7
Eight hours later, of course, everybody was back in business, and the joint was jumping. Tom August had called the special Saturday meeting of the Foreign Relations Committee for 11 AM, and when Bob Munson arrived at the door of the Caucus Room at ten forty-five it was to be greeted by the usual uproar of a major hearing in that fabled setting where so many of American history’s most dramatic productions have been presented. All around the great marble room with its Corinthian pillars and its great windows on the east side opening on the sky there was the hectic turmoil of getting ready, the television technicians fussing with their machines off to one side, the news photographers taking their light readings at the witness chair, committee clerks moving in and out around the long committee table, an overflow audience filling every chair and standing along the walls and at the back, the news reporters moving in easily to take their seats at the long press tables amid many jokes and wisecracks and the customary exchanges of friends gathering for a job they have done many times before and know they will do many times again. How much of all their lives, Senator Munson thought, had been spent in the Senate Caucus Room; how many, many hours of testimony and investigation, high tragedy and tin-pot comedy, frequently hectic and shabby, as America is hectic and shabby, but sometimes moving and noble, as America is moving and noble. The raw stuff of the government and the country came to the Caucus Room month in, month out, year in, year out, an unending pageant of idealism, veniality, astuteness, stupidity, selfishness, selflessness, failure, and achievement; and this time, he knew, the only difference was that extra excitement, that little edge of extra electric tension that came when participants and audience knew that something of really major import was under way.
* * *
The cop at the door waved him through with a cordial, “Good morning, Senator,” and he started along the aisle past the press tables toward the committee table. The Providence Journal and the Dallas News hailed him at once, and immediately the wire services, the Times, the Herald Tribune, the Star, and the Chicago Tribune crowded around. He found himself holding an impromptu press conference before he knew it, a fact which he noted did not particularly please Tom August, already sitting rather forlornly in his chair at the center of the committee table. For some reason the press didn’t seem to have much respect for Tom, and he was sure Tom didn’t have the slightest inkling why.
“What’s the truth of this, Senator?” the Times asked, holding out a copy of the Herald Tribune and pointing somewhat accusingly to a story at the top of the page. Under the headline SECRET CONCLAVE OKAYS LEFFINGWELL NOMINATION; RUSS, INDIANS, ALLIES GIVE GO-AHEAD ON NEW SECRETARY, it disclosed that something mighty fishy had gone on at Mrs. Phelps Harrison’s party last night. The author of the story obviously didn’t know exactly what, but by keeping his eyes open and his intuition untrammeled, by mixing a scrap of information with a hunk of conjecture and building twenty bricks with two pieces of straw, he had managed to come up with a good, sound, typical piece of informed Washington correspondence. The import was that “Russ, Indians, Allies” had given a ringing endorsement to Bob Leffingwell and therefore “it was believed” that this made his immediate confirmation by the Senate a foregone conclusion. Bob Munson glanced at it with a skeptical smile.
“Yes, I saw it,” he said. “Very enterprising, I thought.”
“Is it true, Senator?” the Baltimore Sun demanded. Senator Munson smiled.
“It’s very interesting,” he said.
“Well, we know you were at Mrs. Harrison’s,” the Times remarked, “and we know all the diplomatic crowd was, too. It could have happened.”
“So were several people from the New York Times,” Senator Munson said blandly. “Don’t you know whether it happened or not?”
“We’re asking you, Bob,” the AP said in a heavy-handed way, determined not to be diverted. The Majority Leader smiled again.
“I really couldn’t say,” he said. “I remember seeing one or two of the people mentioned there at the party, but that piece draws quite a few conclusions I wouldn’t want to draw.”
“That’s all right,” the Providence Journal assured him. “We can get it from the embassies.”
“Let me know what you think it adds up to, if you do,” Bob Munson said pleasantly and turned to greet Winthrop of Massachusetts, coming along the aisle in quick-humored dignity behind him.
“Win,” he said, “tell these boys the real inside story of what went on at Dolly’s, will you?”
“Lots of drinkin’ and lots of talkin’,” John Winthrop said with amiable crispness. “Don’t know what kind of a story you can get out of that, boys.”
“That’s what I told ’em,” Bob Munson said. “We’d better stop blocking the aisle.”
“We’ll ask the embassies,” the Baltimore Sun called after them as they turned away and moved toward the committee table.
“Ask them,” Bob Munson tossed back over his shoulder. “And be damned to you,” he added under his breath. Senator Winthrop chuckled.
“Ah, ah, ah, Bobby,” he said. “You didn’t really think you could keep anything like that quiet, did you?”
