6
Night had come down on the District of Columbia, and with it clouds and a biting wind carrying a promise of snow. The bright day Dolly had witnessed at 10 AM through her bedroom window had succumbed to the erratic climate of the nation’s capital and the most chronically frustrated Weather Bureau in the world was already hedging its bets with the cautious prediction that there might possibly be a blizzard if, of course, it didn’t clear. In private homes from Chevy Chase to Falls Church and from Westmoreland Circle to Forest Heights, department heads, agency employees, clerk-typists, secretaries, professional people, military folk, members of the press, lobbyists and what-have-you, and their wives were putting last-minute touches on the parties to which they had invited other department heads, agency employees, clerk-typists, secretaries, professional people, military folk, members of the press, lobbyists, and what-have-you, and their wives. Out among the embassies the Belgians, the Ceylonese, the Rumanians, and the Dutch were getting ready to entertain at lavishly decorated, lavishly catered receptions that would be attended by representatives of all the other embassies in town with which, at the moment, they happened to be on speaking terms. In hundreds of giant apartment houses thousands of government girls were about to descend in thousands of self-operated elevators to meet thousands of government boys for a night on the town; and on Ninth Street and other drab haunts of Washington’s incorrigibly small-town sin, little aimless groups of sailors, soldiers, airmen, and marines from nearby bases had just begun to wander about looking for wine, women, and a place in which to enjoy them. Under the swinging chandeliers in the great white portico at Vagaries the Cadillacs, the Chryslers, the Chevys, and the Fords were driving up to discharge their chattering, self-important cargo, the men encased in tuxedoes like a stream of glistening beetles, the women gussied-up fit to kill.
Night had fallen on the capstone of Western civilization, and sex and society were on the move.
* * *
For Dolly, standing just inside the door as the first car drew up, this was always one of the most exciting moments in life. It was even more so in Washington, where one never knew who the accident of timing would bring to one’s doorstep first. She played a little superstitious game with herself which usually proved out—the first arrival or two would set the tone of the evening, whether it was to be basically political, diplomatic, or just social. This time fate contrived the obvious by depositing both politics and diplomacy on the stoop at once: Bob Munson arrived in his tired old Buick just as Krishna Khaleel rode up with a flourish in the Indian Embassy’s sleekest chauffeured Cadillac. Senator Munson turned his car over to one of the parking attendants as K.K. got grandly out, and after an effusive greeting they advanced together upon their hostess.
“Ah, you see?” the Ambassador cried gaily. “I was wise to come early, you see; I am the chaperone of our dear Dolly and her gallant Senator.”
“I’m sure all sorts of terrible things would have happened if you hadn’t been here, darling,” Dolly said coolly, taking his hand and drawing him in. “We do appreciate it so.”
“I don’t,” Bob Munson said. “I resent it, as would any red-blooded American youth.”
“You,” Dolly told him, “are undoubtedly Washington’s most dazzling humorist.”
“Ah, you Senators,” K.K. said airily, moving on into the fern-decked hallway. “You and Hal Fry. All I get, all day long at the UN, is Hal making jokes. For me, at me, about me, but always jokes, jokes, jokes. If we had Senators in my country they would be less frivolous. They would realize life is a serious matter, for us poor Asians.”
“We all sympathize with you, K.K.,” Bob Munson said, “and of course we regret our own levity, too. I know Hal just wants to lighten your heavy load for you with an innocent jest now and then. He can’t help it if he isn’t properly reverent.”
“There you go,” K.K. sighed. “Just like he is. I think you are laughing pleasantly with me and suddenly you bite. It is disconcerting, you know?”
“Dear old K.K.,” Senator Munson said expansively, seizing him by the arm as Dolly turned away to greet the Secretary of the Navy, the Secretary of the Army, and an Assistant Secretary of State for something-or-other, and their wives, “do come in here someplace and let’s talk it over privately.”
The Indian Ambassador gave him a shrewd sidelong glance and smiled dryly.
“Yes, dear old Bob,” he said, “I know you wish to talk privately, and you wish to talk about your problem, Mr. Leffingwell. But I have already discussed this unfortunate, for you, matter with dear old Hal, who I know was on the telephone to you five seconds after to tell you what I said, and I really fail to see why I should discuss it any further with dear old Bob.”
“Have a drink,” Senator Munson said, steering him toward a bar in one corner, “and don’t be any more stubborn than you can help.”
“Really,” K.K. said in a different tone, and for a second Bob Munson was afraid he had gone too far, you always had to watch it with the Indians, they were always so alert to see an insult in everything and take umbrage at the slightest excuse, “really, Bob, I try not to be stubborn, I do indeed. It is simply my way of saying that there is really nothing I can say to you that would in any way make clearer my already clear exposition to your good colleague from West Virginia.”
“He seemed to have a very firm grasp on what you meant,” Senator Munson agreed, “but I’d like to hear it, too. What do you want, scotch or bourbon?”
“Scotch and soda, please,” K.K. said, and Bob Munson ordered it and a bourbon and water for himself.
“Now,” he said against the glad greeting cries of Dolly, three generals, an admiral, the counselor of the Brazilian Embassy, and the Secretary of the Interior, and their assorted wives, “what have you folks got against Bob Leffingwell?”
The Indian Ambassador sighed, watching the rapidly-filling room with shrewd appraising eyes.
“That Hal,” he said. “Why does he think we have anything against your able Mr. Leffingwell? I am afraid I must not have made myself clear to him after all. I wished to indicate merely that we were proceeding with caution, which of course is necessary in this distraught world in which we live. I did not wish to indicate distaste, although apparently that is the interpretation given you by your attractive colleague.”
“Then you’re for him,” Bob Munson said quickly, and K.K. sighed again.
“Honestly,” he said, going into one of his more petulant moods, “does nothing I say make sense to anyone? Mr. Leffingwell is a difficult and controversial man. In some ways he is excellent, but in some others, of course, not so excellent. In general I would say we are for him, except when it comes to those features of character and interest which, of course, might dispose us to be against him. On the whole, I think that is our position,” he said thoughtfully; and then, with firmness, “Yes, I am sure of it. You may count upon it.”
“Well, thanks so much, K.K.,” Senator Munson said. “You know how helpful this is in our thinking about it. Because seriously, you know, if anyone has a really violent dislike for him, it would have some bearing on what the Senate does. We don’t want to confirm someone who starts with a dozen enemies abroad to begin with; he’ll make enough as he goes along without an initial handicap. So I’m glad you’re not hostile.”
“Oh no,” K.K. said, and suddenly he laid a hand on the Majority Leader’s arm and said sympathetically, “We do not wish to complicate your problem, dear old Bob. I shall talk about it to my colleagues, you know. Our paths will cross sometime during the evening somewhere in this delightful house. There will be some clarification of views, perhaps. There will perhaps be other clarifications as the days go by. Then we will know better where we all stand. If the Senate wishes then to know our opinion, strictly unofficially, of course, why, we will probably have one.”
