt down, but George was refusing to let go, and the two were rolling on the pavement. Thirty seconds had passed since the accident.

Wellington moved his lips, but didn’t seem to speak. What he had said, subvocally, was, “Give me some siren.”

A siren wailed, sounding a few blocks away.

The driver of the Chevrolet began to honk his horn, either for the others to hurry the job or to give it up. William and Walter Wellington came driving back, and angled across the street to block the Chevrolet, whose driver kept on honking while starting to back away, trying to avoid being blocked.

Wellington was sub-vocally giving a description of the Chevrolet.

Thomas Wellington had knocked out his opponent, and was now scrambling over to help George Holt.

John Bloor arrived to help Robert and his cousin Albert, attacking the two from the Chevrolet at a different angle.

George’s opponent leaped to his feet, fought off Thomas Wellington, and ran.

There was practically no traffic in this residential neighborhood at noontime of a weekday; they had the area virtually to themselves.

The two conscious young men from the Chevrolet broke and ran, trying to get back into their car, which was still moving in reverse down the street, trying to keep the Wellington brothers from maneuvering it into a cul-de-sac.

Wellington: “Four. Let them go.”

The Chevrolet, no longer being blocked, leaped forward and made a screeching turn at the next corner. Three of the attackers departed on foot. Two were unconscious on the pavement.

Wellington: “Two. Get the Mercury out of the way.”

Thomas Wellington, Robert Pratt, both Bloors and George Holt trotted up to the flower car. The Mercury had dented its side panel, and punctured its own radiator, but that seemed to be about all the damage. Robert got behind the wheel, shifted into neutral, and steered while the others pushed the car back into the side street and left it at the curb.

The young man Robert had knocked out got dazedly to his feet. Greg Holt looked levelly at him from the window of Bradford’s car. The young man looked around, and went trotting uncertainly away.

In the lead car, Sterling was opening and closing his fists on his knees. “To do this to Elizabeth,” he kept saying. “To do this to Elizabeth.” His two brothers-in-law and their wives looked at him in helpless compassion.

Wellington: “Four. Back to your post, one block ahead.”

The Wellington brothers’ car made a U-turn and sped away.

John Bloor was running back toward car number four. His cousin and Robert and the other two were already climbing back into the third car, where Evelyn anxiously began to ask them if everybody was all right, while looking exclusively at Robert. Fifty-five seconds had passed since the accident.

The hearse began to move. The flower car followed. The seven cars with the mourners came in their wake. The final young man was sitting up in the street, rubbing his head and looking after the procession. He got to his feet, very unsteady, and walked away, going half a block before a blue Buick pulled to a stop near him and two cold-looking men got out and took him by the arms. “Hey!” he said. “What are you grabbing me for? What did I do?”

They didn’t answer him. They put him in the car and took him to a small old brick building downtown, where they led him to a room already containing the driver of the Chevrolet and two of the other four attackers. They kept him there two or three minutes, and then took him away by himself to a fairly large men’s room. There were four of them, and one of him. They stood around looking at him, and one of them soaked a white terrycloth towel in a sink full of water, then squeezed some of the water out. Holding the wet towel, he said, “Before I ask you the questions, I want to explain why you should give me the answers.” And then he began to hit the young man with the towel.

iii

THE FOUR YOUNG MEN in the maroon-and-black Pontiac were silent until one of them said “We’ve still got to get Lockridge.”

“Without any of them getting us.”

“Naturally.”

“I don’t care what you say,” said a third, “they were ready for us. They were out of their car before Joey even had the Chevy stopped.”

“So they know our plans,” said the first. “We can change them. We don’t have to make the try at the cemetery.”

“Fine,” said the fourth. “But what do we do instead?”

“They’ll go back to the house. We’ll wait for him there.”

“Then what?”

“The house is right on the river. We find ourselves a motorboat, we take Lockridge out the back door, into the motorboat, across the river.”

“What good does that do us?”

“The nearest bridge is ten miles away at Clark’s Ferry.”

“Okay, we can’t be followed. But we’re on the wrong side of the river. How do we get back to the farm?”

The first said, “We pick up a car on the other side, over in Millersburg. I know how to jump wires. We drive up to Sunbury, come back across the river up there, and come on back south. They’ll be looking for people going the other way, but they won’t be looking for people coming back this way.”

“I like that,” said the third.

“But first we’ve got to get a motorboat,” said the fourth. “How do we do that?”

“To start,” the first told him, “we go to the river.” Being the driver, he now faced front and started the engine, then paused to say, “Any problems?”

There were no problems. He nodded, and the Pontiac moved away from the curb.

South of town there were a number of elderly summer cottages along the river, some with boathouses, locked up now for the winter. In the third of these into which the young men forced their way, they found a motorboat whose engine would start without a key. They flipped coins democratically to decide which one would operate the motorboat, and the other three closed the boathouse doors again after he’d taken the boat out into the river. They stood on shore and waved to him, and he waved back, then turned the prow upstream and went chugging slowly northward. He was in no hurry, and the slow speed was quieter, less likely to draw attention.

The other three returned to the Pontiac, and drove north up route 11/15 to where the campus started on their left. They drove through the south gate, parked in a student parking area, and walked across the campus to the main gate, which faced the president’s house. They all had vague troubled feelings, memories, regrets, as they walked across the campus, which showed as small frowns around their mouths and eyes, but which none of them mentioned to one another.

At the president’s house, a certain amount of overlap was taking place; the undertaker’s men were still carrying equipment out, while the caterer’s men had already started carrying equipment in. The three young men casually crossed the street, walked up to the house, up the stoop to the porch, and through the open front door.

The bustle was limited to a front room on the right. The three moved past that, deeper into the house, eventually finding another area of bustle in the kitchen, where some of the caterer’s men were setting up the coffee urn and the large metal pans of food. There was a rear exit from the kitchen, but it seemed a crowded route to take if in a hurry, so they went looking for an alternate, and eventually found it. Behind the main dining room was a plant-filled solarium, its wall of windows facing the morning sun and the river. French doors led out from here to a stone patio, slate steps led down from there to the lawn.

While two of them waited in the solarium, the third went out and down to the water’s edge, to be sure the one with the motorboat had arrived. He had, and was waiting close to shore, tucked away under a willow that grew on one corner of the property.

When the third man returned to the solarium, he and the other two continued exploring the house, looking now for a place to hide until the funeral party returned. They went up to the second floor, entered several rooms, and in one came unexpectedly face to face with Earl Chatham.

Earl didn’t realize anything was wrong; these looked like clean-cut ordinary young men. He said, “May I help you?”

Thinking that all family members must have gone with the cortege, the leader of the young men decided on boldness as a tactic. He said, “You could tell me what you’re doing up here.”

Earl’s amiable, rather vague face took on the smiling-through-bewilderment expression it often wore when Evelyn more bluntly rejected his advances. He said, “I beg your pardon?”

“No one’s supposed to be up here,” the young man told him firmly. “Are you with the mortician?”

“Of course not,” Earl said. “I’m family.”

The young man was flustered for just a second, but it didn’t show. He said, “Oh, in that case, it’s all right. Come on, men.” And turned around to leave.

Belatedly it occurred to Earl to wonder who these people were and what they wanted. He said, “Just a minute. Who are you three?”

“We’re just keeping an eye on things.” The three trooped on out to the hall.

“Keeping an eye on things?” Earl, following them, frowning now in puzzlement, said, “But I’m supposed to keep an eye on things.”

The leader turned back. “Oh, are you? What’s your assignment?”

“Just a minute, now,” Earl said, with sudden suspicion. “Let me see some identification.”

“Sure,” the leader said, and hit Earl in the mouth.

Earl, staggering backward through the doorway, eyes wide in surprise, managed somehow to stay on his feet. But the three pushed into the room after him and shoved him farther backward, shutting the door behind them. The second time the leader hit Earl, he fell down.

Earl shouted, a call for help from someone who didn’t yet really believe he needed help, and one of the others kicked him in a sudden panic to make him stop. Earl shouted again, this time louder, with more panic in the sound, and all three started kicking him, desperate to keep him silent. He screamed, and the leader grabbed up a table lamp and swung it hard, hitting Earl’s forehead with the metal base. Earl dropped backward flat on the floor, and was silent.

“Good Christ,” one of them said. His voice was hushed.

The leader, trying not to show his shakiness, put the lamp back on the table. “Go see if anybody heard,” he said. Blood was pouring out of Earl’s forehead and down into his hair.

One of the others went to open the door and listen. The third one said, “I think he’s dead.”

“No,” said the leader, “I didn’t hit him that hard.” His nervousness made him irritable.

“Hold a mirror to his mouth,” the second one said.

“He isn’t dead!” the leader said, more angrily than before.

“I don’t feel any pulse,” the third one said. He released Earl’s wrist, and put a hand on Earl’s chest. “I can’t feel him breathing.”

“He’s in shock,” the leader said,

The second one looked around the room, which was Elizabeth’s bedroom. “Where’s a mirror?”

“Never mind that,” the leader said. His voice was unsteady. “We’ve got other things to do.”

“We don’t need a mirror,” the third one said. He wore glasses, which he took off and held so one lens was just above Earl’s mouth.

The leader went over to look out the window, while the second one came back to see if Earl’s breath would fog the glasses. The glasses stayed clear.

The third one put his glasses back on. “He’s dead,” he said.

The leader stayed looking out the window while the other two gazed at his back, waiting for him to do something. Finally, he gave an angry shrug and turned around, saying, “What the hell was he doing here anyway?”

The second one said, “What do we do now?”

“What do we do now? We wait for the funeral party to get back, what do you think?”

“What about this guy?”

“What about him?”

“We can’t just—He’s dead, for Christ’s sake!” Hysteria hung like fog around the edges of his words.

The leader frowned. Fear and nervousness demonstrated themselves in him as irritation.

“Put him in a closet,” he said finally, and turned around again to glare out the window.

The other two looked at one another. After a moment, they picked Earl up and carried him to the closet and put him inside on the floor. His bloody head smeared several of Elizabeth’s dresses.

iv

WAS THERE TO BE only the one attempt? Wellington was growing increasingly nervous as each stage of the funeral passed with no further trouble. They had come to the church, and James Fanshaw and Joe Holt were both outside and in the proper places, the sign that everything was all right within. The ceremony, twenty-five minutes long, had droned to an end without an interruption, as had the procession from church to cemetery. Near the cemetery entrance, Eugene White and Mortimer Wellington signaled by their presence that here too everything was as it should be.

Beforehand, Wellington had believed the time of the burial would be the most dangerous of all. Bradford would of necessity be out of the car then, the cemetery was rolling open land, a grab here would be extremely difficult to deal with. But the time came, Elizabeth was put in the ground, and nothing happened.

And now the final leg, down the road along the river, through town, back to the house. Three cars of outriders led and flanked the cortege now: the Wellington brothers in one car, Fanshaw and Holt in a second, Eugene White and Mortimer Wellington in the third.

Four blocks from the house, Wellington spoke into his transmitter: “Six.” That was Earl Chatham. “We’re approaching.” That was the signal for Earl to leave the house and walk a block and a half to a certain intersection. His presence there would indicate there was no trouble in the house.

After a moment, the small voice in Wellington’s ear said, “He hasn’t emerged.”

Wellington frowned. Would there really be trouble at the house? He’d assigned that post to Earl Chatham, a willing but ineffectual man, because it was the least likely place for any kind of ambush.

Of course, it could simply be that Chatham’s receiver wasn’t working properly, or that he’d taken it out of his ear for a while because it itched or something. But Wellington wouldn’t take a chance; he waited until he could see ahead to the intersection, see that Chatham wasn’t there, and then he said into the transmitter, “Seven.” That was Albert Bloor, in the first car. “Circle.”

Bloor, three cars ahead, heard and understood the message. He leaned forward and said to the driver, “Go around the block, please.” As he understood it, Wellington had prepared the driver of the lead car for this eventuality; in fact, the driver was one of Wellington’s men. And now that the hearse and flower car were no longer with them, he was at the head of the line.

They did not make the turn they were supposed to make. They kept going straight ahead.

Wellington spoke again into the transmitter: “Three.” Fanshaw and Holt. “Four.” Wellington brothers. “Five.” Eugene White and Mortimer Wellington. “No reaction from Chatham at the house. Check it. Three in the back way, four and five in the front.”

The three automobiles, widely scattered around the general area of the cortege, all turned at once toward Sterling’s house, arriving almost simultaneously. James Fanshaw and Joseph Holt went around to the rear of the house and in through the solarium, while the three Wellingtons and Eugene White went in the front. All were men in their forties and fifties, but all were healthy, fairly active types, only Mortimer Wellington among them being very much overweight.

The three young men in Elizabeth’s bedroom saw the six men arrive, and they didn’t like it. One of them said, “We’d better get out of here.”

The leader was trying to remember about fingerprints; what had he touched, what was the likelihood of being able to wipe every fingerprint away? He said, “We stay here until we get Bradford Lockridge. We need him now more than ever.”

“Why?”

He turned on them, his fear transposing itself into fury. “Because we’re going to need asylum now. We killed that guy; you think they won’t get onto us? We’ve got to get out of this country, and that means China, and that means we need Lockridge. Because if we give them Lockridge they’ll be happy about us, and they’ll give us asylum.”

The second one said, “I don’t want to go to China.”

“It’s better than jail. Better than jail for the rest of your life. We have to hide somewhere. We’ll be able to move around again when the house is crowded.” Then we’ll get Lockridge and get out of here, same as we planned.”

Downstairs, Fanshaw and Holt and White and the three Wellingtons had finished checking out the first floor, and the credentials of the caterer’s men. They then asked the caterer’s men to join them while they looked the house over for a suspected burglar. The caterer’s men, while dressed as waiters, were all burly men, used to carrying heavy cases of food and drink, used to performing occasionally as bouncers. The six family members split up, each taking two of the caterer’s men along, and they proceeded to search the rest of the house, the Wellington brothers taking the basement and the other four going on up to the second floor.

They found all three young men fairly quickly. One tried to plead his way out and was ignored. One tried to run his way out and was caught by the caterer’s men. And the leader tried to bluff and bluster his way out and got his face slapped by Joseph Holt.