“I thought we might try,” the Majority Leader said as he took his seat next to the chairman and Senator Winthrop started to move along to the minority side.
“I suppose K.K. will spill the whole thing when they get to him,” he added, “but at least they’ll have to work for it. Good morning, Tom.”
“Good morning, Bob,” Senator August said in his gentle way. “I hope you’re feeling better this morning.”
“I wasn’t aware I was feeling poorly,” the Majority Leader said. The senior Senator from Minnesota gave him a sidelong glance.
“I meant, I hope your mood is better,” he said. Senator Munson snorted.
“Perfectly fine,” he said, “perfectly fine. I hope you didn’t think I was too harsh with anybody.”
Senator August shifted uneasily in his chair.
“I did think,” he said in a tone of soft reproach, “that you were a little harsh with both Mr. Khaleel and Mr. Tashikov. I did feel it might tend to make things a little more difficult—”
“More difficult, hell,” Bob Munson said shortly. “Sometimes I think that’s the way we ought to talk to them all the time.”
“Oh, now, Bob,” Tom August said in a genuinely shocked tone, “I don’t think that’s a wise way to feel at all. I really don’t. If they get the feeling that we mistrust them all the time and won’t accept their word when they want to negotiate—”
“Thomas,” Senator Munson said, “sometimes you amaze me. That’s all I can say, you amaze me.”
“But Bob—” Senator August protested. Senator Munson looked firm.
“I don’t want to discuss it,” he said aloofly. “I have troubles enough.”
“But, Bob,” Tom August said apologetically, “I only meant—”
“I know what you meant, Tom,” the Majority Leader said, unyielding. “I know very well what you meant. Next thing I know, you’ll be calling me a warmonger. I believe that’s the jargon word, isn’t it?”
“Oh, but, Bob,” Tom August tried again, “I only meant that you should be a little more diplomatic with them. They don’t understand our way of dealing sometimes and—”
“They understand that way a damned sight better than they do being wishy-washy, I can tell you that,” Senator Munson said. “Anyway, we’ll talk about it some other time. There comes Arly, and I suppose that means trouble.”
“Oh, I hope not,” Tom August said in an alarmed tone. “I have troubles enough.”
“That’s what I just said,” Bob Munson reminded him. He could see that the long, lean, and sardonic senior Senator from Arkansas had been stopped by the press and had just uttered something that had positively killed them all. At that moment Arly’s eye fell on the Majority Leader and with a happy wave he called across the twenty feet separating them, “Say, Bobby, I hear you had quite a row with Tashikov last night?”
Senator Munson waved back blandly.
“Thanks, pal,” he said. “Don’t believe everything you hear.”
“Not in this town,” Arly said, coming forward to take his seat on the majority side of the committee table while the press crowded up to listen and the photographers gathered around on the off-chance that this long standing and famous feud might produce some unexpected action. “Not in this town. They tell me it was pretty hot and heavy, though. The Indian Ambassador, too.” He stretched out an arm and gave Bob Munson a clap on the back. “What were you doing, anyway, straightening things out with the whole UN?”
“Somebody has to put things in proper perspective,” Bob Munson said, smiling in a noncommittal way at the eagerly attentive press. “God knows they’re plenty confused.”
Arly Richardson chuckled.
“Run along, boys,” he advised with his lantern-jawed smile. “Run along. You can see he isn’t going to confirm or deny. That’s our Bob.”
“That was pretty cute,” the Majority Leader told him as the reporters went back to their tables. “Thanks so much, pal.”
“I was just curious,” Senator Richardson said blandly. “I heard all these things and I wanted to know, Robert. That’s all.”
“Yeah,” Bob Munson said dryly. “Where were you yesterday? We missed you.”
“I’ll bet you did,” Arly Richardson said. “I saw that you had quite a rumpus. Unfortunately I got tied up at the Federal Trade Commission. One of my constituents has gotten himself into a hassle with them and I had to be there to give him moral support. Nothing I could do, of course, but he felt better with me holding his hand.”
“Do they ever realize how much they demand of us?” Bob Munson asked with a sigh. “Decide high policy, legislate for the good of the country, run the government, and play nursemaid to them, too? How do they expect us to do any of it well?”
“They don’t realize,” Senator Richardson said with the wry knowledge of one who had held national office for twenty years. “All they realize is that if we don’t want to do it there are plenty of people who will.”
“You are so right,” Senator Munson said. “Did you get it straightened out?”
“One of those damned things where the Commission decided to hold hearings,” Arly said, “and you know what that means. It will probably take months.”