“Stated in English?” Senator Munson couldn’t resist, and the Ambassador gave him a rather wintry smile.
“Since that is the language of our past, our present and, it would seem, our future,” he said, “that is what it is most apt to be. And now I must circulate, dear Bob, and so must you. That is half our business, circulation, is it not?”
Senator Munson sighed in his turn.
“It is,” he said. “Take care, K.K. See you later.”
“Arrivederci,” the Indian Ambassador said with a pixyish expression and moved off toward a South American enclave that was beginning to form near one of the buffet tables. As he did so Bob Munson became aware of a reproving presence near at hand; large plump body, large dark face, large liquid eyes looking with wistful reproach: the Pakistani Ambassador. He sighed again, involuntarily, and cursed a small private curse at the burden of world leadership that made life at Washington parties a constant careful navigation between bruisable egos, vulnerable feelings, and quivering national prides. He did not, however, intend to talk to the Pakistanis yet a while, and so with a bright smile and a quick, “Good evening, Mr. Ambassador, don’t leave before I get a chance to talk to you, it’s important”—uttered with hearty haste before the Ambassador had a chance to do more than begin an uncertain half smile and start tentatively forward—he took his drink and moved slowly off through the growing crush toward Howard Sheppard, the outgoing Secretary of State, who had come in a moment before with his little gray wisp of a wife and now was standing near one of the bay windows with his usual drooping, uncertain, melancholy look. This was heightened by the inevitable he’s-on-his-way-out atmosphere that was already beginning to surround him. This inexorable attrition of prestige, which could reduce a man’s influence in Washington overnight, was now at work on the outgoing Secretary; the greetings he was receiving were just a little vague, a little absent-minded, a little oh-so-you’re-still-here; the fervent cordiality of yesterday was giving way to the half-puzzled, half-forgetful greeting of tomorrow. Although his resignation for reasons of health had been announced weeks ago, he had been around so long as Secretaries of State go that it had not seemed really final until the President named a successor. Now he had, and Howard Sheppard was occupying that lonely position of men in Washington who yesterday were all-powerful but today are only men. His expression changed from wan to a little less wan when the Majority Leader approached.
“Bob,” he said, putting a little more strength than usual into a normally languid handshake, “how nice to see you. Grace dear,” he added to the slight little figure he had carried with him through law practice, the governorship of Ohio and seven uneasy years in Foggy Bottom, “you remember Senator Munson,” and Grace said of course she did. Bob Munson felt he must say something to relieve the encircling gloom and offered the first thing that popped into his head.
“Well, Howie,” he said expansively, “you must be glad to be getting out of this rat race.” Then he remembered hastily that of course Howie wasn’t and tried to make amends.
“We’ll miss you,” he said firmly. “Your hand on the helm has held us steady, Howard. We’re going to miss it more than you know. I hope you’re not going to be leaving Washington? Surely you’ll stay close by and let us have your counsel from time to time?”
“I don’t think,” Secretary Sheppard said with a sudden flash of unexpected and uncharacteristic bitterness, “that he gives a damn whether I stay here or not. He hasn’t taken my advice on anything in six months.”
“Oh, now,” Senator Munson said soothingly, “I’m sure you’re mistaken, Howie. Why, he told me only this morning—”
“I don’t care what he told you,” Howie said morosely, taking a deep gulp of his Manhattan, “it was just words. Why do you think I’m quitting, Bob? This is strictly between us, you understand, but he wanted me to. I’m not sick, I’m sound as a dollar. But he said something about wanting to try a new approach with the Russians and maybe he should have a new face to do it. I’ve done everything I could to work out an accommodation with the Russians and I could have tried again, but he wouldn’t have it and I couldn’t refuse. I don’t know what this means for the country.”
“Continued good diplomacy, I hope, Howie,” Senator Munson said.
“I hope,” the Secretary said darkly.
“Well, I’m disappointed to know you feel this way, Howie,” Bob Munson said, and he really was, because Howie still had quite a few friends in the Senate and some of them might listen to him, “because I was counting on you to help me with the nomination.”
“Bob Leffingwell?” the Secretary asked in a tone so harsh that Grace murmured, “Now, dear,” in a worried way. “I wouldn’t help him for anything.”
“I hope that won’t be your final answer, Howie,” Bob Munson said earnestly. “There’s too much involved—”
“You’re damned right there is,” the Secretary said bluntly, “and I’m going to do everything I can to make sure the Senate doesn’t make a mistake about it.”
“I’m sure it won’t,” Senator Munson said, with a certain coldness coming into his voice, “if you appear before Foreign Relations as the opening witness and testify in his behalf.”
“I’ll never do that,” Howie Sheppard said angrily, and Bob Munson stared thoughtfully into his highball glass.
“I think you will, Howie,” he said gently. “I think I will ask the President to ask you to, and I think he will, and I think you will. I don’t want to get blood on Dolly’s oriental rug,” he said, and his voice dropped chattily to a confidential level, “but you’re not a rich man, Howie, and you don’t really want to leave diplomacy, and I know it as well as you do. The post of special ambassador to NATO is going to open up soon, as you know, and the President was asking me only the other day if the Senate would confirm you for it. I told him I thought we would. You’re sixty-seven years old, Howie, and it would be a very pleasant way to spend your later years, a good salary, a good social life, enough association with our allies to keep your hand in. I want you to have it. I want the President to give it to you. I think I can promise he will, but he certainly won’t if you’re not up there tomorrow morning crying your little heart out for Bob Leffingwell. Which you will be, Howie. I’m sure you will be.”
“I won’t!” the Secretary said, so vehemently that the Chief of Staff of the Air Force, the Secretary of Agriculture, and two members of the Dutch Embassy turned around to stare. “I’ll be damned if I will!” he said in an abruptly lowered voice, with a half-hearted attempt to make his expression noncommittal.
“Think it over, Howie,” Senator Munson said pleasantly, and Grace said, “Oh, dear.”
“Why should the Administration treat me like this?” Howard Sheppard asked with muffled bitterness, turning toward the bay window as Bob Munson placed a brotherly hand on his shoulder. “Why is politics like this? I’ve done my best to serve my country, I’ve done everything I could to help him and please him. I’ve thought I was a friend of yours—”
“You are, Howie!” Bob Munson said in a shocked tone, “you are!”
“—and now I get this sort of treatment. Why does it have to be so brutal?”
“You were never brutal to anybody when you were Governor of Ohio and wanted something done, Howie?” Senator Munson asked softly. “You never laid it on the line to anybody as Secretary of State and told him he was up against something he couldn’t defy and he’d better go along? You never did, Howie?”