They had the three in the upstairs hall when Mortimer Wellington came out of Elizabeth’s bedroom, a drawn look on his round face. He was holding his right hand out away from himself, and it was smeared with reddish-brown. “We’d better call the police,” he said. “They’ve killed Earl.”

v

NEITHER STERLING NOR BRADFORD was told about Earl. The cortege continued to drive around for fifteen minutes, while things were briskly taken care of in the house. The local police came and took away the three young men and the body. They moved with more speed and fewer questions than they might have, except that Wellington’s department had been in touch with their chief; they understood they were involved on the periphery of something hush-hush in connection with national security, but they didn’t know—and didn’t expect to know—exactly what. The last young man, waiting in the motorboat, was not discovered. He stayed where he was until dark when, certain by then that something had gone wrong, he drove the boat across the river and walked up route 14 to Millersburg, where at a gas station he got a lift back south again to Harrisburg. From Harrisburg he took a late bus east to Philadelphia, then the train to New York and another train out to Babylon, Long Island, arriving at ten the next morning. His parents were delighted at the fact of his return home, the change in his appearance, and his newly subdued manner. Two days later he was picked up and transported back to Lancashire to be charged as an accessory in the murder of Earl Chatham.

Once the house had been cleared of the young men and their victim, Eugene White walked out and down a block and a half, standing at the corner until the cortege came by, facing the other way during the passage of the car containing Bradford, nodding to Wellington two cars later, and then going on back to the house.

Wellington said, into the transmitter, “Seven. To the house.”

In the lead car, Albert Bloor leaned forward and said to the driver, “We’ll go to the house now.”

“Yes, sir.”

Five minutes later, the cars were emptying in front of Sterling’s house. The family members went slowly inside, Bradford at all times in the center of a large group, and just inside the door Joseph Holt took Wellington to one side and said, “Three of them were in here. They killed Earl.”

Wellington frowned, truly shocked. “They killed him?”

“Hit him with a lamp. I suppose they were afraid he’d give the alarm.”

Wellington shook his head. “I thought they’d use more professional people,” he said.

“We’ll have to tell Patricia,” Holt said.

Wellington seemed to be thinking about something else. He looked at Holt without really focusing on him, then suddenly seemed to draw himself back in. “You’re right,” he said. “We’ll have to tell several people. But not Bradford. We get him away from here first.”

“It’s a hell of a complication,” Holt said. “Isn’t that a bitch? I should be pitying Earl, and I do, but all I can really think is, it’s a hell of a complication.”

Wellington said, “Bradford doesn’t have to know about it till tomorrow. We can have it covered by then.”

“If we’re lucky.”

“Get to Evelyn,” Wellington said. “Tell her to hurry Bradford along. No need to tell her why.”

Holt nodded, and went away. Wellington went into the parlor where the food and drinks were to be found, and disguised himself with a small plate of turkey and a cup of coffee. He then stood unobtrusively in a corner, watching, unnoticed. The small voice in his ear was talking to him, telling him the current situation, the whereabouts of the body and the seven captured young men, the present legal position, the handling of the problem of the two Chinese agents waiting at the farmhouse, the search for the still-missing eighth Twelfth of July activist. From time to time, shielded by his coffee cup, Wellington’s lips moved, but no sound escaped. He might have been chewing, or talking to himself.

vi

TWO MEN WITH DRAWN guns came in the front door of the farmhouse. One of the Chinese, seeing them, jumped to his feet and ran through the farmhouse toward the rear. As he dashed into the kitchen, two more armed men entered through the back door. He turned in mid-flight, as though to jump through the closed kitchen window, and both men fired. Killed by two bullets in the head, he crashed forward and down into the sink, and flopped backwards onto the floor.

In the living room, the other Chinese rose and held his hands high up over his head. “I am your prisoner,” he said, in carefully enunciated perfect English, as though it were a magic phrase that would change the situation, or remove him to another place, or render him invisible. One of the two men strode up to him, pressed the barrel of the pistol against the left side of his chest, looked coldly into his astonished eyes, and pulled the trigger.

vii

THE FAMILY WAS SORTING itself out. Ten minutes ago, Wellington had seen Bradford leave, in his car, accompanied by Evelyn and Howard. Two other cars had followed him, at an unobtrusive distance; in the first were Robert Pratt and John Bloor, John’s wife Deborah, his cousin Albert Jr., and Albert’s wife Jane, and in the second were Gregory and Audrey Holt, and Thomas Wellington. (No further trouble was assumed, but they were taking no chances.)

Off to the police to make their statements about the death of Earl Chatham—so as to allow the mills of justice to begin to grind without too noticeable a pause for special interests—were four of the group of six that had discovered the body and the young killers: the three Wellingtons, Walter and William and Mortimer, and the psychiatrist James Fanshaw. A man of Wellington’s had already seen the young men, and pointed out to them that any statement about their intention to kidnap Bradford Lockridge would only further complicate their already bleak legal picture, whereas cooperation might eventually, in unspecified ways, redound to their favor.

Still downstairs with Sterling were Elizabeth’s two brothers, Albert and Edward Bloor, and their wives; Edward and Janet Lockridge; and about a dozen wives waiting for their husbands to be finished with family business.

Upstairs, in a sitting room with French provincial sofas, was the new widow, Patricia Chatham. With her were her parents, Harrison and Patricia Lockridge. Marie Holt, who seemed suddenly to be Patricia Chatham’s closest friend, was there at Patricia’s insistence, with her husband George. Meredith Fanshaw, the Senator, was there at Harrison’s insistence. And facing them were Joseph Holt, Eugene White and Wellington.

This had begun as a delicate task, handled jointly by Joe and Wellington: the informing of Patricia Chatham of her husband’s death. It had grown rapidly, had moved upstairs in the process of its growth, and was swiftly altering in tone and purpose. And the change had begun with the elder Patricia, when she had said to Wellington, “I hold you responsible for this.”

Wellington said nothing, it wasn’t the sort of remark to which he would respond, but Joe Holt immediately rose to the bait, saying, “How can you say such a thing? In the first place, the work Wellington did organizing things here today was nothing short of brilliant. And in the second place, every one of us knew there might be trouble. When those fellows jumped out of the car there, they might have been armed, they could have had knives or guns, there was no way for us to tell.”

“We shouldn’t have had to go through this,” the elder Patricia said. She stood behind her daughter, who was sitting on one of the sofas, her face gray with shock. The mother’s hands were on the daughter’s shoulders, the daughter had one hand up to hold her mother’s wrist; the usual cat fighting had ended at once, with the news of Earl’s death.

Eugene White said, “Of course we shouldn’t have had to go through this. Nobody wants to be involved in this situation. But it’s with us, and we—”

“Why?” She looked around, apparently hoping for someone else to join her at the barricades, but her husband Harrison was looking at the carpet between his feet, as were Meredith Fanshaw and George Holt. Marie Holt, sitting beside Patricia Chatham, was limiting her gaze to that Patricia’s face.

The elder Patricia went on at last by herself: “Why do we have to be in this? The man’s crazy, isn’t he? Why can’t we admit he’s crazy, just admit it, and lock him up, the way you would with any other man?”

“Because he isn’t any other man,” Joe said quickly. He sounded shocked by what Patricia was saying.

“Oh, of course not,” she said. “He’s Bradford Lockridge, isn’t he? That’s something special, isn’t it?”

“He’s done a lot for this family,” Joe said.

“He’s done a lot for you, maybe. Turned a third-rate doctor into a world authority, maybe. But what’s he done for us? I’ll tell you what he’s done for us. My brother is dead by his own hand, and Bradford Lockridge is responsible. He killed Herb as much as if he’d pulled a trigger and shot him in the head. And now my son-in-law is dead, and that’s Bradford Lockridge, too. Earl is dead, defending Bradford Lockridge. From whom? From Bradford Lockridge!”

Joe Holt, obviously stung by the third-rate doctor remark, said angrily, “Bradford Lockridge got you that son-in-law in the first place. He got you the dress on your back. If it weren’t for Bradford Lockridge, your husband would have starved to death forty years ago.”

“Bradford Lockridge didn’t get me my brother!”

“If it weren’t for Bradford, your brother would be a hardware store clerk in Eustace, Pennsylvania, right this minute.”

“That’s worse than dead?”

“You seemed to think so when you latched onto Harrison.”

“Latched on? He wasn’t pregnant, you foul-mouthed twerp!”

Eugene White, trying to calm things down a little, said, “Patricia, you and Joe are both getting excited. All he means is that Bradford made it possible for Herbert to have a lot better standard of living than he would—”

“Herbert’s standard of living is lousy right now, thank you.”

Joe said, angrily, “Bradford gave Herbert all the life he ever had!”

“Oh, yes? Bradford Lockridge gives, and Bradford Lockridge takes away? Now he’s God, is that it?”

“He’s been a god in this family!” Joe shouted. “Yes, he gave me a bigger career than I would have had on my own, and he did the same thing for your goddamn brother Herbert, and he did the same thing for Harrison, and he did the same thing for Sterling downstairs, and for George there, and for Howard and Edward and BJ and—”

“BJ, yes, there’s another one. Poor BJ’s in a mental hospital now, and whose fault is that? Is that what we can expect now, Bradford Lockridge gave us all everything we’ve got, and now he’s going to take it all back again?”

Eugene White said, “We hope not, Patricia. There’s no need to—”

“You hope not? Well, let me tell you something—and you, too, Wellington, you especially. This con job you worked on my husband yesterday at that meeting up in Boston—”

Eugene White said, “Con job?”

“Just you listen to me. You did a lot of talk there about how everything had to be decided right away at that meeting, it had to be yes or no, there wasn’t time to go home and think it over. Well, let me tell you something, we have community property in the state of California and Harrison’s agreement doesn’t mean one single thing without me! And I say no! I say I wouldn’t give one penny for that stupid idea, not this year, not every year, not any year! And do you think I’m the only one in the family feels that way? Let him go into a regular mental hospital just like anybody else. Let him go in with BJ!”

Eugene White said, “You’re upset, Patricia, naturally you’re upset. When you’re calmer—”

Marie Holt said, “I’m calm.” And from the sound of her voice, she was.

It got the effect she’d wanted; everyone shut up and looked at her. When she was sure she had everybody’s undivided attention, she said, “And I agree with Patricia. I think my husband was rushed into a decision he shouldn’t have made by himself. This is an annual expenditure from our household budget, and it isn’t going to be cheap, not from the numbers you people were apparently tossing around at that meeting. George and I have talked it over, and we think it was all done too hastily.” George was now absorbed in a study of the carpet between his feet.

“If you want to have another meeting—” Patricia started.

Wellington said, “The agreement has been made. The money is already being spent.”

“Make one of your famous phone calls,” Patricia told him. “Tell them to stop a minute, there’s been a hitch in the plans.”

Eugene White, still trying to be reasonable, said, “We can’t do that, Patricia. The family agreed—”

“Do you think so? What do you think we ladies talked about in the cars going out to the cemetery and back? Casserole recipes? This family is split right down the middle, and don’t you kid yourself about that.”

“If it is,” Joe Holt said angrily, “you did it, you and your daughter.”

The younger Patricia glared at him. “If we’d done it sooner,” she said, her voice raspy, “my husband would still be alive.”

Her mother said, “Don’t think a lot of us haven’t thought about that. Don’t think a lot of those women downstairs won’t start wondering whose husband is next, all to keep Bradford Lockridge out of the insane asylum he belongs in. I hate to be the kind of person who says ‘what have you done for me lately,’ but when I ask Bradford Lockridge that, the answer I get is, ‘I killed your brother and your son-in-law, I drove my son crazy, I made a mockery out of my sister-in-law’s funeral, and I’m going to cost each and every member of my family twenty percent of its annual income for the rest of my life.’ That’s what he’s done for me lately, and that’s what he’s done for everybody in the family lately, and if you think the Russians would be happy to see an American president in the booby hatch, believe me they won’t be half as happy as the Lockridge family!”

Eugene White said, “Patricia, you can’t do this to the family.”

“I can’t? I can and I will. And my daughter will help me. And Marie will help me. And I know half a dozen others who’ll help me.”

Wellington said, quietly, “No.”

As with Marie’s calm statement, this one drew immediate and total attention. But Patricia wouldn’t allow the enemy a pregnant pause; she snapped, “You don’t scare me, Wellington, with your looks and your silences and your cloak and dagger routine. Some of the more impressionable members of the family use you to scare their children to bed in place of the boogie man—‘You be good, or Uncle Wellington will get you!’—but I’m not one of them.”

“I know that,” Wellington said, still quietly, as everyone else looked very embarrassed. “And that’s why,” he said, “I’m going to have to do something just a little melodramatic before saying what I want to say. So I’ll be sure I have your attention.”

“Are you going to dance, Wellington?”

“If you will all go to the windows,” Wellington said, “you will see six automobiles parked in a row across the street.” As they hesitated about moving, he said, “Please go look.”

“A show, Wellington?” Patricia saw the momentum being lost, and didn’t like it.

“A very brief show,” Wellington said. “I promise.”

Reluctantly, the other eight all went over to the three windows and looked out at the street. Wellington, still in the center of the room, said, “The driver of the first car is going to wave to you now. The driver of the second car is going to get out of the car now, and kick the front left tire, and get back into the car. The driver of the third car—”

Meredith Fanshaw had turned from the window. “What the hell are you—”

“Bear with me,” Wellington said. “The driver of the third car will get out, fiddle with the windshield wiper, and get back. What would you like the driver of the fourth car to do?”

No one said anything. They kept looking out the windows.

Wellington said, “Well? What would you like him to do?”

Marie, not turning from the window, said, “Take a bow.”

“Fine,” said Wellington. “He will get out of the car, bow in this direction, and get back in. What about the driver of the fifth car?”

Meredith Fanshaw said, “No. The driver of the sixth car. He should start the engine, back up, and drive around the block.”

Wellington repeated the instructions, and said, “Now, the fifth car.”

Eugene White, in a thoughtful voice, said, “He shouldn’t do a thing.”

“He does nothing,” Wellington agreed.

They all turned to look at him. Patricia, still trying to retain her momentum and mood, said, “All right, it’s cloak and dagger. So what?”

“The men in those six cars,” Wellington said, “were guarding Bradford every inch of the way today.”

Eugene White said, doubtfully, “They’re Secret Service?”

“No. Bradford only has two regularly assigned Secret Service guards. It was thought unnecessary to have them come along today. Unusual, but we wanted to prove a point.”