“A damned shame,” Bob Munson said sympathetically.
“But life,” Senator Richardson said, and then added with a capital, “Life.… By the way,” he remarked, as there came a little bustle at the door and Johnny DeWilton, looking stately and white-topped and every inch the United States Senator, came in with Verne Cramer, looking rather small and inconspicuous and just on the verge, as always, of saying something disrespectful and/or subversive to overpompous authority, “somebody was telling me that Bob Leffingwell wouldn’t appear today. What’s the matter?”
“I hadn’t heard that,” Bob Munson said ominously, “but he’d damned well better.”
“Yes, he should,” Senator Richardson said thoughtfully. “I have a few things to ask.”
“Friendly, I hope,” Bob Munson said, and Arly Richardson smiled in his sardonic way.
“I’ll bet you hope,” he said. “No, Bobby, I’m not so sure they will be friendly.”
“I thought I could count on you, at least,” Senator Munson said with a sardonic expression of his own, and Senator Richardson looked genuinely amused for a second.
“Maybe you can and maybe you can’t,” he said, “but in any event, there are some things I want to know from our great and distinguished nominee, and I intend to find out. Then maybe I’ll be for him. I got a couple of strange complaints in my mail and telegrams this morning.”
“Cranks,” Bob Munson said.
“Maybe,” Arly said. “Maybe not. One thing I do want to know, though, is what you actually did say to Tashikov and K.K.”
“Nothing they didn’t deserve,” Senator Munson said shortly. “Good morning, Johnny. Hi, Verne.”
“Good morning, Bob,” Senator DeWilton said, stopping by his chair. “This is a hell of a situation.”
“What’s the matter?” Senator Munson asked. “Don’t you like these little surprises from the White House?”
Senator DeWilton snorted and Verne Cramer put a friendly hand on Bob Munson’s shoulder.
“You know Johnny,” he said, “always getting upset. Now I thought it was double extra peachy, myself.”
“It’s good to know I can count on you,” Senator Munson said, reaching back suddenly and poking him in the solar plexus. “Good boy!”
“God damn!” Verne Cramer said, doubling over on a burst of laughter. “Don’t do that. What will the tourists think?”
“That’s Bobby’s way of smoothing your feelings and getting your vote,” Arly Richardson offered. “It’s supposed to make you think we’re all big buddies and nobody’s really going to get mad at anybody.”
“Everybody’s going to get mad at everybody this time,” Senator DeWilton said abruptly. “Come on, Verne. Let’s go sit down.”
“Please do,” Bob Munson said. “The chairman looks a little nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” Tom August protested. “I just wonder where everybody is.”
“They’ll be here,” Senator Cramer assured him. “Even Lafe is going to get out of bed to get here for this one.”
“That depends on who he’s in bed with,” Arly Richardson said, and Tom August looked shocked and disapproving. At that moment the junior Senator from Iowa appeared at the door and, catching them all staring at him with quickened interest, flashed a big grin across the room, and hurried up to the committee table.
“No, I didn’t,” he announced in a conversational tone. “She was an absolute lemon, and I just didn’t.”
“Now that,” Verne Cramer said, “if our friends in the press only knew, is news.”
“I never knew you failed,” Senator Richardson said, and Lafe Smith snorted.
“Lots of things people don’t know about me, pal,” he said crisply. “I hear Leffingwell isn’t going to be here, Bob. One of the press boys just told me they got a note on the wire. He’s got the virus, so he says.”
“So he says,” Senator Munson said tartly. “Well, Tom, I guess we’ll just have to go ahead without him. Where’s Howie?”
“He called at ten thirty and said he’d be here on time,” Senator August said. “I guess he’ll have to be the only witness today.”
“Well,” Bob Munson said, turning his back on Arly Richardson and leaning close to Tom August’s ear as the others took their regular seats along the table, “if you can manage it, Tom, I’d try to break it off after Howie appears, if I were you. It won’t work, but make a stab at it, anyway.”
“I know what to do,” Senator August said with some impatience. “You don’t have to tell me. After all, I’m the chairman.”
“So you are, Tom,” Bob Munson said soothingly, “so you are. I suppose you’ll have some opening statement to make—”
“I have a letter from Bob Leffingwell to read,” Tom August said, with an expression of what could only, for him, be called sly triumph.
“You knew all along!” the Majority Leader exclaimed with an admiring smile, and Senator August looked somewhat mollified.
“I trust I have some discretion,” he said in a pleased tone.
“You certainly do, Tom,” Bob Munson said approvingly. “I told the President he could trust you implicitly on this.”