“I don’t see why it has to be like this,” the Secretary insisted stubbornly, not answering. “I just don’t see.”
“It’s a rough game, underneath the backslaps and the handshakes and the big noble speeches, Howie,” Bob Munson said thoughtfully, “and we all discover it sooner or later. It’s a cruel business, sometimes, when you’re in the big time the way we are, because up here the country is involved and men play for keeps. Now you think it over and see if you can’t get a good statement together for us tomorrow, okay?”
“I don’t see,” Howard Sheppard said bitterly. “I just don’t see.”
“Well,” Bob Munson said bluntly, “you’re still part of this Administration until we confirm him, so you’d just better have your cry and blow your nose and turn a bright face to the world and get back into this party and make it look good, Howie. And you needn’t worry about the NATO job. It’ll be there waiting for you, I give you my word on that.”
“How can you be a party to it,” Secretary Sheppard asked, without irony, “when you’re such a kind person at heart?”
“Now you’re getting maudlin,” Senator Munson said. “Here comes Henrik Kroll, just bubbling to see you, so you just bubble back, Howie, and I’ll see you later.”
And as the Danish Ambassador came forward, hand outstretched, a rosy smile on his rosy face, with his rosy little wife coming along as rosily at his side, the Majority Leader clapped Howard Sheppard heartily on the back, squeezed Grace’s hand, and went on his way, observing as he did so that the Secretary of State after a moment’s hesitation straightened his shoulders, smiled graciously if a little wobbily, and returned the ambassadorial greeting with a cordiality which, while not overwhelming, was adequate to the occasion. Bob Munson dismissed that particular matter from his mind and, noting that his hostess was looking a little tired, went forward to her side through the press of tuxedoes, dress uniforms, gowns, gossip, and highball glasses.
“Hi,” he said. “How are you bearing up?”
“All right,” Dolly said. “What were you and Howie Sheppard talking about?”
“The price of wheat in China,” he said lightly. “Nationalist China, that is. He’s going to be our opening witness for Bob Leffingwell at the hearing tomorrow.”
“Oh?” Dolly said. “That’s nice.”
“I thought so,” Senator Munson said. “He didn’t, at first, but I think he does now.”
“Are you proud of it?” Dolly asked, and Bob Munson leaned close to her ear. “Sometimes I wonder,” he said, “whether I was wise to give you the right to ask me questions like that.”
“You’d be in a bad way if there wasn’t anybody who could,” Dolly said swiftly, and turned back to offer a cordial, “So nice to see you,” to the Attorney General and his wife, looking as always small, neat and secretive. Just behind them there was a slight commotion and on a burst of cold air, a wave of perfume, and the little extra excitement that always accompanied their entrance no matter what the troubles of their ancient and indomitable land, the British Ambassador and his lady swept into view, accompanied by their colleagues from across the Channel.
“Dear Kitty!” Dolly said as they kissed, “Dear Celestine, dear Raoul, dear Claude. It is so nice to see you.”
“It’s starting to snow,” Kitty announced excitedly. “Do you suppose we will all be able to get back home all right? Washington gets so confused when it snows.”
“If you leave right now,” Dolly said with a smile, “I’m sure you can make it.”
“Not for hours,” Lady Maudulayne said gaily. “Not for hours. Claude has too many people to see and I enjoy your parties too much. Isn’t that right, Claude?”
“I think the latter reason is the more diplomatic,” Lord Maudulayne said. “Don’t let people know I’m here on business, Kitty. It destroys all my effectiveness.”
“These British!” Raoul said dryly, while Celestine smiled and said nothing in her characteristic way. “Do they take nothing seriously?”
“Lord, I hope not!” Claude Maudulayne said with his abrupt laugh. “We’d all have shot ourselves long before this if we had. But here is Bob, too, how nice.”
“Claude,” Senator Munson said cordially, “Raoul, ladies, it’s good to see you.” Then he said to the men with calculated abruptness, “Why don’t we let them gossip while we go talk about Bob Leffingwell?”
“Senator Munson,” Raoul Barre observed, “manages to be subtle in the most unsubtle way.”
“It usually works, too,” Bob Munson said, and Lord Maudulayne chuckled.
“So it does,” he said. “Well, lead us to the drinks first, and then we’ll talk, eh, Raoul?”
“Indeed, he overwhelms us so we have no choice,” the French Ambassador said amicably. “Farewell, ladies. Watch out for Dolly. She and the Senator have an entente cordiale that I believe extends to matters of state as well. She will be working on you as hard as he works on us.”
“Anyone who can make Kitty and Celestine tell something they don’t want to tell is pretty good,” Dolly said with a laugh, “and I’m not. You needn’t worry, Raoul.”
“How nice we are all old friends,” Raoul said, patting her cheek. “All these little lies serve only to draw us closer together.”
“Run along with Bob,” Dolly told him, “and have a good time.”
“In your house,” Raoul said with a bow, “always. Always.”
There were now, Bob Munson noted as he linked one arm with Lord Maudulayne and the other with his colleague and steered them toward the nearest bar, approximately two hundred of Dolly’s expected three in the house, and Vagaries was beginning to resound with their babble. Three orchestras were playing, one in the enormous living room, one in the great glassed-in sun porch and one in the ballroom upstairs, and there was a sort of loud, reverberating roar flooding the mansion, compounded of three different popular tunes going loudly at the same time, the thump of feet dancing, chandeliers tinkling, ice clinking, and everywhere amiable voices, getting increasingly loud and fuzzy, talking, talking, talking. He could sense already from the relaxed and easy tone of things that the party was very likely going to last until three, if not later, and as the two ambassadors got their drinks and he switched quietly to plain ginger ale he decided that much could be done about the nomination before it was over. At the door he saw Orrin and Beth Knox arriving with Brigham and Mabel Anderson, to be followed immediately by Lafe Smith, traveling alone, and Seab Cooley, arriving with Arly and Helen Richardson. Crystal Danta came in with Hal Knox, George and Helen Keating followed, and in a moment Tom and Anna August entered just ahead of the Ryans, the Welches, and the Andrews’, who, their official differences on the Federal Reserve bill forgotten, arrived together in a merry group. Elsewhere in the room he could see Alexander and Mary Chabot of Louisiana talking animatedly to Allen and Evelyn Whiteside, and in the crush on the great winding staircase toward which he was leading his two companions he saw Winthrop of Massachusetts and his horsey, charming wife talking to Victor and Hazel Ennis, who looked hearty and a little tight, while behind them Fred Cahill of Missouri was struggling upwards with four drinks clutched desperately in his hands toward his wife and Luis and Concepción Valdez of New Mexico, who were hemmed in at the top of the stairs. The Senate was well represented already, and would be more so before long. He waved heartily to them all across the surging crowd and was about to take his captive diplomats up the stairs to Dolly’s private study when he felt a nudge and looked around to find the Majority whip and their ebullient colleague from West Virginia beaming at his side.