Meredith Fanshaw said, “What point?”

“That Bradford’s family had the desire, the spirit and the brains to take care of him. Patricia, it all seems simple to you. Bradford is sick, put him in a hospital like any ordinary man. But as several of us keep saying, he isn’t an ordinary man.”

“No,” she said sarcastically, “he’s God. Joe Holt said so.”

“He’s an ex-President,” Wellington said, “which is the fact at issue here. Whether he’s done anything for or to anyone in this room doesn’t matter. He’s an ex-President. And there are offices within the governmental structure which will not permit an ex-President of the United States to publicly enter a mental hospital.”

“What do you mean they won’t permit it?”

“I mean they won’t permit it. I mean they will kill him first.”

Harrison said, “That’s the most inane piece of fiction I ever heard in—”

“It is not,” Wellington told him. “I am potentially getting myself in grave trouble by telling you this. The choice is not between my plan and a public institution, the choice is between my plan and Bradford’s dying peacefully in his sleep before he can cause embarrassment to the country.”

Meredith Fanshaw said, “If that were true, don’t you think I’d know it?”

“No. The elected officials of the Federal government haven’t been aware of more than a quarter of the activity of their government since I first went to Washington, and probably not for a good long while before that. Since the First World War, I would imagine. Did you know the CIA was financing all those youth groups and little magazines, or did you hear about it first in the newspapers, along with everybody else?”

“You’re talking about murder, man!”

“There have been a minimum of ten murders so far in this operation, and there may be more. Done by our side, ordered by me. The Chinese agents we replaced at Eustace, what do you suppose happened to them?”

“I assumed they were arrested.”

“A trial? Publicity?”

Joe Holt said, “Wellington, is this on the level?”

“I’m making you all accomplices,” Wellington told them. “I deal in an area where everything is known, we can never get away with euphemisms and little white lies, and I’m dragging you people in with me because it’s the only way I can think of to save my father’s life. This may be my first selfish act.”

Harrison said, “Nobody could get away with a thing like that. They would have—it would have—murder will out!”

“Will it? Joe, I would have gone to you. I would have explained the alternatives. I would have proved to you, Joe, because it would be true, that an honorable death would be better for Bradford than a shameful public moldering in a mental hospital. And you would have agreed with me, Joe, and when I whispered the word euthanasia in your ear, Joe, you would have hated the word, but you would have done it.”

Joe was shaking his head, saying, “I can’t believe you—”

“If not you, there were other ways. Can a doctor kill a patient without anyone knowing, Joe?”

Joe didn’t answer.

Harrison said, “But now that you’ve told us, it can’t work, can it? They wouldn’t dare kill Brad now, not if you told them about us knowing.”

“They already know it,” Wellington said. “This room is bugged, I always take it for granted I’m talking for the microphone. I can do nothing about it, I just accept it. And it won’t stop them. If they decide Bradford has to die for the good of the nation, they will find ways to assure your silence, all eight of you.”

Patricia, regaining her sarcasm, said, “Kill us all, Wellington? I thought you were done with the melodrama.”

“You won’t have to be killed,” he said. “You’re all sane, you can be reasoned with. Bradford can’t be reasoned with, that’s why killing him is the only official answer. But all of you have things short of your life that you don’t want to lose.”

Meredith Fanshaw said, “Even a Senator?”

Wellington looked at him. “Especially a Senator.”

Patricia said, “Because he has so much to lose? I’m not a Senator, Wellington, I have nothing to lose.”

Wellington’s expression didn’t change. “I mention Stockton,” he said.

The flesh around Patricia’s eyes seemed suddenly paler, her eyes more deepset. She said nothing, and Harrison, frowning at her in perplexity, said, “Stockton? What the hell is Stockton?”

Wellington faced Harrison. “To you,” he said, “I mention the Crocker Citizen’s Bank.”

Harrison blinked, and then stood there with his mouth open.

No one said anything. Wellington studied each of the eight faces, seeing the same fear of him in each, and was both sickened and relieved at that unanimity of expression. He said, “I’ll let you talk it over. I don’t have to be here for your decision, my superior will be listening in. I’ll know what you decide by what orders he gives me. But I would like to say something from a personal point of view. If you force me to kill my father, I will do it, because I long ago gave up the idea that I should have attitudes about the orders I was given to carry out. But through whatever small channels of influence I may have constructed for myself over the last twenty-three years, I will make sure that every one of you regrets it.”

Harrison cried, “You can’t put that kind of responsibility on us!”

Wellington looked at him. “I can’t?” He turned away and left the room. Downstairs, he said goodbye to Sterling, collected his wife and daughter, and started the long drive back to Washington.

10

ON MONDAY, THE TWELFTH of November, Bradford came back from his mid-day walk smiling and cheerful and full of his news. It was a cold day, the coldest of the season so far, sunless and crisp under high clouds, and when Evelyn saw him, in a downstairs parlor, his cheeks were so red, his mood so good, his whole manner so boisterous with health and good spirits, that she felt at once a kind of helpless rage at the fact that the façade was a lie, that beneath the apparent robustness was a crippled mind that would never be whole again.

“Action at last!” he said, in a stage whisper, and took her arm, doing a parody of secretiveness, looking over his shoulder, peering this way and that, touching his finger to his lips.

She had no idea what he was talking about. So far as she knew, things were still as they were. Robert had come back from last Thursday’s meeting in Boston full of the plans for the defense of Bradford at the funeral but vague about any plans for Bradford’s future. Apparently the second meeting had been just as fruitless as the first in producing any solution for this impasse.

So what could the action be? When he was finished with his mock-undercover game, Bradford finally told her: “First stop, Paris!”

“What?” The sentence made no sense to her, and at this stage whatever she didn’t understand was potentially a threat.

“Paris,” he said. He was delighted. The last time he’d looked this pleased was when he’d first told her of his plan to run for his old seat in Congress. And if he hadn’t been argued with then, if he’d been permitted that modest dream, would they all be in this position today? She kept telling herself it would have wound up here anyway, he wouldn’t have settled for such a spear-carrier’s role in world events, but none of them could ever now be sure.

But what was this he was talking about? She said, her voice ragged with tension, “I don’t understand. Bradford, for God’s sake don’t play with me!”

The sharpness in her voice, from a nervousness and fright he didn’t know existed, obviously startled him, and he looked at her in some surprise. “Well, of course, Evelyn.” Then, thinking he understood, he smiled gently and rested a hand on her arm. “I know this is a strain for you,” he said. “Sneaking away like cat burglars, committing ourselves to self-exile in such a completely alien land. But to me it’s an adventure, I can’t help that. I can’t help being excited by it, and that keeps me from feeling the strain.”

She remembered now why she loved him, which cushioned her at once from her own feeling of strain, and she returned his smile, saying, “I know that, Bradford. I’m sorry I was irritable. Tell me what they said.”

“We’re going to Paris,” he told her. “They’ve decided it will be easier for me to slip away if I start from there.”

Paris? She hadn’t been told anything about this. Had the Chinese managed to re-establish contact after all? Was it the Chinese and not Wellington’s men he’d seen today?

No, it couldn’t be, they would surely have told him the truth about her own feelings and how much the family knew and all the attempts to stop him from going. Or would he be playing his own double game now, pretending to be in ignorance so he could get away from them after all?

She had to see Robert, she had to find out what was going on.

Bradford was saying, “Edward’s gone back, hasn’t he?” Meaning Edward Lockridge, Sterling’s son, Howard’s brother, who had come home from his diplomatic post in Paris for Elizabeth’s funeral, where he had seemed a much older and sadder man than the one who had so endlessly and comically subdivided Paris at Carrie Gillespie’s last June.

“I think so,” Evelyn said. “They’d left Eddie, Jr., at Carrie’s place, I think they wanted to get him off her hands as soon as possible.”

“Why didn’t they bring him home for his grandmother’s funeral?”

There is comedy somewhere in any situation, no matter how grim. Straight-faced, Evelyn said, “He refuses to set foot on American soil till we change our foreign policy.”

Bradford snorted. “I can hardly wait to talk to that young man.”

Evelyn said, “Are you sure they want you to go to Paris? Do they speak English very well?”

“Perfectly. Why would they send agents here who didn’t speak the language?”

“Still—” She was trying to understand it, and failing. “Did they say it was tentative?”

“Not at all. Definite. They wanted to know if I could be ready in a week. I told them I could be ready this afternoon.”

“You’ll have to have approval, won’t you? From the State Department or somebody?”

“Approval?” The word seemed to offend him, returned to him that touch of aloof arrogance that was a recent character trait. “They like me to check in with them,” he said, “to keep them informed of my movements, but I wouldn’t exactly call it approval.”

“Still, you should do it this time, shouldn’t you? To keep them from getting suspicious.” And to give somebody an opportunity to keep it from happening. Paris? How could the family protect him in Paris?

“Oh, of course I will,” he said. “I’ll go through all the usual formality. Right up till the moment I disappear.” And he beamed, like a man who knows a wonderful joke.

“That’s good.”

“See, the idea is, I’m taking a winter vacation, a family trip. I’ll be visiting my nephew and my old friend Carrie Gillespie.”

“Your old friend? You hate Carrie.”

Bradford smiled his admission during his denial: “I don’t hate Carrie, I don’t hate any registered voter, never have. She’s a little sloppy for my taste, that’s all.”

“She’s happy,” Evelyn said, and at once regretted it.

But again Bradford put his own interpretation on her words, saying gently, “I know, Evelyn. You’re thinking of Dinah. But you’re right to leave her here, and it doesn’t really have to be forever.”

“I know. That’s all right now, I’m used to that.”

A maid came quietly into the room. “Excuse me. Mr. Lockridge? There’s a reporter on the telephone.”

Bradford frowned. “Did he say what it was about?”

“Yes, sir. He wanted a statement about Mr. Chatham’s death.”

Frown deepening, Bradford shook his head. “Tell him I’ve already made my statement, and that’s it. I have nothing further to say.”

“Yes, sir.” She departed, as quietly.

Grumbling at the interruption, Bradford said, “I’ll talk all day about politics, but not for thirty seconds about murder. Where are they when I have something germane to say about the world around us? I’m no Philo Vance.”

“They’ll listen soon,” Evelyn said, knowing her words were cruel beneath the surface kindness but unable to find anything else to encourage him with.

“Yes, they will,” he said grimly. “Excuse me, Evelyn, I have phone calls to make and letters to write. If we’re going to leave here a week from today, I have to get things organized.”

Was it a game they were playing with him, to keep him content a while longer? It would be like Wellington—who had turned the killing of Earl Chatham into the complication of a burglary done by people who expected the house to be empty during the funeral—to come up with this sort of scheme. Get Bradford excited about Paris for a few days, then start postponing that until he got irritable and impatient again. Then come up with another plan, another definite date, to be followed by another series of postponements.

Why did all these kindnesses have to be so cruel beneath the surface?

She said, “You go on, then. I believe I’ll take a drive.”

“Fine,” he said, already distracted by thought of the preparations to be made.

ii

BY NOW, EVELYN THOUGHT of Robert’s apartment as an extension of her own home, so she didn’t knock on the door, but simply opened it and stepped in, just in time to see Robert pacing across the open middle of the floor, and to hear him say, “. . . tell Evelyn—” before he caught sight of her and abruptly stopped both his pacing and his sentence. He stood flatfooted, looking for just a second bewildered, as though he hadn’t expected her to come to this place.

Tell Evelyn about this Paris business. She took it for granted that was the way the sentence would have ended, and thought no more about it, mostly because her mind was distracted by the other people she now saw in the room.

There were four of them, and they were all looking at her. Two, Howard and Gregory, she’d half-expected to find here, but the other two were a complete surprise. Joe Holt, sitting on one of the wooden chairs over by the kitchen-closet, was looking as grim and troubled as she’d ever seen him. By contrast, Wellington, standing in the far corner, looked even more uninvolved and remote than usual.

It was Joe’s expression that made her leap to the conclusion that Bradford was going to die. The idea entered her mind complete with all its circumstantial evidence intact; Joe’s presence here and his long face, the business about a trip to Paris, even Wellington being here. If Joe had made a new diagnosis, if it seemed to him now that Bradford was going to deteriorate very rapidly and die quite soon, he would want to be the one to tell her about it himself. And if it were true, then why not give Bradford a nonexistent trip to occupy his mind during his last days (One week! Could it be that soon?) And Wellington would be here to see to it that Bradford’s final days passed with no break in the ring of secrecy and security surrounding him.

She was so immediately convinced that her guess was right that she hesitated to ask any questions, wanting to hold off confirmation as long as she possibly could. She backed against the door, to close it and then to help support her (her legs felt strange, uncertain), and she kept looking at Joe because she knew he would be the first to speak.

But he wasn’t. Robert spoke first, coming toward her with one hand out, concern on his face, saying, “Evelyn? What’s the matter?”

He was asking her the question she should be asking him (except that she’d guessed), and the reversal confused her and kept her from saying anything. She merely frowned at him, trying to understand.

He touched her arm. “Are you going to faint?”

“He isn’t going to die?”

Did people look at each other in the background? Robert, still frowning at her, said, “Who? Bradford? Of course not. What gives you the idea Bradford’s going to die?”

“I saw Joe . . . I thought . . .”

Joe at once got to his feet, a contrived smile spreading across his face. “Evelyn, no, not at all.” As he came toward her, the smile seemed to grow more natural. “Bradford’s still the healthiest one of us all. Healthier than you right now, from the look of you. Come sit down.”

She allowed herself to be led to the room’s only comfortable chair, which Howard had hastily vacated. Sitting down in it, she said, “I’m sorry. But this thing about Paris . . .”

From his corner, Wellington said, “That was my fault, Evelyn. I’m sorry. I hoped to find you here and tell you it was going to happen, but you didn’t come down this morning. And there was no safe way to get in touch with you at the estate.”

“I spent the morning with Dinah,” Evelyn said.

“The fact of the matter is,” Joe said, a surprisingly savage undertone of anger in his voice, “Wellington prefers to keep his decisions a secret until they’ve already been acted on. Saves a lot of argument, doesn’t it, Wellington?”

Howard said, heavily, “That won’t do any good, Joe,” while at the same time Wellington was saying, “It frequently does, yes. Saves a great deal of argument. As well as a great deal of agony for the people involved. This time, however . . .” he came forward from the corner toward Evelyn, “. . . the truth is, my habit of secrecy tripped me up. I should have gotten the word to you so you could be prepared for it, and I’m sorry I failed to do so. I take it you didn’t let anything slip.”