“I believe he can,” Senator August said proudly.
“And on everything else, too,” Bob Munson said, even more approvingly.
“Watch out, Tom,” Arly Richardson said around Senator Munson’s shoulder. “You’re getting Snow Job No. 1 with all the trimmings.”
“God damn it,” Bob Munson said with real anger in his voice, “will you mind your own business? Tom and I are talking and we don’t want you butting in. That’s Brig’s chair, anyway. Why don’t you go where you belong?”
“That’s right, Senator,” Tom August said with dignity. “Please don’t interrupt the Majority Leader and me.”
“Well, all right, Senator,” Arly Richardson said in a mocking tone, “my apologies, I’m sure, Senator,” and he turned away and went to his own seat with a spiteful air.
“Well, well,” murmured AP to UPI at the press table, “did you see that?”
“I don’t blame Bob,” UPI said. “I get damned sick and tired of Richardson myself. He isn’t half as cute as he thinks he is.”
“He’s a born troublemaker,” the Dallas News agreed. “Here comes Brig. Shall we grab him?”
“He ain’t talkin’,” AP said. “I’ve tried.”
“Catch him when it’s over,” UPI advised. “He’ll have something to say after the subcommittee’s appointed.”
“Hi, Bob,” Senator Anderson said, taking his seat beside the Majority Leader. “Good morning, Tom. We seem to be playing to a full house.”
“They think there are going to be fireworks,” Bob Munson said, “but there aren’t. Tom’s going to see that everything runs like clockwork, aren’t you, Tom?”
“I have hopes we can move expeditiously,” Senator August said sedately, “as soon as the rest of the committee gets here.”
“Orrin’s on his way,” Brigham Anderson said. “He was having coffee with Stanley Danta and George Hines in the cafeteria a minute ago.”
“Here they are now,” Senator Munson said, “and here’s Warren Strickland and Ed Parrish. Now all we need is Howie.”
“I’m sure he’ll be here any minute,” Senator August said, a trifle nervously. “At least I hope he will.”
“Morning, Bobby,” Senator Strickland said as he came by the Majority Leader’s chair. “I’m sorry I had to leave early last night. Apparently things happened.”
“I’ll tell you about it,” Bob Munson promised. “You didn’t miss much.”
“That’s not the way I heard it,” Senator Strickland said with a smile.
“Everybody hears too much in this town,” Senator Munson said. “Good morning, Orrin and Stanley, George and Ed. How is everybody this morning?”
“I’m fine,” Senator Knox said shortly. “Where’s Leffingwell?”
“We’re not sure yet,” Senator Munson admitted. “He may not be here.”
“What kind of a performance is that?” Orrin Knox began angrily, but just then Brigham Anderson broke in to call their attention to a sudden stir of excitement at the door.
“Here comes the honorable Secretary with a dozen outriders as usual,” he said. “How does the State Department do it?”
And sure enough, in came Howard Sheppard in a dark blue pin-stripe suit whose cuffs and pants-legs appeared to be cut just a trifle too short for him; and in after him came ten assistants. Some were in their thirties, some were in their forties, some were in their fifties, but to them all there clung an ineffable effluvium of faintly seedy youthfulness. Some had pipes and some had briefcases and all had the same expression of secret purpose and superior knowledge; and each was clad in a dark blue pin-stripe suit whose cuffs and pants-legs appeared to be cut just a trifle too short for him.
The appearance of this familiar phalanx, the inevitable concomitant of all hearings on foreign policy, foreign aid, international catastrophe, and other matters of high import and earth-shaking significance, brought with it the customary spasm of activity among the photographers. “Mr. Chairman,” they cried to Tom August, “will you pose with the Secretary, please?” And, “Mr. Secretary,” they shouted to Howard Sheppard, “will you pose with the chairman, please?” There followed much posing and picture-taking and shouts of “One more, Mr. Chairman! Mr. Secretary, one more, please!” broken now and then by an occasional intense, “God damn it, get out of my way!” snarled in a savage tone by one of the congenial competitors to another. After ten minutes of this, during which the reporters at the press tables made their own contributions in tones loud enough to reach the milling entanglement, such as, “Christ, the damned photographers never do anything right,” and “Why in the hell do they let them in here anyway?” the room gradually settled down again and it appeared that the hearing might at last be about to begin.
“Are we ready?” Tom August asked, peering down one side of the committee table and then the other as the photographers subsided, the press became attentive, the television cameras swung around to zero in on them and the audience quieted and settled itself. “I think we are.” He banged his gavel sharply and the first formal step in the consideration of the Leffingwell nomination was under way.