“Where are you taking Claude and Raoul?” Hal Fry demanded, while Stanley Danta smiled pleasantly upon them. “And why can’t we be invited?”
“I think it’s a case of high-level rape, old boy,” Lord Maudulayne said cheerfully. “We no sooner got in than we were told to come talk about Bob Leffingwell. Who wants to talk about Bob Leffingwell? Must we face these international crises day after day? Is there never a letup? Of course you’re invited.”
“The President was trying to reach you, Bob,” Senator Danta said. “He said Howie Sheppard just phoned and said he was going to make the opening statement for Bob tomorrow morning.”
“What a nice idea,” Senator Munson said in a pleased tone. “That’s very generous of Howie.”
“Very,” Stanley Danta said with just enough dryness in his voice so that Raoul Barre immediately looked as alert as a terrier. Senator Munson smiled expansively.
“If you see Howie around,” he said, “you tell him how pleased I am, will you? He’s a real member of the team and we won’t forget it.”
“Indeed I will,” Stanley said impassively. “Are we interrupting something?”
“Not a bit of it,” Bob Munson said. “Just a chat about things. Why don’t you round up Orrin and Brig and maybe Tom August and drop up to the study pretty soon? Don’t make it obvious, but when you can.”
“No, no,” Raoul Barre said quickly, “by all means don’t make it obvious, Stanley. Only one hundred and seventy-seven people by conservative count are watching us at this very moment. Don’t make it obvious.”
“Nonsense,” Senator Munson said firmly. “You French always exaggerate. As for you, Hal, why don’t you see if you can find your UN pal from the Mysterious East and bring him along too? I’ve talked to him once already, but more won’t hurt.”
“I’m glad Kitty isn’t in on this,” Claude Maudulayne murmured. “She despises K.K.”
“A great statesman,” Senator Fry said gravely. “A beacon light of Asia. At least I think that’s what you called him in that Press Club speech, Claude.”
Lord Maudulayne smiled blandly.
“You tend to your Republic,” he advised, “and we’ll tend to our Commonwealth. But do go get him, Hal. Nothing spices up a discussion like K.K.’s syntax.”
“Brother, do I know it,” Senator Fry said dryly. “I’ll get him.”
“I’ll get the others,” Senator Danta added.
“Good,” Senator Munson said. “We’ll see you up there in fifteen minutes.”
“Right,” Stanley said.
Looking back as he and the Ambassadors proceeded slowly through the crush up the great winding stairway, Bob Munson could see that there were indeed quite a few who watched them go, and upon them all he turned a cordial and noncommittal smile. Across the room he could see the Secretary of Defense talking earnestly to Charlie Dale, the missile boss, and just beyond he caught a glimpse of Justice Davis arguing vigorously with the editor of the Star. Nearby, the director of the FBI was chatting genially with the Secretary of Commerce and his wife, and in a bay window to their left, surrounded by the Ambassador of Lebanon and several miscellaneous princes from Saudi Arabia, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency and two of the primmer male members of his far-flung crew of motley misfits were passing the time of day. Dolly was looking refreshed and as though she had gotten a second wind from somewhere, and just before they turned the curve in the stairs and lost the room from view he saw Vasily Tashikov and his frumpy consort come in, causing a little stir among the guests. He would have to talk to Tashikov, too, but that was a sparring match that would have to wait until later; he could see from the Soviet Ambassador’s quick start of recognition and little ironic smile as their eyes met and he observed the three of them that it would be a ticklish and probably unprofitable proceeding. So he shrugged and waved and, chatting pleasantly with his companions, led them down the second floor hallway past the ballroom and the library to Dolly’s study, where he closed the door firmly on the roar of the party, made sure the bar was well stocked, and then turned abruptly to his guests.
“Fellows,” he said candidly, “what should I do?”
The Ambassadors looked startled, looked at one another, and laughed.
“You Americans,” Raoul Barre said pleasantly, “what a race. Such a combination of indirection and candor. Sometimes you tell us nothing and next thing we know you have thrown yourselves upon our mercy. What are we ever to make of you?”
“It is puzzling, isn’t it?” Bob Munson admitted with a grin. “Let’s say our mutual aim should be enough understanding to get along and not enough to get in each others’ hair.”
“We haven’t always been sure of that with Howie Sheppard, old boy,” Claude Maudulayne observed. “Sometimes his aim has seemed to go much beyond that. Moralisms in one hand and missiles in the other, what? It has been a little disturbing at times.”
“That’s exactly it,” Senator Munson said, seizing the opening. “I think that’s probably why the President has wanted to make a change there for some time. I think he was beginning to get a little disturbed, too.”
“Oh, it was not health, then,” Raoul said. “I did not think so, right along.”
“No,” Senator Munson said, “it was not health. It was a concession to our good friends in Europe, believe it or not. Sometimes we do take your opinions into account, Raoul.”
“When we unite and make it impossible for you to ignore them, yes,” the French Ambassador remarked. Senator Munson gave a little bow.
“So it appears,” he said. “Our only hope on such occasions is that you know what you are doing and aren’t getting us into something that may weaken the whole Western position and give our friends in Moscow an irrecoverable advantage. You’re quite sure,” he added tartly, “that this is never the case?”
“Even in your own country,” Raoul Barre said calmly, “there is much sentiment for a new accommodation.”
“There really is, you know,” Lord Maudulayne offered casually. “I just got back from a speaking tour last week, you know, Seattle, San Francisco, L.A., Denver, Des Moines, Chicago, Philadelphia. The feeling was quite obvious all along.”
“I know it is,” Bob Munson admitted, “and I know you all will take advantage of it to pressure us as much as you can. I repeat, though, you’re quite sure of what you’re doing, you really know it’s the wisest course?”
“Who knows what is wisest in this troubled age?” the French Ambassador asked with a moody shrug.
“Some people pretend to,” Senator Munson said sharply. “Or so it seems to us.”
“My dear chap,” Claude Maudulayne said with an asperity of his own, “it is not that anybody pretends anything. It is simply that we are very old peoples who have been warring with one another for a very long time and we have developed certain instincts about what can and cannot be done over all these long centuries. I think our record stands well when it comes to the pinch.”
“Oh, indeed,” Bob Munson conceded, “except that you have so often waited until the pinch really pinched before you did anything about it.”
“And that has not been your policy?” Raoul Barre asked shrewdly. “I do not recall America at the barricades leading us on so very often in advance of the pinch, as you put it.”