“Of course not,” Evelyn said, too impatient with the question even to be irritated by it. “But why tell him he’s going to Paris?”

“Because he is going to Paris,” Wellington said.

“He is? For God’s sake, why?”

“Because,” Wellington said, “he was getting too impatient. He was reaching the point where he was starting to be suspicious of my men. It was absolutely imperative that we give him something to do, to occupy his mind and let him believe some progress was being made.”

“But then what? How long can you keep him in Paris, and what do you do after that?”

“We’ll decide that when we come to it,” Wellington said. Everyone else was looking at Wellington, their expressions absorbed. “For the moment,” Wellington went on, “it gives us more time to try to come up with a more permanent solution. In any case, we couldn’t hold him in Eustace any longer, he was champing at the bit, you’ve seen that yourself.”

“But why Paris? Won’t it be easier for the Chinese to get hold of him there, away from home?”

“On the contrary,” Wellington said. “That was another argument in favor of the move. Here in this country Bradford is a retired former great, put out to pasture, so all we can expect from the government is minimal surveillance and protection for him. But in France, even as a private citizen on a simple vacation trip, he comes under the heading of a distinguished foreign visitor. That, plus the suggestion that there might be an assassination attempt in the works on French soil, and I guarantee you the French government will do a better job of keeping Bradford out of the clutches of the Chinese than the family could ever do at home.”

Evelyn glanced at Robert, but he was still looking at Wellington, his expression intense, as though he were trying to look through the skin and bone down into Wellington’s brain. Evelyn said, “How many of us will be going?”

“Just the two of you,” Wellington said, but she kept looking at Robert, who finally did meet her eyes. He answered her unspoken question with a helpless shake of his head; no, there was nothing to be done about it. But his regretful expression almost made up for it.’

Wellington was saying, “We can’t afford to have Bradford see a familiar face in Paris. We don’t want him questioning anything.”

Robert said, “I might be able to get over for a day or two.”

Wellington frowned at him, strongly disapproving, but then shrugged and said, “I suppose it’s possible. If everyone exercises a good deal of care.”

“In any case,” Robert said, “we have a week before you go.”

“And someone might come up with a better idea before then,” she said.

Was that pessimism he was covering? “Let’s hope so,” he said.

iii

WEDNESDAY NIGHT SHE SAW the light flickering in the woods. It was nearly one o’clock, she was on the way home from Robert’s place, and shortly after she’d passed the gate on the private road she caught a glimpse of the light out of the corner of her eye, far away to the right through the woods.

She stopped the car at once, astonished at the idea of a light off there at this hour, but when she looked for it it was gone. She backed the car slowly, searching for it, and all at once there it was again, so pale and small as to be the reflection of a reflection. Moonlight glinting from a piece of glass? No, it wasn’t that kind of light, it was definitely electric illumination, a light bulb or flashlight.

And now it was gone again, it just winked out. She stayed where she was a minute or two longer, but it was gone for good.

What could it have been? Some guard of Wellington’s, maybe, sparingly using a flashlight to pick his way through the woods. Or perhaps someone from the other side?

She drove on to the house, frowning over the light, and it figured in her dreams after she went to sleep. In the morning, she went down to the stables and took out Jester and went riding off into the area where she’d seen the light, just to see if there was anything there.

The lost town was up this way, in the middle of the woods, the place where she’d brought Robert the first time they’d gone riding together. Now, failing to find anything to explain the light in the area where she thought she’d seen it, she followed an impulse and rode on through the woods toward the site of the town.

She was nearly to it, Jester moving at a comfortable walk through the woods, when a man dressed as a hunter, and with a rifle tucked under his arm, appeared from behind a tree and called, “Excuse me, Miss.”

Evelyn stopped, and frowned at him. He was a stocky man, perhaps forty, with a blue shadow of beard on a heavy jaw. His red hunting cap and red-and-black hunting jacket seemed vaguely frivolous on him. There was no feeling of menace in any way; in fact, she only felt from him the natural irritation of a landowner meeting a trespasser; the reverse of the facts. She said, “What do you want?”

“I’m lost, Miss. Could you—”

“You certainly are. This is private property.” She pointed off to the left. “If you go that way, you’ll come to a dirt road. The public land is on the other side of it.”

Instead of thanking her, or moving off, he looked up and said, “Are you Mrs. Canby?”

She still thought of him as only a trespasser. “Yes, I am.”

“Well, Ma’am, I work for Mr. Lockridge, and the thing—”

“For Bradford Lockridge?” She knew he was lying, of course.

But he said, “No, Ma’am. For Mr. Wellington Lockridge. We’re putting up a little construction back up in here, and—”

“Construction? What kind of construction?”

“I’d rather Mr. Lockridge told you about that, Ma’am.”

“Well, I’ll just see it for myself,” she said, but before she could move he’d grabbed Jester’s reins and was holding them, and for the first time she realized just how cold his eyes were. He said, “My orders are to keep everyone away, Ma’am. If Mr. Lockridge tells me to make an exception in your case, I’ll be happy to let you through.”

“And if I go through anyway?”

“No, Ma’am.”

“What will you do? Shoot me?”

“I think it would be better if you’d talk to Mr. Lockridge first, Ma’am, before doing anything.”

Looking down at him where he was standing beside Jester, holding the reins clasped in one large hand, she believed that he would stop her from going any farther, no matter who she was, no matter what the situation, no matter how extreme his actions had to become. “I’ll talk to him,” she said threateningly. “You can believe I’ll talk to him. Let go of my horse.”

He released the reins at once, and stepped back. “I’m sorry, Ma’am, but I have to do what I’m told.”

A hundred angry answers rose to her mind, but she knew none of them would penetrate that closed cold face of his, so she harshly spun Jester around and rode back to the house.

She didn’t know whether it was all right to use the phones in the house now or not, and at the moment she didn’t care. She was furious, and she wanted to get to Wellington before her fury cooled.

He had given her a phone number where he could usually be reached in Washington, and had told her to expect to have to let it ring for a while. She did, and at last a woman came on, identifying herself only by announcing the last four digits of the number Evelyn had dialed. Evelyn asked for Wellington, was asked to hold on, and waited over three minutes by her watch before Wellington’s voice suddenly said in her ear, “I understand someone was rude to you.”

How did he know about it so soon? But this time his ubiquitousness was itself a source of annoyance and only fired the flames. “He certainly was! And what’s going on up there anyway, what are you doing that you can’t—”

“Are you calling from home?”

“Yes! And I don’t care! To be treated like that on my own property—”

“Evelyn, I understand, and I apologize. My man should have handled it differently. The fact is, we need a more secure base of operations than the one we took over from those other people. You know the ones I mean?”

His circumspection reminded her that she too should be circumspect, which cut at once into her anger. She shouldn’t have used this phone, and that awareness removed the purity of self-righteousness from her rage; she answered only, “Yes, I know who you mean.”

“All right. We’re building something more stable, in a better location. But the people working on it, naturally, aren’t completely in our confidence. That’s why it would be better if you didn’t talk to them. Do you follow me?”

“Yes, I follow you. But if you wanted to avoid that sort of thing, why not tell me about it? Why let me stumble on it, and cause a big scene?”

“Yes, that was a mistake on my part. You have to understand how remote this all is from my usual type of activity. A family situation is naturally more open and—I don’t know how to say it—less professional than what I’m used to. But I tell you what. That man will apologize to you, and as soon as—”

“I don’t want him to apologize to me,” she said, beginning to feel slightly foolish. And honesty made her add, “He already did.”

“Then,” Wellington said, not picking that up and adding to her discomfort, for which she was grateful, “as soon as the site is finished, I’ll take you on a sort of tour of it myself. All right?”

“I don’t want that either,” she said. “I just want to know what’s going on, I want you to start telling us things.”

“But not on the phone,” he said.

“I don’t care how you tell me, just stop acting as though you were the only one involved!”

“Yes, you’re right. I’m sorry, it just never occurred to me you would go riding up in that area at this time of year. And I didn’t think you would be interested in a simple change of site.”

Everything he said was so reasonable; she felt the solid ground slipping out from under her, and she struggled to retain it. “I saw a light last night,” she said. “In the woods. So I went investigating this morning.”

“Without saying anything to me?”

Baffled, she said nothing for a few seconds, then: “What?”

“You knew I had people in that general area. If you’d asked me about the light, if you’d told me about your plan to investigate, I would naturally have told you about the construction right away.”

She didn’t believe that, but she let it go, saying instead, “Why build anything anyway? We’re going to Paris.”

“Not permanently,” he said. “Besides, it was started before that decision was made. It was begun last Friday, actually, while you and Bradford were away at Elizabeth’s funeral. That was when the demolition was done.”

“Demolition?”

“The easiest way to dig a hole,” he said, “is with explosive. We took advantage of Bradford’s absence to do it the easy way.”

The thought entered her mind that Wellington was making a profit somewhere. It suddenly seemed to her that he was doing a lot of unnecessary fancy-work around the fringes of this thing, and why would he do it unless there was some way he was fudging money out of the government? Took advantage of Bradford’s absence, did he? And maybe he was taking advantage of the whole situation. Disliking Wellington as much as she did, it was easy to attribute that kind of motivation to him. Building a complicated underground base of operations at the same time the man they’re supposed to be watching is going to leave in five days.

“Thank you, Wellington,” she said coldly. “Thank you for the explanation.” And hung up.

iv

THE ONLY TIMES SHE felt real these days were when she was naked in Robert’s apartment. It was strange, that difference in her, strange and delightful. Though she’d never been exactly a prude with Fred, it was true that the intervals she’d spent wearing absolutely nothing during their marriage had been almost nil. She’d worn nightgowns to bed, and though she might sometimes have been nude during sex, she had always put on either the nightgown again or a robe immediately afterward.

But now it was different, astonishingly so. She loved going without clothes in Robert’s apartment, padding around the room or standing at the kitchen-closet to make coffee or just lying on the bed. Sex was a large part of it, of course, her avidity for his body was still getting stronger all the time, was enough now to make her smile suddenly and at odd moments when they were miles apart, was enough to make her much less inhibited and more inventive in bed than she’d ever been before—they had done together so far two things she had previously never done with anyone—but that wasn’t all the reason. There was also a feeling of freedom that came with stripping away her clothing, as though the garments were symbols of the morass of responsibility in which she was mired; without them, she could pretend for a while to be nothing but a female body, desirable and desiring, and that she was someone for whom it was all right to think only of pleasure.

That moment, late at night, when it was necessary for her to get ready for the ten-minute drive back to Eustace, back to the place that was no longer home, was always a bad one, and it seemed at times she was just as bothered by the necessity to get dressed, to blanket herself in weighted layers of cloth, as she was by the prospect of leaving Robert, though of course the two regrets were so entwined it was impossible to tell them apart.

As for Robert, as the week went by leading to the Paris trip, he grew more and more silent, more and more withdrawn. And yet it wasn’t as though he didn’t care about her; he was, if anything, more tender and passionate than before, but he seemed to have to struggle to push those emotions to the surface, as though he was suffering an emotional weariness against which he had to fight at all times. But she could understand that; she would be able to understand any reaction to their situation by now, five weeks since Bradford had first told her his plan to go to Red China. She took what warmth she could from Robert, and didn’t blame him that it wasn’t more.

Sunday night was very bad. The next morning, she and Bradford would drive to Hagerstown, would fly from there to Dulles International Airport in Washington, and from there would take a commercial flight to Paris. How long they would be gone she didn’t know, nor how long till she would see Robert again, nor where she and Bradford would travel from Paris, nor where or when their voyaging could ever finish. She needed Robert more tonight than she’d ever needed him before, and yet tonight he was at his most withdrawn. He didn’t want to talk, it almost seemed as though he couldn’t talk, that he was only capable of holding her, his arms tight around her as though in a wordless attempt to keep her from leaving. She needed words tonight, needed reassurance, but had to settle for this passionate aching silence.

She left at two in the morning, weighed down by her coat and all the clothing beneath it, Robert’s silence still nagging in her ears, and when she got into her car out front she wanted to turn it the opposite way from Eustace and just drive and drive until she passed through some force or field or barrier and became someone entirely different, someone who didn’t have all of this responsibility. Instead of which, she started the engine and set out on the well-worn track toward home.

There were two traffic lights along her route through Chambersburg, and tonight she caught the second one red. Just as it was about to turn green again, the passenger door of the Mustang opened and a man slipped into the seat beside her.

For a second she was too stunned to know what to do, and she was just reacting to the fact that he was Oriental when he said, in slightly British-accented English, “Drive on, please. Don’t be alarmed, I’m on your side.” And he gave her a smile he no doubt meant to be reassuring.

Which, in an odd way, it was. He was a slightly stocky man, middle-aged, his coarse black hair worn straight and long. He was wearing a black topcoat, and under it she could glimpse a dark suit, white shirt and narrow dark tie. The mildness of his manner and the civilized discretion of his clothing were also reassuring, but the most reassuring was his having said, “I’m on your side.” So he was one of Wellington’s men. She nodded, faced front, and pressed the accelerator. The Mustang traveled under the green light and on down the empty street.

There were now automobile headlights in the rearview mirror, about a block back. There had been none before.

The man said, “I have a message for your grandfather. It is very important. He trusts you, so we trust you.”

Fortunately, the physical tasks of driving the car helped to obscure her reaction when she understood the implications of what he’d said. He was not one of Wellington’s men!

She didn’t look at him. She kept facing front, kept driving. The headlights stayed a block back.

The man said, “The people your grandfather has been in contact with for almost three weeks are not from the People’s Republic. Certain members of your family, highly placed in government, have learned of your grandfather’s intention to visit the People’s Republic, and they are determined at all costs to stop him.”

Afraid of the trembling she heard in her voice, Evelyn said, “Are you sure?” She still faced front.

“Our people were murdered,” the man said. “The ones who were in contact with your grandfather. Renegade Vietnamese have taken their place. And now I must tell you something I regret the need to say. The man you are visiting, Robert Pratt, is not true to you. He is actually in the pay of the people who are determined to thwart your grandfather. They have hired him to make love to you and gain your confidence, in order to learn your grandfather’s plans through you.”