“This hearing of the Senate Foreign Relations committee,” he announced, while the official stenotype reporter clicked away busily at his little machine, “is being held to consider the President’s nomination of Robert A. Leffingwell to be Secretary of State. The first, and it may be, the only, witness”—at this the press stirred and so did several members of the committee, including Orrin Knox—“will be the distinguished incumbent Secretary of State Howard Sheppard. Mr. Secretary, we are delighted to have you with us, and we deem it a significant indication of the high regard in which Mr. Leffingwell is held generally by the country that he should have an advocate of such great distinction.”
At this, Bob Munson noted, Howie almost visibly preened himself. He was looking considerably better than he had last night, and the Senator decided that there must have been a family consultation ending in agreement that the NATO Ambassadorship wouldn’t be such a bad form of retirement, after all.
“Mr. Chairman,” the Secretary said gracefully, “nothing gladdens the heart of a witness from my department more than your friendly commendation.”
“Except possibly,” Lafe Smith whispered sacrilegiously behind his hand to Brigham Anderson, “the commendation of the chairman of the House Foreign Affairs Committee.” Brigham Anderson grinned and agreed.
“And,” Howard Sheppard went smoothly on, “nothing gives this witness more pleasure than his task today. It has been my privilege to know Mr. Leffingwell for approximately ten years, first when he was beginning his distinguished career of government service in the field of public power and I was governor of Ohio, at which time we had our first dealings on matters of interest to my state. Subsequently when I came to Washington—”
“Mr. Chairman,” Arly Richardson interrupted suavely, “would the witness prefer to complete his statement, or would he be agreeable to having us question him as he goes along?”
“I would prefer, Mr. Chairman,” the Secretary said, “to complete my opening remarks and then submit to questions, if that would be agreeable to you and to the members of the committee.”
“I think that would be perfectly agreeable,” Tom August said, and Senator Richardson remarked, “Perfectly,” with a little dismissing wave of the hand.
“Subsequently,” Howard Sheppard went on, “my work in the Administration has given me frequent opportunities to confer with Mr. Leffingwell, particularly on power matters of interest to this government and our NATO allies, on which we have both worked most closely, and I may say cordially, with the NATO governments.”
Attaboy, Howie, Bob Munson thought, get ’em prepared for it. He gave the Secretary a wink which the Secretary blandly ignored.
“When it became obvious to me,” Howie said, “that it would be best for my health that I begin to think about the possibility of retiring from government service, the President on several occasions asked me who I thought would be a suitable successor in this vitally important office of Secretary of State. Rather than suggest any single man, I deemed it my duty to present the President with several names. I am happy to say that Robert A. Leffingwell’s was high among them.”
He paused and started to reach about for a glass of water. In a movement so swift it almost defied the eye, an arm in a dark blue pin-stripe sleeve placed it instantaneously in his hand.
“Therefore,” the Secretary resumed, “I can only admit to a very real and genuine satisfaction that this nomination should now have been made. I can give you my judgment of Mr. Leffingwell in very few words: he is extremely intelligent, extremely able, and extraordinarily well equipped to fill the office to which he has been appointed. Knowing its problems and its difficulties as I do, I can say truthfully that I can think of a few who could handle them better. I am pleased with what the President has done. I am for this nomination.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Secretary,” Tom August said. “I think perhaps before we go into questioning I should put in the record a brief biographical statement on Mr. Leffingwell prepared by the staff of the committee, if that would be agreeable?”
“By all means,” Bob Munson said cordially, and there was a murmur of agreement from the committee except for Arly Richardson, who ostentatiously made a movement of protest and then dropped it.
“Well, sooner or later it has to be in, Senator,” the chairman said sharply. “Can you think of any better time to do it?”
“Very well, Mr. Chairman,” Arly said calmly. “Go right ahead. Go right ahead.”