“We’ve tried,” Senator Munson said, a trifle bleakly. “Since the last war particularly, we’ve tried. We haven’t your talent for leadership, maybe,” he said to Claude, “or your talent for realism, maybe,” he said to Raoul, “but we’ve tried. In our bumbling, blundering, well-meaning way, God knows we’ve tried. It isn’t entirely our fault if somewhere along the way it’s all seemed to go wrong.”
“Good intentions,” the French Ambassador said with a sigh. “How seldom they go hand in hand with reality.”
“And now it’s reality to give in to the Russians?” Senator Munson asked. “I cannot believe it.”
“Not exactly, no,” Lord Maudulayne said thoughtfully. “Not exactly. There again, to quote Raoul, you Americans. You oversimplify. You want it black and white. It isn’t black and white.”
“God knows,” Senator Munson replied, “that anybody who has an active knowledge and experience of United States politics knows that things aren’t black and white. But sometime, somehow, there has to come a time on nearly every issue when they are, when you’re either for something or against it, when you’re either with somebody or opposing him. That is what I think we have been searching for in international affairs ever since the war—that moment. And we don’t feel you have helped us much to find it.”
“Sometimes such moments are very small and very quick,” Raoul Barre said softly. “Sometimes they come in a second’s time, in some small aspect of events almost lost amid the general rush of things, here and gone before we hardly know it, only revealing later in their awful consequences how pivotal they were. Who knows if America’s moment has not passed? Ours has,” he finished, so bitterly that Lord Maudulayne made a movement of protest.
“Oh, not yet, old chap,” he said firmly. “Not yet, if we can all stick together.”
“Well, there we are again,” Bob Munson said. “How, and for what goal? It seems to us right now that the goal seems to be complete surrender to the enemy.”
“There you go,” Claude Maudulayne said. “The enemy. With us, you see, enemies are not enemies until—”
“Until they are bombing your cities,” Senator Munson said bitterly. “Yes, indeed. Well, not for us, thank you. We prefer to get them catalogued a little earlier than that.”
“But what an inconsistent catalogue,” Raoul Barre suggested gently, “and how temporary. Down with the Boche, up with the Boche, down with the Japs, up with the Japs, down with Russia … up with Russia? Who can say? With us, you see, once an enemy, always an enemy, no matter what the niceties later, which is why we have found it difficult to moralize our way from position to position with you. If you wish to use the Germans for your purposes, well and good, but do not tell us they are not Germans anymore, because we know it is not so.”
“And are the Russians any different?” Senator Munson demanded. “What makes them friends now?”
“Senator, Senator!” Claude Maudulayne protested. “They are not friends. They are never friends. They are an uncomfortably strong force at the moment which must be handled with care, not with bludgeons.”
“Very well,” Bob Munson said. “I give up. You should be happy with Bob Leffingwell, I take it. From these speeches of his lately, I would guess that he favors an accommodation sufficient to satisfy even you.”
The British Ambassador looked at his colleague a trifle hopelessly and Raoul Barre shrugged.
“I do not know—” He began, but what he did not know was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“I’ll get it,” Senator Munson said, and Raoul took advantage of his doing so to murmur, “You see?” to Claude Maudulayne, who murmured, “Difficult,” back. Hal Fry came in with his colleagues and Krishna Khaleel and a certain wary cordiality settled back over the room.
“There is some conspiracy here?” the Indian Ambassador asked with a jocular air which did not quite conceal his suspicion that there really was. “I am glad I have been considered worthy to be included.”
“Nothing of the sort, old chap,” Lord Maudulayne said comfortably. “Just a little talk away from all the hubbub. Bob Leffingwell and all that, you know.”
“Ah,” Krishna Khaleel said knowingly. “I might have guessed. Our dear old Bob never rests. He has a job to do, to get this man confirmed, and he will not rest until it is accomplished. Admirable, is it not, Mr. Ambassador?”
This form of address, which always surprised Claude Maudulayne a little considering the number of times he and his Commonwealth colleague had conferred on matters of mutual interest, almost provoked him to say something which he knew would be a very serious mistake. He almost suggested that K.K. relax; but he knew with a calm certainty that in his presence K.K. would never relax, that in the presence of the British it would be generations before any educated Indian could really relax, that there would always be this self-conscious, faintly hostile, faintly cringing relationship, and in spite of himself he felt a mild but satisfied contempt. Yes, he thought, you’re top dogs now, aren’t you, but there’s one thing you’ll never really have no matter how desperately you want it, and you know it, and that’s our respect. And because he knew that K.K. knew pretty much what he was thinking he threw his arm around the Indian Ambassador’s bony shoulders with an extra cordiality and informed him jovially, “Actually, we’ve been settling the problems of the world, K.K., and we need your help. Raoul and I have been trying to educate our American friend in the niceties of dealing with the Russians and he will have none of it. Now he has reinforcements and I suppose will have even less of it.”
“I see,” K.K. said, disengaging himself slowly but firmly, “perhaps then it is well I have come. It is most important for us what our friends of this great republic do in this matter, which is the only matter in the world, for that matter.”
“Important for us too, Mr. Ambassador,” Orrin Knox said crisply, mixing himself a whisky and soda and settling into a leather armchair. “We would like to know where you stand on it, if you don’t mind telling us.”
“Always so abrupt,” Raoul murmured and flashed a smile at the Indian Ambassador which seemed to make him feel better about the whole thing. Senator Fry handed him a bourbon and water and he sat down in a rather gingerly way on the outsize sofa. Then he looked blandly around the circle and inquired gently, “But where is Mr. Tashikov?”
“Mr. Tashikov wasn’t invited,” Bob Munson said coldly. “He’s somewhere downstairs if you want to talk to him later and tell him all about it.”
“Oh, now,” Tom August said in his soft, worried way, “I’m sure Mr. Khaleel wouldn’t do anything like that. He was just inquiring, Bob.”
“Of course, old boy,” Claude Maudulayne said, growing heartier by the second in an attempt to stave off tension, “of course, now. He was just curious.”
“I thought I would arrange a gathering of friends and talk about Bob Leffingwell a little,” Senator Munson said in an easier tone. “I didn’t realize it would turn into a full-scale debate on foreign policy or maybe I would have invited Tashikov too, K.K.” Then his tone hardened again and he said impatiently, “However, that’s just diversionary and we all know it, so why don’t you answer Orrin’s question?”
“I do not see,” Krishna Khaleel said, turning visibly pale and speaking in a high, persistent voice, “why it would be improper to have Mr. Tashikov here. Certainly he is involved in this matter, no one more so. Why should he not be?”
“It wouldn’t work and you know it, K.K.,” Hal Fry said.
“I do not see—” K.K. began stubbornly again, and suddenly Bob Munson made an angry motion.
“Somebody go get him, for Christ’s sake,” he said angrily, “and stop this childish nonsense. Go get him, Brig. He’s down there somewhere. Tell him we’re deciding which of his cities to drop an H-bomb on and we want his advice.”