Now she did risk a quick glance at him, saw that he was showing the mild concern natural to a man bringing a stranger bad news, and faced front again. They had decided she was the family’s dupe, it hadn’t occurred to them she would be on the family’s side.

But how should she react to this news about Robert? If she were a dupe, wouldn’t she have to deny it? She said, “That isn’t true. Robert and I are in love.”

“It may be,” the man said gently, “that he truly believes he is acting in your best interests. Whatever the case, we have proof he is in league with those who would stop at nothing to keep your grandfather from visiting the People’s Republic. You must believe me, your grandfather’s very life may hang in the balance.”

When she looked at him now, the agitation she showed was genuine. “His life? What do you mean?”

“I mean that the President of the United States has approved the assassination of your grandfather as a last resort, rather than permit him to embarrass your nation by visiting mine.”

“But they wouldn’t—”

“They have. Please communicate this message to your grandfather, and let him decide for himself whether or not to trust it. This plan to travel to Paris is very dangerous. There is strong reason to believe they intend to murder your grandfather in the course of the journey.”

Could that be true? Wellington’s face, closed and inaccessible, appeared before her. She touched the brakes without thinking, and turned a pleading look on the man beside her. “Is that true? Are you just trying to scare us, or is it true?”

“I am sorry to say it is true,” he said. “And now I had best depart from you. If you will stop along the road here—”

She thought for a flickering instant of accelerating, driving him to some police station, or back to Robert, somewhere, and have men force him to tell whether or not it was the truth. But it was impossible—the headlights still swam in the rearview mirror—so she braked to a stop, and the man smilingly wished her good night before stepping out of the car.

v

SITTING IN THE CAR, well back in darkness, Evelyn gnawed the knuckle of her left thumb and watched the brightly-lit phone booth in front of the closed gas station across the way. All around her, the town of McConnellsburg, twenty-two miles west of Chambersburg, was dark and silent.

She had continued to drive toward Eustace after the Chinese had gotten out, but when she was sure she wasn’t being followed she’d gone on through Eustace to Metal and had then taken the back roads down to McConnellsburg, where she’d finally found a phone booth. She’d called Robert and told him where she was, and he’d promised to be there in twenty minutes.

It was twenty-five minutes before she saw the headlights coming from the right. She pressed back against the seat, and at the same time reached out her right hand to the ignition key, ready to start the engine and get out of here if anything had gone wrong.

She recognized the Jaguar when it pulled to a stop beside the phone booth, recognized the shape of Robert when he climbed from the car. He was alone, and he didn’t seem to have been followed. Nevertheless, she waited. It no longer seemed possible to trust anyone, and she waited.

Robert walked around the phone booth, looking this way and that, and then just stood there, obviously baffled. Evelyn watched him, no one else appeared, and finally she flicked her headlights on and off, just once. His head turned at the flash of light, and after a second he came across the road toward her, moving cautiously and looking constantly to left and right. So he, too, was mistrustful.

He was almost on top of the car before he recognized her through the windshield, and then he came quickly around and slid into the passenger seat, the interior lights clicking on when he opened the door and then off when he’d shut it again.

In darkness, he said, “What is it? What’s the matter?”

Her voice a monotone, she said, “A Chinese agent got into the car after I left you. While I was stopped at a traffic light. He told me about the Vietnamese taking over from his own people, he told me about the family trying to stop Bradford. He thought I was on Bradford’s side, and he told me you’d been assigned to make love to me just to find out what was going on.”

Robert laughed, and said, “That’s lucky.”

“Yes, it is. He also said the President had authorized Bradford’s murder as a last resort, to keep him from going to China.”

Robert was silent, and then, cautiously, he said, “How could he even know a thing like that? Even if it was true, and I’m sure it isn’t, how could a Chinese agent find out about it? He was just trying to scare you.”

“Why?”

“To keep you in line. I don’t know, to make you think it was more urgent to help Bradford get out of the country.”

“But we are helping him get out of the country.”

“You know what I mean. What’s the matter, Evelyn?”

“He said they’re going to kill him on the trip.”

“Who? Bradford?”

“Yes, of course.”

“But that’s ridiculous!”

“It is not ridiculous. You’ve seen Wellington, you know what he’s like. Can you imagine what his superiors must be like? They would kill him!”

“They couldn’t get away with it,” Robert said. “There’s too many of us involved in this thing, it would have to come out, it would have to be the hugest scandal that ever was.”

“If it looked like an accident? If the plane crashed, or something like that?”

That stopped him for a second, but then he said, “No. It isn’t going to happen. I absolutely promise you, nothing like that is going to happen.”

“How can you promise me? How can you know for sure?”

He said, “Because I’m going to call Wellington. He gave me a number where I can reach him, and I will, and I’ll tell him what happened to you tonight, and I’ll tell him that if any harm comes to you, anything at all, nothing on this earth will save him from me.”

“Robert—”

But his arms had come around her, and he was saying, “Don’t you know how much I love you? Don’t you know the difference you’ve made? You’ve brought me back to life! Nothing is going to happen, I swear it!”

She closed her eyes. She believed him.

ii

WHEN THE SMALL PLANE actually made the trip from Hagerstown to Washington without incident, Evelyn at last began to relax, and to admit to herself that her belief in Robert last night had been only a tentative sketching-in of trust and confidence. Robert could be honest and passionate, but was the decision his as to whether or not Bradford would live or die?

But Dulles International Airport did appear beneath the right wing, and the landing was smooth and untroubled, and Evelyn found herself actually smiling. Because this plane had only carried four people—herself, Bradford, pilot, co-pilot—whereas the airliner to France would carry perhaps two hundred, so if an accident were to be arranged surely it would have taken place on the first flight.

There were both advantages and disadvantages to traveling as a VIP. The chief advantage was that one never had to stand on line or go through the sausage-machine processing inflicted on the majority of travelers. The disadvantage was that one couldn’t really strike off on one’s own, but had to accept all the well-meant attention and courtesies and special treatment dished out along the way. Including, this time, a special limousine to take them and their luggage directly across the tarmac to the airliner, which had just started loading, so there was no chance for Evelyn to get to a phone and call Robert, as she suddenly wanted to do.

One top deck section near the front of the plane had been curtained off so they would be able to travel in privacy. Having avoided going through the terminal, and having boarded via the crew’s ramp at the front, they were seen by virtually none of the other passengers.

Bradford showed his pleasure constantly, in the way he moved and the way he looked around and the way he joked with the stewardesses who kept finding reasons to come into this section. Watching him, Evelyn remembered the nervousness and irritability and weariness that had been growing in him more and more during the two weeks when Wellington’s men had been giving him one excuse after another for inaction, and she was both pleased now at how much better he was obviously feeling and at the same time saddened by the knowledge of the lie on which he was basing his hopes.

Dulles, still the only under-utilized major airport on the Eastern Seaboard, almost never had delays, either coming or going. The huge plane lifted exactly on schedule: 8:10 P.M.

The flight was a dream of escape, a black cotton nighttime flight over an impenetrable darkness of ocean below, all of reality narrowed down to this one projectile hurtling eastward. Bradford, perhaps finally feeling that he was a man possessed of a future, was apparently open again to thoughts of the past, and spent much of the trip telling Evelyn anecdotes from his political career, many of which she’d never heard before. Two or three stewardesses frequently swelled his audience, and he grew more and more expansive. He was clearly having the time of his life.

But as the hour grew later, his ebullience lessened, a slight thickness came into his speech, and gradually he came to an end of his stories. The last half hour of the flight he napped, while stewardesses tiptoed by outside the curtain.

As for Evelyn, her apprehensions about the trip had washed away as the plane had lifted into the night sky, and now she found herself wondering if Wellington had any idea of the psychological advantages of this scheme. To get away from the stifling atmosphere of Eustace, the subterfuges, the invisible walls, the feeling of being forever locked in the same small tight maze; it was all rebuilding Evelyn’s spirit just as much as Bradford’s. And it didn’t matter that in reality they were carrying the invisible walls with them, the same subterfuges, the same maze. There was a feeling of escape, and for a little while that feeling would be enough, and when the weight did begin to bear down on her once again, as she knew it would, she’d be refreshed, she’d have had at least a small vacation.

According to her watch it was one in the morning when the plane spiraled down over Paris toward Orly, but in Paris it was already tomorrow, seven o’clock, a cloudy sky graying reluctantly into morning.

The VIP treatment continued here, where once again they by-passed the normal terminal, being taken to a special small lounge to wait for their luggage. Two or three Frenchmen, connected with the airline or the government (Evelyn never got it straight which), stopped in to say a few words and welcome them to France. Or perhaps to Paris. Or perhaps merely to Orly. In any event, Bradford thanked them, and they left, and now they were once more alone.

Bradford was sitting on a strikingly red sofa, against which he looked very tired. “I’m ready for a long soak in a tub,” he said, and folded his hands over his stomach, fingers intertwined. It was a gesture she’d almost never seen him use, only at his most exhausted, and it made him look very old.

A side door opened, and a man in a blue-gray uniform appeared, giving a two-finger salute to his cap. “Mrs. Evelyn Canby?” The French accent was almost nonexistent.

“Yes?”

“You are wanted on the telephone. In here.”

Carrie? No, more likely Edward. “Thank you,” she said, and he stepped to one side to let her through.

This room was smaller, an office dominated by a gray metal desk. She went over to pick up the telephone, and behind her the gray-uniformed man closed the connecting door. She turned in surprise, and he gave her another finger-to-cap salute and went diagonally across the small room and out the corridor door.

She picked up the telephone, frowning at the closed connecting door, troubled at being separated from Bradford even at a time and place like this. She would tell whichever it was, Carrie or Edward, to hold on while she went over and re-opened the door. “Hello?”

“Evelyn?” The voice was Wellington’s, and totally unexpected. “A situation has come up,” he said. “Are you there?”

Still standing, she half-turned toward the desk, holding the receiver to her face with both hands. “Yes, of course. What’s the matter?”

“Eddie, Jr. You know the organization he belongs to?”

“I know he belongs to something or other, but I don’t know—”

“Maoist. The Chinese have gotten to him, he’s told them our plans, he got everything from his father.”

“How could he do such a—”

“The best motives in the world,” Wellington said drily. “All the worst things are done for the best motives, I could tell you a lot about that. The point is, we have to change our plans. Don’t be surprised by the things that happen. Are you still there?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I can’t say too much on the phone. And neither can you, with Bradford right there.”

She turned her head quickly, and looked at the closed door. “Wait,” she said.

“Evelyn!”

“I’ll be back!”

She dropped the receiver to the desk, and ran to the connecting door. She pulled it open, and stepped through, and the room was empty.

ii

SHE TURNED BACK, STUNNED, not knowing how to say the words to Wellington, and the office door opened and two Chinese men came in. While the one went to the desk, picked up the phone, listened for just a second and then cradled the receiver, the other came toward her, holding up a brown cloth coat and saying, “Mrs. Canby, there is no time to waste.”

Scream? They were coming toward her, their faces impersonal, businesslike. They had taken Bradford away.

She still didn’t know whether or not she would scream—only a few mind-shattering seconds had gone by—when she saw another man in the corridor doorway. This one was Caucasian, elderly, with a thick black moustache and hornrimmed glasses. He wore a black homburg, a shabby black overcoat, and carried a worn brown briefcase of an old-fashioned kind. She was going to say something to him—ask him where Bradford was, or scream for help, or demand an explanation—when he said, with Bradford’s voice, “Come along, Evelyn, take off your coat.”

“Bradford?” She stared at him, not believing the transformation, while the two men efficiently helped her off with her own coat and put the brown cloth one on in its place. He was so totally different, but very little had been done to him: a moustache quickly glued in place, a pair of glasses, a change of coat, the addition of the hat and briefcase. But the touches were just right, just enough to change the personality, the appearance, everything. He looked somehow shorter than Bradford Lockridge, and dumpier.

They had the coat on her, and now one of them brought forth a pair of glasses, a soft brown felt hat, and a camera in its case with a long thong. “If you please, Mrs. Canby,” he said, like a hairdresser wanting her to turn her head. “They are clear lenses,” he said, holding the glasses out to her, and she took them from him and put them on. He nodded without smiling, put the camera strap over her head, and let the camera dangle at her waist. Then he handed her the hat, saying, “If you will put this on, please.”

It was difficult without a mirror, particularly because her hands were shaking and her mind was alive with questions, but she did get the hat on one way or another, and then the Chinese said, “That’s very good. This way, please.”

They walked down the deserted corridor, following the two Orientals, and Bradford said under his breath, “Damn clever, these Chinese. Eh?” He was no longer tired, and under the strange bushy moustache his mouth was fixed in a broad happy smile.

Ahead was the open main terminal floor. Evelyn considered a dozen different things she might do when they got there—it didn’t matter now if she exposed the truth about herself to Bradford, if it resulted in rescuing him—but as the crowded terminal came closer she suddenly remembered one of the things Wellington had said to her on the phone just now: “Don’t be surprised by the things that happen.”

Were those two Chinese? She stared at the backs of their heads, she thought back to the appearance of the Chinese agent who’d talked to her last night in Pennsylvania. But how could one tell? She was sure there were physical types in different Asian countries, just as there were in different European countries, but she didn’t know what they were. Perhaps someone from China would be able to tell just by looking at them whether these two were Chinese or Vietnamese, but Evelyn couldn’t.

She had to make a guess, and she didn’t know which way to go. “Don’t be surprised by the things that happen.” If she shouted for help now, would she be ruining a scheme of Wellington’s? She remembered how the Chinese agent in the private road late one night had turned out to be one of Wellington’s men, how Robert and Howard’s discovery of the Chinese base of operations had turned up a secret operation of Wellington’s, how she’d stumbled on Wellington’s construction site, how even this trip to Paris had been kept from her by Wellington until after she’d already heard about it from Bradford.

But if she guessed wrong, she and Bradford could wind up in Communist China.

Would it be safer, then, to sound the alarm, to take the chance on being wrong rather than permit the Chinese actually to get their hands on Bradford? But that way Bradford would find out what was going on, and this was far too public a place to keep him from making the sort of general announcement that was just exactly the kind of thing they were trying to avoid, the effect of which, for all intents and purposes, would be just the same as if he had gone to Red China.

“Don’t be surprised by the things that happen.” Could she count on that? If only Wellington weren’t so compulsively secretive!