“I will,” Tom August said shortly. “Mr. Leffingwell, now forty-seven years old, was born in Binghamton, New York, and attended elementary school and high school there. He attended the University of Michigan, graduating with a degree in public administration, and received his law degree from Harvard Law School. He taught public administration for four years at the University of Chicago and then was appointed to the Southwest Power Administration, becoming director of its public service division four years later. Five years after that he was appointed director of the Southwest Power Administration. Four years ago he was appointed chairman of the Federal Power Commission succeeding the late Governor Fred M. Robertson of my own state of Minnesota. He has been active in various international conferences in recent years, having served as head of the Advisory Committee on the Aswan Dam six years ago; as chairman of the International Hydroelectric and Power Conferences in Geneva four years ago and in Bombay two years ago; and as impartial arbiter, at the request of the two governments, in the recent water dispute between India and Pakistan. In addition, he was principal United States delegate to the United Nations Conference on Water, Power and Economic Development of Poorer Areas last year. This past December, at the request of the President, he left the Federal Power Commission to accept an interim appointment as Director of the Office of Defense Mobilization, the post he now holds. He married the former Louise Maxwell, and they have a son and a daughter. He is a member of Phi Beta Kappa, the American Bar Association, and the Metropolitan Club of Washington. He resides in Alexandria, Virginia. He lists his political affiliation as non-partisan.… And now I think we may start the questioning in our customary fashion with Senator Munson for the majority and then alternate between the minority and the majority. Senator Munson?”
“First,” Bob Munson said pleasantly, “I wish to welcome the Secretary and to say how much we appreciate, always have appreciated, and always will appreciate his sound counsel and sage advice. His relations with this committee have always been most cordial, and we can only hope that those of his successor will be half as good, for that will be very good indeed. We are happy to have you here, with your fine statement for this nominee, Mr. Secretary.”
“Thank you, Senator Munson,” Howie Sheppard said. “It is always a pleasure to be here. You are very kind.”
“I shall be very brief, Mr. Chairman,” Senator Munson said. “In your close relations with NATO, Mr. Secretary, which I know has always been a major and particular interest with you”—the Secretary nodded gravely—“was it your feeling that the NATO governments liked and trusted Mr. Leffingwell in some degree commensurate with their liking and trust for you, which we have all noted on many occasions?”
“Why all this emphasis on NATO?” Verne Cramer whispered to George Hines. “What the hell is that all about?”
“Some kind of payoff,” George Hines whispered back. “Wait and see.”
“I should not wish to make comparisons, Senator,” the Secretary said, “but I will say this, that I saw every evidence that the NATO powers have a high regard for Mr. Leffingwell.”
“Yes,” Bob Munson said. “And is it not true, based on your observation of him, that in other international dealings with other governments and peoples that he was well liked and did a good job for the United States?”
“That is my observation, Senator,” Howie Sheppard said.
“I have no more questions, Mr. Chairman,” Bob Munson said.
“Senator Strickland?” Tom August asked, and at his side the Minority Leader leaned forward with a pleasant smile.
“Like the distinguished Majority Leader,” he said, “I too wish to commend the Secretary, to thank him for his appearance here, and to express my regret that his health is such that his counsel and guidance will soon be lost to us. Health,” he added blandly, “is an uncertain thing in this uncertain Washington climate. We can only wish you a much-needed rest and a swift recovery that may permit your country to call on you again for service before too long.” At this, for just a second, Howie Sheppard shot a look of quick alarm at Bob Munson, who looked quickly away. Senator Strickland went calmly on.
“My questions, too, will be very brief,” he said. “Is it your impression that Mr. Leffingwell is loyal to the United States of America?”
There was a start of surprise among the committee and along the press tables, and the Secretary looked genuinely shocked.
“I have never had any indication whatsoever that he is not, Senator,” he said firmly. “I am positive he is. I find the question surprising, to say the least.”
“It is a question that many will ask,” Warren Strickland said calmly. “I thought we had best get it out in the open right away.”
“I am positive he is,” the Secretary repeated.
“Yes,” Senator Strickland said. “And you have never seen anything to indicate that he is not.”
“Nothing,” Howard Sheppard said. “Never.”
“And you would trust him without reservation with the interests and the safety of the United States, fully confident that he would protect them as diligently and as forcefully as you have done?”
“I would,” the Secretary said emphatically.
“That is all, Mr. Chairman,” Warren Strickland said.
“Senator Anderson?” Tom August said, and the senior Senator from Utah reached for the microphone in front of him on the table and pulled it closer to him.
“I too wish to commend the Secretary—”
“I hope sometime,” AP whispered to UPI, “that we will hear somebody tell some high official witness, ‘You’re a no-good bastard and we think your testimony stinks.’ But of course we never will, even when we know they think it.”
“—and congratulate him on his statement,” Brigham Anderson said. “I am interested in the Secretary’s impressions of how Mr. Leffingwell handles the people on his staff, if that would not be beyond the purview of questioning here. Does he strike you as a good administrator?”
“As nearly as I can judge,” Secretary Sheppard said, “I think he is.”
“One who is fair and decent and just to his subordinates?” Senator Anderson asked.
“So I believe,” the Secretary said. “Insofar as I have had an opportunity to judge.”