For a second the Indian Ambassador looked genuinely alarmed, and both Raoul Barre and Claude Maudulayne made protesting gestures. Senator Knox remained expressionless, Senator August looked perturbed, and Senator Anderson and Senator Fry exchanged a quick glance. Senator Danta reached over calmly and jogged the Majority Leader’s glass.
“Ginger ale,” he said reprovingly. “I knew it, Bobby. Whenever you get on that stuff there’s no holding you. Why don’t you switch to bourbon and sober up?”
“I say,” Lord Maudulayne said quickly, “I wondered what it was, right along.”
“I had my suspicions, too,” Raoul Barre said, “but I didn’t want to say anything.”
“We try to keep it away from him,” Hal Fry remarked, “but he finds it in spite of us.”
At this the Majority Leader, after a moment’s hesitation, laughed somewhat ruefully with the rest and held out his hand to the Indian Ambassador.
“I’m sorry, K.K.,” he said. “I’ve had a long day. You’re entirely right, of course. I don’t think it will accomplish anything, but if you want him here, we’ll have him.”
Krishna Khaleel smiled with somewhat shaky benignity, looking, as did they all, considerably relieved.
“Dear old Bob,” he said, shaking hands rather nervously. “I know you have had a difficult time with your restless brethren of the Senate, that great body. It is past. Like you, I doubt that our forbidding colleague will have much to offer us, but it is the position of my government, even in discussions among old friends, that the door should never be closed. We should always talk, you know, in the hope of avoiding—what you said.”
“I suppose,” Bob Munson said. “Run along, Brig.”
“Whatever you say, Bob,” Senator Anderson said. The roar of the party filled the room for a quick moment as he went out the door, and it was obvious that it was going very well. It was obvious, in fact, that it was a hum-dinging, rip-snorting, hell-raising sockdolager and then some. The door closed, silence returned and with it a little awkwardness that Orrin Knox sought dutifully at once to alleviate.
“Well, Claude,” he said chattily, “I hear you had a very successful speaking tour.”
“I enjoyed it very much,” Lord Maudulayne said warmly. “It is always a pleasure to see this country.”
“You went over very well in Chicago, they tell me,” Orrin said. “Had them cheering in the streets, almost.”
“Not quite,” Claude said in a pleased tone, “but they were most hospitable.”
“I do hope you will get to Minneapolis next time,” Tom August remarked softly. “We have some very live-wire citizens out there. You, too, Mr. Barre and Mr. Khaleel. We would like to welcome you all to Minnesota.”
“That is very generous,” the French Ambassador said, “and I would like to go. Perhaps my colleague and I can go together—you know, an international trapeze act, as it were. See them leap through hoops of fire. See them walk the tightrope of international diplomacy. Hurry, hurry!”
“You are always so witty, Mr. Ambassador,” Krishna Khaleel said. “I could never compete with you on the public platform, it is obvious right here that I could not.”
“Nonsense,” Raoul said pleasantly. “You have no trouble at all being entertaining, K.K. It is a great gift. I am sure the Americans would love it.”
“As always,” the Indian Ambassador said dryly, “I am not sure how you mean the things you say, Mr. Ambassador, but in any event, if Bob would not warn them in advance—”
“I would,” Senator Munson said, making a determined effort to regain his amiability. “I’d tell them hold onto your hats and guard your silver, this man is simply the most effective diplomat we have in Washington, so watch out.”
“Flattery,” K.K. said archly. “Flattery, always.”
“Yes,” Bob Munson said wryly, “and it gets me nowhere.”
“Here they are,” Stanley Danta said abruptly, and in spite of their firmest intentions he and his colleagues could not prevent a little wary tenseness from rising in them as Senator Anderson, talking easily and cordially, ushered the Soviet Ambassador in.
At once, as Bob Munson could see, there was a subtle but definite realignment in the room. He was pleased to note that Raoul Barre seemed almost imperceptibly to move a little closer to Lord Maudulayne and that the two of them, without stirring a muscle, seemed to move a little closer to him. A certain drawing together seemed to come over his own colleagues too, as they rose to greet the newcomer. Only K.K. remained in rather lonely isolation near the sofa and there, Bob Munson thought savagely, he could damned well remain, the snotty Hindu. But outwardly he smiled and walked forward with his hand outstretched.
“Mr. Ambassador,” he said cordially, “so nice to see you.”
“And I,” Vasily Tashikov murmured, his little shrewd eyes under their heavy brows giving the entire gathering a split-second once-over. “It is not often I have the opportunity—”
“You’re always welcome,” Senator Munson said calmly. “Any time. I believe you know Senator Knox—Senator Danta—Senator August—Senator Fry. Mr. Khaleel, Mr. Barre, and Lord Maudulayne I am certain you know.”
“Ah, yes,” the Soviet Ambassador said, shaking hands with each with a quick downward motion and a tight little smile, “ah, yes. So distinguished a gathering must have some purpose in mind. Presumably it concerns my country. Yes?”
“Yes,” Bob Munson said. “It also concerns the President’s nomination of Mr. Leffingwell to be Secretary of State. You have heard of it, I assume, Mr. Ambassador.”
“The world intrudes, even on Sixteenth Street,” Tashikov said with a sudden sarcasm and a frigid little smile, and Hal Fry couldn’t resist murmuring, “Good, we weren’t sure.” The Ambassador took him up on it at once.
“Oh, but it does, Mr. Senator,” he said. “We hear many things there, of Cabinet appointments, of cultural triumphs, of economic achievements … of missile failures and troubles with allies. Is it not so?” And he looked with insolent directness at Lord Maudulayne and Raoul Barre.
“How quickly, Mr. Ambassador,” the French Ambassador remarked, “you manage to make men hate you. It is a positive genius in your great country. Do they teach it to you in school?”
“Possibly,” the Indian Ambassador interjected in a nervous tone, “possibly we should all sit down and have a drink. Would you wish one, Mr. Ambassador?”
“I seem to be the official mixer,” Hal Fry said calmly. “What will you have, Tashikov?”
“I think,” the Soviet Ambassador said, finally breaking off the stare in which neither he nor the French Ambassador had yielded, “that I would like that favorite of our good friends the British, a whisky and soda.”
“Done,” Senator Fry said, moving toward the bar, and Brigham Anderson leaned forward in his frankest and most engaging manner.
“We were wondering, Mr. Ambassador,” he said, “what your government thinks of Mr. Leffingwell and his appointment. It has created, as you are aware, some discussion in the Senate, and it seemed to us that possibly you might wish to express an opinion that would be helpful to us in our consideration of it.”
An ironic expression came over the Soviet Ambassador’s face, and he gave a quick, unamused laugh.