The terminal floor. The Chinese—Vietnamese?—led the way, keeping a bit ahead so they weren’t obviously a group of four. Hundreds of people swirled and swarmed around them, all intent on their own concerns; she and Bradford might as well have been alone on a basketball court. Snatches of a dozen languages came to her ears, and the bits and pieces of English in the stew were the parts that sounded strange.

A young Frenchman in a black turtleneck sweater bumped into Evelyn, murmured a quick apology, moved on.

Ahead, the Chinese stopped, turned around. Bradford and Evelyn joined them, and one of them took a long flat envelope from his pocket. “Here are new passports,” he said, “and tickets for the fight to Stockholm. You will be met at the terminal there.”

Bradford took the envelope. “Thank you. You won’t be coming with us?”

“No.” A politely wistful smile. “We are most pleased to have met you, but we must leave you now. You will see that your flight does not leave for two hours, you will have plenty of time for a pleasant breakfast. Bon appetit.”

“Join us,” Bradford said.

“You will attract less attention without Oriental companions.”

Hands were shaken all around—Evelyn numbly joined the ceremony—and the two men started off. Bradford was opening the envelope. One of the two men, as they moved past her to go back the way they’d come, murmured to her, “Everything is all right.” And then they were gone.

iii

HOW COULD THEY GET away with it? One of the most famous men on earth, walking amid a crowd, having breakfast in a public restaurant, being recognized by no one. The glasses and the moustache were almost no disguise at all, once you knew who it was you could see Bradford’s face clearly behind them, but for some reason they were just enough. That, and the fact that no one would expect Bradford Lockridge behind glasses and a moustache, no one would expect Bradford Lockridge eating a meal in a crowded airport restaurant, no one would expect Bradford Lockridge, seedily dressed and carrying a shabby briefcase, walking untended across an airport terminal floor.

The absence of VIP treatment was in itself almost as much a disguise as the clothing and glasses and moustache. He can’t be anybody special, nobody’s treating him special.

But even so, even if casual passersby didn’t realize they were in the presence of Bradford Lockridge, surely by now some sort of official search was under way. Bradford had to have been missed, people had to be looking for him. Or did they take it for granted he’d already been spirited out of the terminal, was the boldness of this move—altering his appearance very slightly and leaving him to roam at will within the terminal—enough to confound pursuit?

Or did the lack of pursuit mean that Wellington was behind this after all, and not the Chinese?

The one Oriental had said, “Everything is all right,” as they were leaving, and ever since she’d been trying to decide if that meant he was an agent of Wellington’s contacting her or simply the Chinese agent he appeared to be, reassuring her.

It was easier so far to do nothing. In any event, their next destination was not Peking, but only Stockholm. There was time to consider the circumstantial evidence in favor of this being Wellington-inspired—the lack of pursuit, what the Oriental had said before leaving, what Wellington had said on the phone, and his pattern of overly compulsive secrecy—and in Stockholm she would either act or decide definitely to go along.

In the meantime, they had absolutely no trouble with the papers given them by the Orientals. They boarded the Swedish airliner only fifteen minutes after it was due to take off and waited less than half an hour beyond that before it taxied down the final runway and lifted into the afternoon sky.

How different this flight was. No special compartment to themselves, no hovering stewardesses, no separate entrance. Not even privacy; they were seated three abreast, with a stocky German woman in the window seat. Bradford was in the middle, and Evelyn was on the aisle.

The German woman spent most of the trip digging into an enormous carpetbag on her lap, bringing out packages wrapped in white tissue paper, endlessly unwrapping them to reveal one bit of junk souvenir gimmickry after another, then endlessly re-wrapping and replacing in the carpetbag and bringing out yet another. The constant rustle and motion didn’t seem to bother Bradford, who slept the entire flight away, his earlier tiredness having returned, reinforced by the heavy breakfast he’d eaten at Orly. Evelyn was too nervous to sleep, even if the rustling of tissue paper didn’t make her tense and irritable, which it did.

There was no trouble with the fake passports at the Stockholm end, either. And the two nondescript suitcases that went with the claimchecks the Orientals had given them contained only clothing, none of it of particularly good quality.

Their names were different on the passports this time. (Another point for Wellington being behind it, rather than China?) No longer Ann Thornton and Marshall Allan, journalists, they were now father and daughter, Richard and Clara Curtis, Bradford’s occupation given as ‘businessman’, her own as ‘teacher’. Their ages had been altered, Bradford’s to fifty-nine, Evelyn’s to thirty-four. It pleased her that twelve years could be subtracted from Bradford’s age without exciting comment, but troubled her that seven years could be added to her own. Though part of that would be possible because of the clothing she was wearing, this coat and hat, and another part would be the result of the strain she was under. But normally she didn’t look thirty-four, did she? It was a silly thing to worry about, under the circumstances, but she couldn’t help it.

Eleven A.M. in Stockholm, a sunless day in the middle of November. The cloth coat wasn’t warm enough as she walked across the windy open tarmac from plane to terminal, but inside it was warm, almost too warm, and she suddenly realized how tired she was. She’d lost a night somewhere. The clocks here said eleven, but according to her body clock, still attuned to the time at home, it was five o’clock in the morning and she hadn’t been to bed yet.

Exhaustion now hit her like the effects of a drug. She went through customs in a haze, and when at last she and Bradford stood together, their luggage on the floor beside them, in the terminal waiting room, all she wanted from life was the chance to lie down somewhere and sleep.

Bradford, who had slept the two hours of the flight up, plus the last half hour of the flight to Paris, seemed rested and ready to go now, looking around, saying, “I wonder what’s supposed to happen next?”

Evelyn didn’t know, and at the moment she couldn’t care. She knew she should try to think, make a decision, come up with some action she could take, but she was just incapable of anything, neither thought nor action. She could only stand there as though she’d been clubbed.

A man in a black chauffeur’s uniform approached, and touched his hat-brim with a two-finger salute, like the gray-uniformed man in Paris. Evelyn struggled to be awake, alert, ready to respond to danger. The man said, “Mr. Curtis?”

Evelyn was thinking, no, that’s somebody else, when Bradford said, “That’s right,” and then she remembered the new names on their passports. She was Clara Curtis now, and Bradford was Richard Curtis.

The man in the chauffeur’s uniform handed over an envelope, flat and white, legal size. “I was asked to give you this, sir.”

“Thank you.”

The man left, and Bradford smiled sidelong at Evelyn. “All very mysterious,” he said. He opened the envelope, studied the contents, and said, “Well, it seems we’re going to Denmark.”

“Denmark?” Anything would have been incomprehensible to her, in her current condition; Denmark was doubly incomprehensible.

“Yes, we’re taking a flight to Copenhagen that leaves at one fifty-five.”

“One fifty-five? That’s three hours from now!”

“They’re giving us time for lunch,” he said, obviously pleased, then suddenly frowned at her. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m tired,” she said, feeling stupid and cranky. “I haven’t had any sleep, and I’m tired. I don’t want lunch, I want to go to bed.”

“Didn’t you sleep on the plane?”

The vision of the tissue-paper German woman rose in her head, but she knew that had only been a peripheral problem, that the main thing had been her continuing tension, so all she said was, “No, I haven’t managed to sleep at all.”

“Well, let’s see if we can find you a room where you can rest a while. I’ll send someone for the terminal manager—”

She put a hand on his arm as he was turning away, smiled at him and said, “You can’t do that. We aren’t VIPs now, remember?”

“Oh.” Frowning, he considered the situation. “I’m afraid I don’t really know how to operate at this level.”

“I’ll be all right,” she said. “We’ll have some lunch, and I’ll feel better. Coffee, anyway.”

Relieved, he said, “Of course. That’ll set you up. Come along, let’s see what sort of dining arrangements they have for us common people.”

iv

IT WAS BECOMING A nightmare, without even the blessing of sleep. First the flight east to Paris, the sudden change of plans, the shift to new identities and the shifting uncertain identities of the people suddenly in charge of them. And ever since, long pauses and apparently pointless traveling. The delay in Paris while they ate ‘breakfast’ though her body insisted it was only one o’clock in the morning and time not for meals but for sleep. Then the flight north to Stockholm, apparently unguarded and unsupervised, and the man in the chauffeur’s uniform, and the tickets to Copenhagen. As though they were on some sort of insane global scavenger hunt, following the clues toward . . .

Toward what? Toward some destination and purpose of Wellington’s, or toward Peking?

Lunch in Stockholm, a heavy meal that lay undigested in her stomach for hours afterward. She craved sleep, but she was afraid to go to sleep in the terminal—even if a place could be found for a non-VIP—for fear she would wake up and find Bradford gone again, this time for good.

But she couldn’t seem to sleep in any of the planes. Bradford took cat-naps or longer snoozes during the flights, but Evelyn’s nerves seemed rubbed raw the entire time she was aboard an airplane, German woman or not.

The time in Copenhagen, when they arrived, was three-thirty in the afternoon. Evelyn, out of a morbid desire to know just how badly she was faring, had set her watch back to Eastern Standard Time, and it was now nine-thirty in the morning, and she still hadn’t slept.

The contact at the Copenhagen terminal was a young lady dressed as a stewardess, though it was impossible to tell what airline she was supposed to represent. She handed over the inevitable envelope to Bradford with a plastic stewardessy smile—Evelyn bitterly resented the smile; it made her feel old—and this time the tickets were for an Icelandic Airlines flight to Reykjavik. In Iceland. Leaving at quarter past five, meaning another delay, this one of almost two hours.

There was no possible meal to eat during this layover, not by anybody’s watch. Bradford found some English-language newspapers and magazines for sale, laid in a supply, and the two of them sat down together unobtrusively on a bench. And now at last Evelyn did get some sleep, fitful and troubled, with her head on Bradford’s shoulder.

They were traveling, it seemed, in every possible direction. East from Washington to Paris, then north from Paris to Stockholm, then south again from Stockholm to Copenhagen, and now west from Copenhagen to Reykjavik. Was there a purpose for all this? And if there was, was it Wellington’s purpose or Peking’s?

The flight to Reykjavik took three hours. She had no idea how many time zones they were re-crossing now, she only knew that the short winter period of day was already ended this far north, and that when they circled down over Iceland her watch read shortly after 2:00 P.M. Which meant it was probably five or six o’clock here, and already night.

Because of the nap she’d managed to take in the Copenhagen terminal, it now belatedly became possible for her to think about her situation and to realize what she should have done. Either in Stockholm or Copenhagen she should have slipped away from Bradford—briefly, the risk would have been worth it—and phoned Edward Lockridge in Paris, telling him where she was and what she knew of the situation, and asking him to pass the word on to Wellington, just in case all of this was not his doing.

But it had to be his doing, didn’t it? She went over and over the meager evidence she had, clutching at straws because straws were the only things available to her, and the plane circled down over Iceland in darkness.

She would make the phone call from here, from Reykjavik. Surely there would be another delay, before yet another flight. Where to this time, Shannon, Ireland? Lisbon? Labrador? Wherever it would be, she’d call Edward from here and tell him about it, and at the next stop Wellington could either manage to confirm that this was another of his operations or—if it wasn’t (she prayed it was)—he could arrange for their rescue.

Except that it didn’t work that way. They got off the plane, into bitter cold, and walked with the rest of the passengers toward the brightly lit terminal building. But suddenly a man in some sort of brown military overcoat, brown leather boots, brown officer’s hat, stepped forward with the by-now-familiar two finger salute to hat brim and said, “Mr. Curtis? Miss Curtis?”

Evelyn would have said no again, though this time she knew who was meant, but Bradford said, “Yes?”

“This way, please.”

A jeeplike vehicle was parked nearby. That is, the front looked like a jeep, but the vehicle was larger, enclosed, and had four doors. It was to this that the man in the brown uniform led them; he held the door open while they got into the back seat, and shut it again behind them.

Evelyn moved in a state of helplessness and fear. It would do no good to shout now, to try for rescue; the wind was blowing, the other passengers were already moving away, there was a great feeling of emptiness and silence all around them. If these were not Wellington’s people—oh, let them be!—they didn’t yet know she was opposed to them. She should remain silent, and hope for a better opportunity.

The brown-uniformed man slid behind the wheel and drove them out around the tail of the plane they’d just debarked from and off across an expanse of open concrete. Lights defining the borders of runways and taxiways made an abstract pattern all around, and in their episodic glow she could see low mounds of snow that had been cleared away to the sides.

A plane was ahead, a medium-sized two-engine jet. She recognized it as the sort of plane owned by large American corporations, a business jet with a speed and range only slightly under those of the large commercial airliners. This one was painted gray—it would be hard to see against a cloudy sky—and except for its required identification numbers on the wings it bore no inscriptions.

The driver stopped beside the plane and immediately stepped out and opened the rear door, saying, “If you will, please.”

They got out, Bradford eagerly, Evelyn reluctantly, and the side door of the plane was just opening. A metal set of stairs was lowered, and the driver took Bradford’s arm—in a helpful way, not a menacing way—and escorted him up the stairs and into the plane. Evelyn followed—let this be Wellington, she was thinking, let this be Wellington—and another brown-uniformed man pulled up the steps and shut the door behind her.

The first man, the one who had driven them here, was saying to Bradford, “We’ll take off almost at once, sir. It will be a fairly long flight, with one, stop-over at Prince Rupert for refueling. For security reasons, I’m afraid you won’t be able to leave the plane there.”

“I understand perfectly,” Bradford said. He seemed very happy.

“We’ve arranged things as pleasantly as we possibly can,” the man said. The other man, having shut the door, had departed toward the front of the plane. “As you can see, this is your sitting room or lounge.”

It looked, Evelyn thought, like the living room of a mobile home, though she had never actually been inside a mobile home. But the clean functionalism of the built-in sofas and tables evoked the comparison, as though the room had been put together by a man whose primary job was designing diner interiors.

“Now, this way—Mrs. Canby?”

She looked at him, surprised. “Yes?”

“This will interest you,” he said. “The galley. You’ll be able to prepare meals for your grandfather and yourself in the course of the trip. We’ve tried to give you as broad a stock of foodstuffs as we could, in the circumstances.”

The galley was off a narrow corridor which ran toward the tail of the plane from the lounge. On the other side of the corridor, through a brushed chrome door, was what the man called “the latrine.” And at the end of the corridor was a fairly narrow room containing two single beds, one against either side wall, with a vaguely Danish-modern dresser at the rear.