“The reason I ask,” Brigham Anderson said pleasantly, “is that much can be told about a man by the way he treats those over whom he has authority. I believe you said your retirement was caused by reasons of health, Mr. Secretary.”
“I did,” Howie Sheppard said.
“You do not feel that you have in any way been shoved out of office to make room for Mr. Leffingwell?” Senator Anderson went on in the same pleasant tone. Howard Sheppard flushed.
“I do not,” he said, a trifle loudly.
“Yes,” Senator Anderson said, with the same senatorial “yes” of his colleagues, the “yes” that always carries with it the uncomfortable implication of polite and persistent unbelief. “And you gave the President of the United States, at his request, a list of names from whom he might pick a successor. Would you mind telling the committee what other names were on that list?”
“Oh, now, Mr. Chairman,” Bob Munson broke in sharply. “I don’t think the Senator has any right to ask a question like that. That is a privileged matter between the Secretary and the President, and it is none of the Senate’s business. I really do not see that the Senator is in order with that question.”
“He volunteered the information that he furnished such a list, Mr. Chairman,” Brigham Anderson said calmly. “He threw the subject open, I didn’t. I think it is something the committee should know.”
“I do not think it is,” Tom August said with a gentle but determined firmness. “I agree with the Senator from Michigan that the matter is privileged between the President and the Secretary and no business of ours. It would only cause embarrassment to the Secretary and also, no doubt, to those on the list who were passed over. The Senator will proceed in order, if he so desires.”
“Very well,” Senator Anderson said offhandedly, while the press scribbled furiously and the Secretary looked relieved. “It remains, however, an interesting matter for speculation. What do you know about Mr. Leffingwell’s views on Russia, Mr. Secretary?”
“I believe them to be those held by most Americans,” Howard Sheppard said.
“Which are?” Senator Anderson asked.
“Well,” the Secretary began, then stopped and started over again. “That the situation is serious and we must always be on the alert both against the possibility of surprise and against the possibility of being overly suspicious. We cannot relax our vigilance with them; neither, I believe, can we refuse to accept the possibility that they might ultimately wish to live with us in a peaceful world.”
“A peaceful world on whose terms, Mr. Secretary?” Brigham Anderson asked, and the Secretary flushed.
“It would have to be on terms of mutual agreement, Senator,” he said.
“You think that is an accurate reflection of the views of most Americans,” Senator Anderson said, without other comment.
“As they have come to me in my office,” Howard Sheppard said.
“You believe those are Mr. Leffingwell’s views,” the Senator said.
“Yes,” the Secretary said.
“But you do not know,” Brigham Anderson suggested.
“No,” said Howard Sheppard.
“No further questions, Mr. Chairman,” Senator Anderson said.
“What’s got into Brig?” the Times whispered to the Herald Tribune, and the Herald Tribune responded, “Damned if I know.”
“Senator Winthrop?” Tom August asked. John Able Winthrop smiled at the Secretary.
“No questions, Mr. Chairman,” he said, “except to say that I too appreciate the Secretary’s appearance, regret his departure, and pray that he may be right in his assessment of his successor.”
“Hm,” the Chicago Tribune murmured to the Washington Post, “that was a neat sideswipe.” Senator Munson, who thought so too, leaned forward, looked down the table to the Senator from Massachusetts, and gave him an ironic little bow. Winthrop of Massachusetts bowed back, and the press tables snickered. Senator August rapped, a little querulously, for order.
“Senator Knox?” he said. Orrin opened his briefcase and took out some papers.
“Well, Mr. Chairman,” he said brusquely, “this is all very nice, and I am sure the Secretary’s appearances here are always valuable and always welcome, but I think it is really all rather superfluous. I think the committee would like to see Mr. Leffingwell, since he is the nominee here. I have no questions of this witness.”
Tom August flushed and was about to reply when Arly Richardson spoke.
“I agree, Mr. Chairman,” he said. “It is obvious that the Secretary, while his views are always welcome, is in no position to give us a really adequate appraisal of the nominee. I do not know about the rest of the committee, but I shall not be satisfied myself until this committee, or at least a duly constituted subcommittee of it, shall have had a chance to examine Mr. Leffingwell, either in public or executive session.”
“If the committee please,” Senator August began, in noticeable agitation, but before he could proceed further George Hines got into it from the other end of the table in his hearty, phony, fake-cordial way.
“Those are my sentiments exactly, Mr. Chairman,” he said. “This seems like a strange proceeding to me. While I give all due credit to the Secretary—Howie, how are yah?—and am always glad to have his views, I feel we should have the nominee before us. This is no substitute for his own appearance, Mr. Chairman.”