“Does it matter to you what the U.S.S.R. thinks?” he asked. “We were not aware it did, especially on a matter of such great import as a new Secretary of State. This is something on which I am sure the opinions of my distinguished colleagues are of much greater weight with you than mine.”
“Yes, they are,” Bob Munson agreed in a tone as cold as Tashikov’s, “but the Indian Ambassador seemed to think we should listen to you. I was against it, myself, but he insisted.”
“I only thought,” K.K. said quickly, “I only thought that it would be courteous and a matter of international comity if the Ambassador’s views should be sought out, that is all. After all, we cannot arrive at world peace if his great country is ignored in everything, is that not correct, Mr. Ambassador?”
“It has been tried,” the Soviet Ambassador observed with a certain smugness, “but it has failed.”
Senator Knox leaned forward with an impatient movement.
“Very well, Mr. Ambassador,” he said, biting off his words in a way his Senate colleagues knew, “it is not ignored now. You have your chance. We are asking. Does your government feel it can work with Mr. Leffingwell or does it not? That is a simple question.”
“Is it?” Tashikov asked, looking again at Raoul Barre. “Are these distinguished North Atlantic allies in agreement with you about it? They do not look it.”
“What do you think, Mr. Ambassador?” Orrin Knox repeated in a flat insistent tone, and Vasily Tashikov turned and looked him full in the face for a moment. Then he shrugged.
“I really do not believe it matters,” he said. “I truly do not. You are opposed to us—he will oppose us. That too is a simple equation, Mr. Senator.”
“Oh, I do think,” Tom August ventured in his soft, hesitant way, “that we all perhaps are taking too stringent a view of it, Mr. Ambassador and my colleagues. I think we should try to find some common ground and try to discuss it calmly—”
“Common ground!” the Soviet Ambassador said sharply. “Common ground! America always talks about common ground and does everything she can to destroy it. What hypocrisy, this common ground. Yes, you will have common ground, on the day you all die. Then you will have common ground.”
Into the little silence that followed Lord Maudulayne spoke deliberately in his driest, most arrogant, most patronizing, most slap-in-the-face manner.
“Oh, my dear chap,” he said slowly, “are you threatening the West again? Don’t you ever get tired of that little game? Frankly, I find it terrifically boring. We have heard it all so many, many, wearisome times. Hitler wished to give us common ground, too. We gave it to him. Now do be a good chap and try to keep this on a sensible basis, what? My government has some doubts about Mr. Leffingwell. M. Barre’s government has some doubts about Mr. Leffingwell; even Mr. Khaleel’s government confesses to some doubts about Mr. Leffingwell. Does your government have no thoughts about Mr. Leffingwell?”
“Yes, you are so clever, you British,” the Soviet Ambassador said slowly, “but you are committing suicide like the rest. We tell you and you do not wish to listen. So be it.”
“Do you favor Mr. Leffingwell or do you not favor him, Mr. Ambassador?” Raoul Barre asked softly. “That truly is the only matter we are interested in here.”
“And you, too,” Tashikov said in the same slow tone. “And you, too.”
“It is the position of my government,” Krishna Khaleel announced firmly, “that nothing is to be gained, nothing whatever is to be gained, by these exchanges of threats and recriminations. It is our policy that there must always, you see, be a frank and friendly exchange of opinions, that it is imperative for all our peoples that we consult together in harmony, that only thus, you see, can we possibly hope to save the world from a most terrible—”
“K.K.,” Bob Munson broke in as though he were talking to a little child, “can’t you understand that they don’t want to be friendly? They don’t want harmony; they don’t want things to be worked out in a peaceful way; they don’t want all this maundering crap you’re giving us. It’s their terms or nothing, and it always has been, and not all the idealistic empty-minded fools in the world can change it.”
“Oh, now,” Senator August said hurriedly, “oh, now, Senator, I do believe that is a little unfair to Mr. Tashikov and his country.”
“So do I,” the Indian Ambassador said indignantly. “My government has seen no evidence that they do not want peace and are not working toward it.”
“What?” Senator Fry said explosively. “What did you say?”
“We do not believe,” K.K. said with a sort of serene and otherworldly assurance, “that anything is to be gained by mistrust of the Soviet Union. We do not see all these things you say about them. We regard them as our friends. So do we regard you as our friends. We wish our friends to be friendly. That is the position of my government.”
“We are grateful,” the Soviet Ambassador said formally, “for the friendship of the Republic of India and for its understanding of our work for world peace.”
“You see?” Krishna Khaleel asked gently, “There is no hatred here. There is nothing but kindness for all peoples.”
“He has just been threatening us with extinction,” Raoul Barre said dryly. “That is all.”
“Words, words, words,” the Indian Ambassador said airily. “It is realities that count.”
“More than four decades of dishonor,” Lord Maudulayne said softly, “are reality enough for me.”
“Dishonor, dishonor, dishonor!” Vasily Tashikov said angrily. “You think of nothing else, you British. Does honor build submarines and make missiles fly? Does honor launch a sputnik? No, it does not. What is honor and dishonor? Words, as he says; nothing but words. You will choke on words, you weaklings of the West. We offer you friendship and you despise us. We try for accommodations and you reject us. Will it be any different,” he asked, suddenly dropping to a conversational tone, “when Mr. Leffingwell replaces Mr. Sheppard? We cannot see that it will.”
“Supposing it should,” Bob Munson said, knowing that he must suppress his feelings and concentrate on the main issue no matter how much he would like to tell the Ambassador off. “Supposing my government did wish to try another attempt at accommodation. What then?”
At once the Soviet Ambassador’s face got its usual closed-off expression and he reverted to type, the Communist automaton hiding his motives behind his automation.
“That would have to be discussed on a higher level,” he said in an emotionless tone. “I could not say what would happen.”
“It would dispose you toward Mr. Leffingwell, however?” Orrin Knox suggested with a certain irony.
“That would have to be considered,” Tashikov said, in a much milder voice.
“There, you see?” Krishna Khaleel cried triumphantly to Claude Maudulayne. “You see, Mr. Ambassador? It is as my government says. It is a matter of understanding and trust, it is a matter of seeing the other person’s point of view, it is a matter of compromise and agreement. Where are all these bugaboos we were talking about? Where is this hatred? Already we have started to make a new move for peace!”
“Let’s go down and have another drink, K.K.,” Hal Fry suggested. “I think we’ve been serious enough for one evening. Right, Tashikov?”
“By all means,” the Soviet Ambassador said, rising with a certain rigid expansiveness as though somebody had pushed the geniality-button. “It is a shame to spoil Mrs. Harrison’s lovely party with such sober sentiments. I believe it will work out, Senators and gentlemen. I believe we have had a very profitable talk. I believe we understand one another. Thank you for inviting me, Mr. Senator.”