The man said, “You can arrange your sleeping accommodations however you wish. The one sofa in the lounge converts very readily to a comfortable bed.”

The floor jerked beneath Evelyn’s feet, and she put a hand out to the sloping side wall to brace herself. The wall vibrated beneath her palm, and she said, “We’re moving!”

“Yes,” said the man. “Now, we can’t offer you television or radio, not even in-flight films, but we do have—shall we go back to the lounge, Mrs. Canby?”

She didn’t move till he tentatively touched her elbow, and then she walked obediently back to the lounge and just stood there. Bradford was sitting on a padded chair near a window, looking out with a pleased smile on his face.

The man said, “Mrs. Canby, it would be better if you sat down during take-off.”

“Yes,” she said, and backed into a sofa, and sat down. She watched Bradford’s happy profile as the plane gathered its strength and ran up into the sky.

v

A JOUNCE AWOKE HER, and she sat up in the bed, instantly aware of everything that had happened and disgusted with herself for having been able to sleep.

After the plane had taken off, she had continued to sit there in the lounge for a while, unable any more even to hope that Wellington was responsible for all this. Bradford and the brown-uniformed man—beneath his overcoat he wore a military-type brown jacket, but without insignia—had chatted about advances in aeronautics and similar topics, and when Evelyn reached the point where she was sure she was going to start screaming she forced herself to totter to her feet instead and to say, her voice scratchy and uncertain, “I’m going to take a nap.”

“Poor girl,” Bradford said, smiling at her, “you haven’t had much sleep, have you? Have a good long rest, I’ll see you later.”

But she hadn’t expected to sleep. She’d come back here only to let her tautly held nerves do whatever they wanted to do, and what they’d wanted to do, it turned out, was express themselves in weeping. She had, in effect, cried herself to sleep.

And now a jouncing had awakened her. She looked out the small round window beside the bed, and they were on the ground again. Was it Reykjavik once more? No, it wasn’t, there was more snow and fewer lights; whatever this place was, it was smaller than Reykjavik and probably farther north.

She got up as the plane taxied toward distant low buildings, and spent a futile time trying to smooth the wrinkles from her skirt. Finally she gave up and moved forward into the corridor.

There was only a tiny hand-sink in the latrine, so she washed her face and hands at the galley sink and reconstructed her makeup with the aid of the small mirror in her compact. She then looked at her watch, which said seven-thirty. What would that be now, morning or evening? Evening, she thought. Seven-thirty in the evening in Eustace. God alone knew what time it was here, but it had taken nearly six hours to get here.

She went out to the lounge, and Bradford and the brown-uniformed man were sitting across from one another at one of the built-in tables. There were maps spread out on the table. Bradford looked up cheerfully and said, “They’re refueling. We’ll be here about half an hour.”

“Where are we?”

“Prince Rupert, British Columbia. Come take a look.”

She sat down beside him, and he showed her on one of the maps, a Mercator projection of the world. They had started from Iceland, in the North Atlantic, and they had flown over Greenland, over Hudson’s Bay and over all of northern Canada. They had now landed at Prince Rupert, a small city on the Pacific coast of Canada, just south, of the Alaskan border. And from here? There was one last lap of the journey to go, approximately as long as the one they’d just completed; when they took off, thirty minutes from now, they would cross the North Pacific, keeping just south of the Aleutians, would turn to a somewhat more southerly course just before reaching the Kamchatka Peninsula (an extension of the Soviet Union), would cross Hokkaido (the northernmost island of Japan) from northeast to southwest, would fly over the Sea of Japan and a segment of North Korea, and then would have a quick run inland over China to Peking. “We’ll be there in seven hours,” Bradford said. He was smiling from ear to ear. “Perhaps six.”

I’m going to die, Evelyn thought. I am going to scream, and lose my sanity, and die.

“I’m starved,” Bradford said. “Evelyn? Would you mind?”

“Not at all,” she said. She got to her feet and went to the galley and began to look over the available foods.

vi

THERE WAS NO MORE sleep. There was no more hope. There was no more anything. The plane traveled through high darkness, nothing to be seen outside the window but her own haggard reflection, and she thought, I’ll maneuver Bradford to the doorway, I’ll get the door open, I’ll put my arms around him and push us both out. But she did nothing.

She could tell when they were over land again at last; occasional lights glittered below. Whether they were so few because it was late at night in China or because there were clouds frequently in the way she couldn’t tell. What time would it be in China now? According to her watch, it was after midnight in Eustace. Unless that was confused, too, unless her watch was trying to tell her that noon had just been passed on the east coast of the United States.

She couldn’t think any more, she didn’t even want to think any more, and when the plane began at last to circle, when she could feel that they were making their landing approach, she felt nothing but the kind of hollowness, despair, that comes on the heels of a total defeat.

Airport lights are the same all over the world, strings of white lights intersected by strings of blue or red or amber, all making a non-representational pattern in the dark.

The pattern rushed suddenly closer, the plane bumped, it hurtled along the runway and gradually slowed.

There were low buildings far away across the strings of lights, but the plane didn’t move in that direction. Nose high, wings cumbersomely spread, it walked the other way instead, toward the outer edge of the pattern of lights, where there was nothing but darkness.

The man in the brown uniform was saying, “You understand, of course, that you’ll have to be under total security for at least the time being. The United States government undoubtedly knows by now that you managed to elude them, and I doubt they’ll waste any time dispatching assassination teams.”

“That’s unfortunately true, I suppose,” Bradford said. He looked momentarily grim, but then brightened. “But we hope to be able to change all that eventually, don’t we?”

“Yes, sir,” the uniformed man said soberly.

“We can put up with a little inconvenience meantime,” Bradford said.

The plane came to a stop. The other man reappeared from the front of the plane, and opened the door. He put the metal steps out, and turned to extend his hand toward Bradford’s and say, “I want you to know I’m proud to have had a part in this, sir.”

“Thank you,” Bradford said, smiling, shaking his hand, while Evelyn thought, Proud? To turn against your own country, your own people?

They stepped down out of the plane, Bradford first, Evelyn behind him, and she was suddenly reminded of that other plane ride at the beginning of all this, when they had flown together to California, when they had arrived at Harrison’s fake little town in a business jet very like this one (but somewhat smaller, and much less elaborately laid out), and Bradford had gone out to sunlight and scattered cheers and his first cerebral attack. A poster-bedecked hansom cab had been waiting for them that time, at the foot of the steps.

This time? A black truck, its windowless rear doors open. And half a dozen uniformed Chinese soldiers, bulky in their quilt like coats, carrying rifles in their hands.

The chill that Evelyn felt had nothing to do with the breeze that came through her cloth coat.

They went out onto the blacktop, and a Chinese officer, an older man with no rifle in his hands, came forward to welcome Bradford, in heavily distorted English, to the People’s Republic. Bradford rose to the formality of the gesture—Evelyn was reminded again of the California trip, and how Bradford then had treated a small scattered disinterested crowd as though it were a mob of thousands—and when the officer apologized for the nature of the transport they were asking him to accept, Bradford assured him he understood the security problems involved in his arrival and would cooperate in every way he could. And then he got into the truck.

Evelyn hung back. She hung back so long that the smiling officer, his hand politely extended to assist her, began to look puzzled. “You are not feeling well?”

They mustn’t know what I really think, she told herself. There will still be something I can do, somewhere, sometime. “I’m fine,” she told the officer, and even managed a smile. “The trip has left me a little groggy, I think.”

“Yes, of course. Very comfortable quarters coming, I promise.”

“Thank you,” she said, and took his hand, and stepped up into the truck.

A kind of sofa was fixed on one side of the interior, so that anyone sitting on it would be facing sideways. There were no windows, but there was a dim light bulb in a fixture in the roof. Evelyn sat down beside Bradford, the door was closed from outside, and a second later the truck jolted forward.

Bradford put a hand on Evelyn’s forearm. “Don’t be nervous. They know we want to be their friends.”

“Yes,” she said.

vii

THEY HADN’T BEEN TOLD how long the truck ride would take, but it was just an hour by Evelyn’s watch—from one-forty to two-forty, Eustace time—when the truck stopped, backed up, stopped again, and they heard the engine switch off.

Bradford too had started to get nervous as the truck had gone on and on; he hadn’t said anything, but Evelyn hadn’t needed words, she could tell by the way he sat hunched beside her, by the expression on his face in the dim light inside the truck.

But the instant the truck stopped he became cheerful and optimistic again, sitting up straighter, saying, “Well, here we are.” And the doors opened.

More Chinese soldiers, or perhaps the same ones. The same officer, in any case. He helped Evelyn out onto bare ground, and she looked around to see that they were in some sort of wooded area, but with a low pale building directly in front of them.

“This way,” the officer said, and Bradford took Evelyn’s arm and walked with her behind the officer as he led the way into the building.

Inside, it seemed to be virtually nothing but a fluorescent-lighted corridor, with rooms leading off it on one side only. All the doors were shut, but the officer opened one, and inside was a narrow elevator.

It was a tight squeeze for the three of them. There were several buttons, marked with Chinese characters.

The elevator took them down three levels, and stopped. The officer opened the door to show an identical corridor with the one above, except that this one had rooms on both sides. Again, all the doors were closed, and most of them were marked in Chinese.

“For now,” the officer said, “we think that you would both prefer an opportunity to rest. Wash, change clothes, perhaps sleep. Tomorrow is time to get started.”

“I agree,” Bradford said. “It’s been a grueling trip.”

“Yes.” The officer opened a door. “This is your suite. And Mrs. Canby across the way.”

“I think I’m ready for sleep,” Bradford said. “Evelyn? Unless you want to talk.”

“No, you sleep. I’m tired, too.”

“Then I’ll see you in the morning.”

“In the morning,” she agreed.

Bradford stood in the open doorway—past him she could see a pleasant-looking apartment, apparently several rooms in extent—and watched, smiling, as the officer opened the door across the hall and bowed for Evelyn to enter.

There was nothing else to do. “Thank you,” she said. She stepped into the room, the officer closed the door behind her, and Robert stood up from the chair in the corner and came toward her, smiling, arms outstretched.

She said, “What—”

“It’s all right now,” he told her, and put his arms around her, and held her close.

The Final Glory

1

WHAT IS IT? WHAT’S happening?” Evelyn asked a hundred times, and every time Robert would only say, “Let Wellington tell you, not me. Let him tell you.” Then there was a knock at the door, and the Chinese officer entered to say, “It’s okay, he’s going to bed.”

“Come on,” Robert said. “I’ll take you to Wellington.”

She and Robert and the officer rode back up in the elevator to the ground floor, and along the corridor to one of the doors with Chinese lettering on it, and into a long room spartanly furnished with folding chairs and one wooden table, on which sat a tape recorder.

There were five men in the room: Wellington, standing behind the wooden table; Joe Holt, sitting beside James Fanshaw, the psychiatrist who was taking care of BJ; Howard; and her brother, George.

The room itself was amazingly rough-hewn. There were no interior walls at all, you could see the supporting two-by-fours on which the outer wall and the corridor wall were attached. The room was long, long enough to have four doorways to the corridor, but only the door they’d come in by was functional, the other three being nailed and propped into place. It was a fake of a room, as seen from backstage.

Evelyn said, “What is this place? Where am I?”

“The simplest way to explain,” Wellington said, “is to play you this tape.” And before she could protest, or ask a specific question, he had pushed a button on the machine and a voice said, “The contradiction that has plagued us is that we have to keep Bradford from traveling without him knowing he’s being kept from traveling. That’s an impossibility on the face of it.” The voice, she suddenly realized, was Wellington.

Another voice—Howard?—said, “Are you saying there is no answer?”

Wellington’s voice said, “No. I’m saying there is an answer, but it’s a difficult one, and an expensive one.”

Somebody, possibly Joe Holt, said, “I don’t think anyone here cares about the expense, that isn’t important.”

Wellington: “I hope you’re right. So here, in essence, is the plan. We intend to convince Bradford he already has traveled to Red China.”

Somebody: “That’s impossible.”

Somebody: “If you mean a kind of hypnosis, you can’t indefinitely—”

Wellington: “No, I don’t mean anything like that. I mean that Bradford has to be institutionalized, it boils down to that, he can’t be allowed to run loose. So what we have to do is convince him that the institution is in Red China.”

Joe Holt: “You mean create a fake environment of some kind?”

Wellington: “Create it, send Bradford traveling, convince him his travels have ended in Peking, and maintain the artificial environment for the rest of Bradford’s life.”

Wellington, in the flesh, reached out and pushed a button to cut off his recorded voice. “There was a long argument following that,” he said. “I won’t bore you with it. The point is, that discussion took place the day before Elizabeth’s funeral. I told everyone present what I wanted to construct, how much it would cost each of them right now, how much it would cost each of them annually, and how much we could get out of the government. I had to have an answer—”

Evelyn said, “From the government? You mean you haven’t kept this in the family.”

Wellington pointed to the tape recorder. “Where do you think I got that? Wake up, Evelyn, do you think anything can happen to anyone in this country, anyone who matters, without some branch of the government getting wind of it?”

“You knew they knew.”

“Of course. I was their chief spy into family councils. Their chief non-electronic spy. Just as I was the family’s chief spy into their councils.”

“But you never told anyone. Anyone on our side, I mean.”

“What good would it do? Once I’d brought everything into the open, the people behind me would simply have taken the problem out of the family’s hands. Wait. Before you say anything else—” he pushed the re-wind button, and the tape began to whir on the machine “—let me play you another tape.”

Evelyn turned to Robert. “You knew what was going on?”

“Not for a long while,” he said, but he looked guilty.

“You knew before I left.”

“Yes. I knew from the day before Elizabeth’s funeral. Not the exact details, but approximately.”

“And you didn’t say anything to me.”

“Wait,” Robert said. He looked pained. “Hear Wellington out, before you make up your mind.”

Wellington had another reel on the machine now, and he said, “This time, I think you should listen all the way through. It lasts about ten minutes. After Elizabeth’s funeral, a group of us gathered upstairs in Sterling’s house. Earl’s wife; his widow, actually. Harrison and Patricia. Your brother George and his wife. Joe Holt, Senator Fanshaw, Eugene White and myself. This is the latter part of what was said.”

He pushed the play button, and at once Patricia Lockridge’s irascible voice came on: “We shouldn’t have had to go through this.”