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Ambassador,” Bob Munson said, and they formally shook hands. “Just for the looks of it, suppose you and K.K. go along, Hal, and then you and the Ambassador, Brig. The rest of us can scatter casually. No point in getting everyone interested.”
“No one, I am sure, is interested,” Tashikov said with a slight smile as he and Senator Anderson started for the door. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
“Now, you see?” Krishna Khaleel said happily after they had gone. “It was not so bad, was it, Bob? I shall tell my government of this. I shall tell them we have made a great new step toward peace, here at Dolly’s, in this beautiful house at this wonderful party. What an event!”
“Let’s go, Akbar,” Senator Fry said, steering him out. “Peace, it’s wonderful.”
“Oh, yes,” K.K. said with the flash of a shining smile, “oh, yes.”
“I think there is only one thing to say in this triumphant hour,” Raoul Barre suggested then, “and that is, how about another drink?”
“Yes,” Bob Munson said, “and it won’t be ginger ale this time, either.”
“Good,” Claude Maudulayne said cheerfully. “That’s the ticket.”
It was, as it turned out, one of the very best Spring Parties ever given at Vagaries. There had been three before it, and there were many after, but those who attended that night looked back upon it fondly as one of Dolly’s greatest triumphs. It is true, of course, that a number of people, including two Cabinet officers, three four-star generals, half a dozen distinguished members of the press, and a whole clutch of prominent civil servants proved beyond all doubt that they could get just as drunk and just as mean and just as sloppy as, say, the president of the bank and the head of Rotary and the editor of the local paper at the country club dance back home; but on the whole it was a good crowd that enjoyed itself in a good way, liquid but happy. It was a party at which you could see, among other things, the tubby little Dean of the Washington Cathedral buttonholing the Vice President of the United States to give him an earful on how vital it was that the Senate confirm Bob Leffingwell; and the Chief Justice arguing vehemently with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff on the same subject; and the counselor of the Embassy of Bolivia discussing it earnestly with the counselor of the Embassy of Ghana; and the wives of a hundred different officials, as interested and astute as their husbands, tossing it back and forth to one another in little gracefully catty and perceptive exchanges. It was a party at which the caterer’s representative informed the hostess shortly after midnight that as of that hour her guests had consumed one hundred quarts of bourbon, fifty-seven quarts of scotch, two hundred cases of ginger ale and soda, five hundred pounds of ice, and approximately $5,000 worth of hors d’oeuvres, turkey, ham, chicken, celery, olives, salads, and marrons glacés.
It was a party, also, at which Lord Maudulayne, meeting Raoul Barre later during a pause in the dancing in the ballroom, remarked abruptly, “I did not like that,” and the French Ambassador agreed soberly, “The change was too quick.”
And at which Senator August, talking worriedly to Senator Danta, said, “You don’t suppose he was really offended with us, do you?”
And Senator Fry, running into Senator Anderson soon after midnight, said, “By God, I’m not sure I like the way this is going,” and Senator Anderson replied quietly, “I’m worried, Hal.”
And Senator Knox, threading his way through the seated, eating couples on the great staircase, passed Senator Cooley and murmured, “Something to tell you tomorrow that may have some bearing.”
And Krishna Khaleel, driving grandly off in his chauffeured limousine at 1 AM and heading straight for his Embassy, routed his secretary out of bed, and dictated an immediate cable to New Delhi hailing the start of a new rapprochement between Russia and the West.
And Vasily Tashikov, leaving with his lady a few moments after, went to his Embassy and told his government to prepare another démarche because the United States was softening again.
And Bob Munson, thinking of the implications of that talk in the study and all its ramifications and what they meant for his country and the world, suddenly said, “Oh, God damn it to hell!” in a loud voice that startled two admirals, a general, and the head of the National Science Foundation, all of whom had thought he was paying close attention to their rambling explanation of the latest missile failure.
And it was also the party at which the Majority Leader had a brief conversation with Lafe Smith which he remembered rather fondly later because it served to bring him closer to that rising young colleague, concerned nothing more earth-shaking or profound or terribly worrisome than Lafe’s own private specialty, and served to precipitate a decision for later in the night which proved to be, as always, most enjoyable.
“You see that girl in green over there?” the Senator from Iowa asked him shortly after 2 AM, appearing at his elbow from nowhere with a glass in his hand. “She’s looking. I think I’ll let her find me before the evening is over.”
“Well, be careful,” Senator Munson said. Senator Smith smiled.
“Oh, I will,” he said. “Morals are a professional matter in Washington, you know, and I’m good at my profession.”
“What do you get out of it, really?” Bob Munson asked curiously. “Anything you really give a damn about?”
Lafe Smith stopped smiling and gave him an oblique glance.
“No,” he said soberly; and then, with a grin, “but you wouldn’t want me to play with myself, would you?”
“Don’t you ever want anything better?” Senator Munson asked, and a curious expression came into his young friend’s eyes; haunted, Bob Munson thought.
“Of course I want something better, Bob,” he said softly, “but it’s too late for me. I’ve never had a chance. It started too early and it came too easy. People have been at me since I was eleven years old, all shapes, sizes, and sexes. I never had the opportunity to get started on the right track about sex. They all made it so simple for me. Everybody was so helpful. It’s too late now.”
“Maybe not,” Bob Munson said gently.
“I think so,” Lafe said, “though God knows why I’m telling you about it all of a sudden. Except that you’re the great Earth Father of us all.” His voice, already low, went abruptly lower. He smiled, but his voice remained serious. “You watch yourself with Dolly, buddy. There’s beginning to be talk.”
“Is there?” Senator Munson said. “Maybe I’ll marry the girl and fool them all.”
“I wish you would, Bob,” Lafe Smith said seriously. “I’d like to see you settle down.”
After which he had the grace to join in Bob Munson’s delighted whoop of laughter before he clapped him on the back, murmured, “So goes the lemming once more to the sea,” and began his casual, aimless, indirect and rather frighteningly determined stalk of the girl in green.
* * *
And so it was that still later, sometime around three, after the last guest had said a fuzzy goodbye and begun the slow, ticklish drive home through the deepening snow, one of Washington’s most prominent hostesses did leave her back door unlocked, after all, and she and the Majority Leader of the United States Senate did forget their sense of the ridiculous, and it was all very pleasant. And the snow came down quietly, softly, steadily, persistently on the wide deserted streets and lonely stone monuments and great gray buildings of the beautiful city of Bob Munson and Bob Leffingwell and Tom August and Stanley Danta and Brigham Anderson and Seab Cooley and Orrin Knox and Harley Hudson and the President and Vasily Tashikov and Raoul Barre and Claude Maudulayne and Krishna Khaleel and Tom Jefferson standing by the Tidal Basin and Old Abe enshrined forever in his temple by the Potomac.