Somebody (Eugene White?): “Of course we shouldn’t have had to go through this. Nobody wants to be involved in this situation. But it’s with us, and we—”

Patricia: “Why? Why do we have to be in this? The man’s crazy, isn’t he? Why can’t we admit he’s crazy, just admit it, and lock him up, the way you would with any other man?”

Joe Holt: “Because he isn’t any other man.”

Evelyn listened, she heard the argument rage back and forth, heard Patricia and then Marie insist they would not make the payments their husbands had agreed to at the meeting in Boston the day before, heard Wellington put on his little show with the drivers across the street and then explain who they were and what the true situation was. She looked at Wellington when she heard his voice on the tape say, “. . . there are offices within the governmental structure which will not permit an ex-President of the United States to publicly enter a mental hospital.”

Patricia: “What do you mean they won’t permit it?”

Wellington: “I mean they won’t permit it. I mean they will kill him first.”

Evelyn closed her eyes. Standing there in self-imposed darkness, she heard Wellington slowly and methodically convince the others of the truth of what he’d said. But she opened her eyes to look at him again when she heard his recorded voice say, “If you force me to kill my father, I will, because I long ago gave up the idea that I should have attitudes about the orders I was given to carry out. But through whatever small channels of influence I may have constructed for myself over the last twenty-three years, I will make sure that every one of you regrets it.”

Harrison: “You can’t put that kind of responsibility on us!”

Wellington: “I can’t?”

Click. Wellington had switched off the machine. They were all looking at Evelyn. She said to Wellington, “Why wouldn’t you tell me? You told everybody else, you browbeat them into helping you, or persuaded them, you did whatever you had to do. For God’s sake, Wellington, you’re the only one in the family who fought for Bradford as much as I wanted to, and all you’d do was make an enemy out of me!”

“Because,” he said, “I knew too much, and you knew too little. Evelyn, if I had said to you, ‘We are going to put Bradford in a cage. We are going to play the cruelest hoax you can imagine on that poor man. We are going to put him in an airplane and fly him this way and that, and when the plane lands at Thule, Greenland we’ll tell him it’s Prince Rupert on the west coast of Canada, and when the plane lands at Martinsburg, West Virginia, we’ll tell him it’s Peking. And we will take him in a closed truck and put him in a hole in the ground and tell him it’s a security measure, and surround him with Vietnamese claiming to be Chinese, who will pretend to film and record his speeches, and who will bring him fake newspapers reporting the effect he’s having in the world, and we will keep him in that hole in the ground for the rest of his life, because the only way we can keep him from going to China is by convincing him he’s already in China.’ If I had said that to you, Evelyn, you would have thought I was some sort of sadist, some evil creature, and you would have gone to Bradford and warned him against me!”

“But—” She stopped the protest, uncertain, looking at him, no longer sure of anything. “Would I have? But if I would then, why wouldn’t I now?”

“Because before it was done, you would have been able to see nothing but the cruelty, but now that it’s a fact I think you’ll be able to see the kindness in it. We are not only saving Bradford’s life, we are not only avoiding a national scandal and a family embarrassment, we have found the only way to make Bradford’s last years happy ones.”

Joe Holt said, “Evelyn, Brad is going to feel useful and valuable again. He’ll write speeches, articles. He’ll feel he’s doing something. He may even go back to his memoirs, though he probably won’t have a long enough attention span for that. But it’s possible. And one thing is certain; he’ll enjoy life, and this is the only solution where that is true. Certainly not if he’s murdered. Certainly not if he’s being turned into a fool and a cat’s paw in Peking. And certainly not if he’s institutionalized and knows he’s institutionalized.”

“But you should have told me! Somebody should have told me somewhere along the line!”

Wellington said, “We couldn’t take the chance of your love for him blinding you to what was best.”

“But why do it this way, why torture me? Tell me I’m going to Paris for a week, two weeks, then start all this mysterious shuffling around so that I’m half out of my mind not knowing whether it’s your people or the Chinese. I almost called for help in Paris, I almost blew up your whole scheme right there.”

“That’s why I called you,” Wellington said. “What I told you on the phone in Paris was true, Edward Lockridge’s son did tell our plans, what he knew of them, to the Chinese. Fortunately, he knew only about the Paris trip, what we originally intended to do there, and nothing about any of this. But I started to tell you about the change, and you left the phone.”

“Bradford was out of my sight.”

“Whatever the reason. Then, afterward, one of my men in Paris told me he’d spoken to you and you seemed to understand the situation and feel all right about it.”

“What he said was so ambiguous, it could have been a Chinese agent just as well.”

Robert said, “Do you mean you really thought you were in China?”

“Yes! I was almost dying of fright!”

Robert said angrily to Wellington, “That wasn’t the way you said it was going to be. That wasn’t what I agreed to.”

“Everything changed so fast,” Wellington said. “We’ve done this whole operation off-balance. I’m sorry it didn’t go smoothly, but the point is, he’s here. We did the job, and now Bradford is safe from everybody, from the Chinese, from his own government, from everybody.” He looked at Evelyn. “Depending, of course, on you.”

“On me?”

“You’re in China with him.”

“I don’t understand.”

James Fanshaw, the psychiatrist, came forward saying, “Let me explain that part of it. If Bradford were left completely alone down there, with only the so-called Chinese around him, there could be bad mental reactions, of a wide variety of types. But with one familiar figure around, he has a touchstone of reality, an anchor if you will. A completely artificial environment, no matter how cleverly put together, is going to have seams and blank spots and anomalies in it. Only God can create reality. So your job will be to re-confirm the reality of the world he sees, primarily by simply being a part of it.”

“You mean stay here? Live here with him?”

“You wouldn’t actually have to be around Brad much more than you usually are,” Joe Holt said.

James Fanshaw said, “Don’t make up your mind now. You’ve had a terrible ordeal, you’re exhausted, your nerves are shot. Get a good night’s sleep, let me give you something to help you calm down, and in the morning we’ll all get together again and talk it over in a sensible way.”

Evelyn said, “But stay here? In the hole in the ground? You’ve buried Bradford, and you want to bury me with him, like a slave in a pyramid!”

Howard said, “Evelyn, don’t you know where you are?”

“No!”

“You’re in Eustace.”

Wellington said, “The construction site you stumbled on the other day, this is it.”

Robert said, “Evelyn, you’re less than a mile from your own bed.”

ii

THURSDAY, THE TWENTY-SECOND OF November. Evelyn awoke at ten-thirty with her mind still full of bits and pieces of her dreams; coffins and labyrinths, quicksand and caves. She got out of bed and went over to the window and looked out on a cold clear day with a washed-blue sky and high small bright yellow sun. Three days ago she had left here for Paris with Bradford. How the world had twisted and turned in those three days, culminating in last night’s horror and its incredible release, when Peking turned into Eustace and Robert had driven her home through the woods in his old yellow Jaguar.

She washed and dressed and went downstairs for breakfast. As she was finishing the meal, Howard came in and sat down opposite her and said, “I wish I knew whether Wellington meant for you to go through that hell or not.”

“He didn’t,” she said wearily. Her body was refreshed, but her mind still felt drugged. “It was what he said, the whole thing was done off-balance. We were amateurs, he was our only professional, and none of us liked him or trusted him or would believe in his answers.”

“Maybe. Do you feel like talking?”

“I suppose.”

She walked with him to a ground-floor parlor where everyone from last night was waiting for her, with the exception of Wellington. Her brother George, her uncle Joe. Robert. And the psychiatrist, James Fanshaw.

She sat down, and they explained things to her. They had solved the problem of confining Bradford while still giving him public appearances. The Vietnamese technicians would tape long interviews and speeches, and George would then edit for usable material, interpolating himself as the interviewer. Either Evelyn or one of the Vietnamese would ask specific questions whenever it was necessary to have a statement from him on a certain topic.

As to his well-being, two of the Vietnamese working with him were doctors, and both Joe Holt and James Fanshaw would stop by at least once a week to observe him through the closed-circuit television that was now in the process of being installed. (The place was so incomplete now because they’d anticipated at least ten days additional construction time during Bradford’s stay in Paris.)

Howard would be attempting, with indirect assistance from Bradford—or direct assistance, if Bradford could be persuaded to go back to work on them himself—to keep the steady flow of memoirs alive. Meredith Fanshaw and other family members in Washington social circles would in more subtle ways (“When I was visiting Brad last week . . .”) keep questions and suspicions from arising. With a little care, the fiction of Bradford Lockridge as a free agent and a continuingly healthy elder statesman could be maintained indefinitely.

As to feedback, Bradford would be shown occasional American magazines and newspapers with dummy pages containing stories about his Chinese exploit, mostly couched in terms of grudging respect. The “radio” in his apartment was actually only a speaker connected to a tape recorder supplied with tapes of Chinese broadcasting; occasionally he would be able to hear the re-broadcast of one of his own speeches.

And should he want to go outside, or to travel to other parts of ‘China,’ as he probably would, they’d simply explain to him that security measures still wouldn’t permit it, that the danger of assassination was still too great. He had already accepted the idea that the American government would attempt to silence him, so there should be no trouble convincing him that the danger had not as yet abated. Barring something unforeseen, the deception around Bradford was seamless and leakproof.

But it all depended on Evelyn. Would she tell him the truth about what they’d done to him, or would she work with the rest of the family to support the lie? Which is to say, would she spend some time every day with Bradford, would she pass on to him whatever suggestions or questions might come up, would she be in effect their ambassador to Bradford’s private world. For the length of his life, not her’s.

“Let me think about it,” she said, and they all said of course and left her alone. But she could feel them in the house, in this room or that room, hovering, waiting for her answer.

She really couldn’t think yet, couldn’t make her mind work in any reliable way. She went upstairs to spend some time with Dinah, the tried and true prescription for when she was depressed or confused, but the little girl was involved with her doll house, and that tiny neat structure with its plastic furnishings suddenly was full of ominous meanings and reminders. Evelyn went back downstairs and outside and walked in the cold air in Dinah’s garden for a while instead. The other Dinah, Bradford’s dead wife. The garden was also dead at this time of year, everything having receded underground to wait for spring.

Bradford and Dinah were both underground, too, with no spring ever to come for either of them. No matter how it was phrased, no matter how it was justified, what the family had done was bury Bradford before he was dead.

When kindness is so cruel, what is cruelty? To tell him the truth?

Yet what were the alternatives? There were none, only the unacceptable choice that had been there all along: to hospitalize him, let him know he was being imprisoned. Though even that wasn’t a true option, if Wellington could be believed. The possibilities had narrowed to two: this false death or some real death in its place, either this unofficial living burial or a hypocritical formal funeral following a sanitary assassination.

After a while Robert came out to join her in the garden, and she said, “Did you get the short straw? Or did you volunteer?”

He frowned at her. “Volunteer for what?”

“To come persuade me.”

He didn’t answer immediately, and when she looked at him she saw he was controlling anger. She wanted him to lose that struggle, she wanted a fight with someone and who better than Robert? But he said, finally, calmly, “Evelyn, nobody doubts for a second that you’ll help. That isn’t why I came out.”

“Nobody doubts it?”

“Wellington has us all boxed,” he said. “You as much as the rest of us. We couldn’t have saved Bradford without him, and the only way to do it was by becoming like him a little bit. I spent a week not telling you his plan, lying to you with my silence every time we were together, every time we went to bed, every time we looked at one another. I did it because I had to, even though I loved you. And you’ll go down there and lie to Bradford every single day for the rest of his life for the same reason.”

“Getting more like Wellington all the time?”

“In that one compartment of your life, yes. But in the rest of your life you can be more free than ever.”

A vision of Ann Gillespie, Carrie’s faded companion in Paris, rose in her mind, mocking her. More free? Wasn’t Bradford’s imprisonment also Evelyn’s imprisonment? Wasn’t Bradford’s burial also Evelyn’s burial? “More free,” she said, turning away.

“Of course more free,” he said. “Don’t you see that it’s over now?”

“Over!” She whirled back to him, face contorted. “It’s a death-watch! It won’t be over until he’s dead!”

“Well, it wouldn’t be anyway, would it? If he were an ordinary man, in an ordinary hospital, wouldn’t you see him as often as you could? Wouldn’t you live close to where he was staying? Would you call that a death-watch?”

“No,” she said. “But it would be. I wouldn’t call it that, but that’s what it would be. And Bradford wouldn’t be in the ground, buried already, he wouldn’t be—be—” She looked around in agitation, trying to find the way to express herself. “It wouldn’t be like this!”

“I know. This isn’t really any different, but it feels different, I know it does, it does to me, too.”

“But it is different! Think of Bradford down there, think of the walls around him, and he’s happy because on the other side of those walls is China. Think about those walls, all around him.”

He frowned. “And?”

“Look around,” she said, and waved an arm at everything around them, the house, the woods and orchards, the hills, the dead garden, the cloud-filled sky. “No walls around us,” she cried. “Are there? Are there?”

Coming quickly forward, Robert took her arms and held them, as though he were afraid she was about to fragment and was determined to hold her together in one piece through the explosion. “Listen to me,” he said urgently. “Bradford’s been the center of your life for as long as I’ve known you, and probably for a lot longer than that. But he isn’t the center anymore; he’s one small responsibility off in a corner of your life.”

Twisting back and forth, not really to get away from him but to express her agitation, she cried, “How can you say that? When I’ve got to—”

“Your life can have a new center now,” he said. “If you’re willing.”

She stopped thrashing, and looked at him.

He said, “Don’t you know I’ve just been waiting for this mess to be resolved so I could ask you to marry me?”

She did know, or at least she’d expected, she’d hoped. It was something she would have fought for. But now, the way things were now? “How could we—? You want to be buried, too?”

“It isn’t burial,” he said. “Listen to me, think straight about this. I can commute to Lancashire, at least till June, it isn’t that far. And by summer I can decide if I want to do something else. Howard’s talked to me about a book based on that Fuehrer article, that’s one possibility.”

She studied his face, and there was neither deceit nor self-sacrifice to be seen in it, only strength and gentleness. She said, “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. We can still have a life, we just have to make Eustace home base, that’s all. And that won’t be so bad, will it?”

She hesitated, still searching his face, but when he smiled she suddenly smiled back. “No,” she said. “It won’t be so bad.”

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Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Contents

The Finishing Stroke

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The Last Race

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The Closing Door

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The Final Glory

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Copyright