Tom August rapped his gavel sharply on the table and spoke in a rare tone of anger.
“If the committee please,” he repeated, “I suggest that we proceed in the regular order with this witness, after which I have a letter from Mr. Leffingwell which I propose to read, and then a course of action which I propose to suggest to the committee.”
“You have?” Bob Munson murmured in surprise at his elbow, and Senator August looked around for a second, startled. Then he went on.
“I assume,” he said firmly, “that what we have just heard represents the questioning of Mr. Knox, Mr. Richardson, and Mr. Hines. That brings us to Mr. DeWilton. Senator?”
“Well, Mr. Chairman,” Johnny DeWilton said tartly, “if this is the way this hearing is going to be conducted then I don’t see why I should participate in it. It all seems highly irregular to me, I must say. What’s in that letter?”
“Better read it to them, Tom,” Senator Munson advised in a hurried whisper, and the senior Senator from Minnesota managed to look at one and the same time angered, upset, chagrined, worried, wistful, and saddened.
“It is obvious,” he said, “that it is the pleasure of the committee that I read the letter, is that right?” There were vigorous nods from both sides of the table, and Verne Cramer said, loud enough to be heard, “Obvious isn’t the word for it, Tom, boy.” Senator August shuffled among the papers before him and then looked around in some dismay. A committee clerk appeared at his elbow and handed him the letter, Howard Sheppard and his little band of brothers settled back to listen, Arly Richardson made an impatient movement.
“Who is the letter addressed to, Mr. Chairman?” he asked.
“It is addressed to me,” Senator August said.
“I thought so,” Arly said, and then, as Tom August hesitated, he added impatiently, “Go ahead, go ahead.”
“The letter,” Senator August said with dignity, “reads as follows. ‘Dear Mr. Chairman—
“‘It is with real regret that I have to tell you that my scheduled appearance before the committee this morning must be delayed on doctor’s orders. That old devil virus has me in his grip, and neither the ODM nor the Department of State apparently has sufficient strength to counteract his onslaughts this morning. My sincerest apologies to you and to the committee for this unexpected hitch in plans.’”
“That’s smooth enough,” Brigham Anderson whispered to Stanley Danta, and the senior Senator from Connecticut observed dryly, “Oh, he is smooth enough.”
“‘I should like to take this opportunity, however, Mr. Chairman,’ Tom August read on, ‘to express to you and to the committee, and for the public record, my feelings of awe and gratitude that the President should have given me this nomination. If the committee in its wisdom sees fit to approve it, and if the Senate in its turn confirms that decision, you have my deepest assurance that I will do everything humanly possible to discharge the high duties of Secretary of State as you and the President would wish me to do. You have my assurance also that in that office I will contribute, insofar as God gives me strength and wisdom to do, to the safe passage of our dear country through these perilous times which beset her. I have served her now, in one capacity and another, for thirteen years; it is my highest aim to serve her always, in whatever duty she may call upon me to perform, truly and honorably and as best I can.’
“‘If the committee should wish to hear me in person at some later time (“A safe assumption,” Senator Cramer remarked to Senator Hines), then of course I am at your service. I would not presume to suggest to the committee its method of procedure (“That’s nice of him,” Orrin Knox remarked with audible tartness to Arly Richardson), but it would seem to me, as one citizen, that matters of such delicacy in international affairs are involved here, and that members of the committee might wish to question me so thoroughly on my views (“Yes, indeedy,” John Winthrop murmured) that it might perhaps be advisable to hear at least part of my testimony in executive session. I think we could all speak more freely, and certainly we should, on these subjects which concern us all so deeply.’
“‘With best wishes to you and the committee, and with assurance of my full cooperation, Mr. Chairman, I am, Yours sincerely, Robert A. Leffingwell.’”
As Senator August finished and the wire service reporters jumped up to hurry downstairs to the press room on the floor below and send out their bulletins, Johnny DeWilton spoke up abruptly.
“Well, Mr. Chairman,” he said, “I do not propose to let this nominee set the terms on which he will appear before the committee. That seems to me most irregular, Mr. Chairman. I resent his attempt to dictate to this committee.”
“Mr. Chairman,” Bob Munson said with equal vigor, “if the distinguished Senator from Vermont will yield, I resent his attempt to prejudge this nominee. It seems to me Mr. Leffingwell’s suggestion is a most fair and reasonable one. It is in line with the suggestion a few moments ago of the senior Senator from Arkansas, Mr. Richardson, that the nominee be heard in executive session—”
“Public or executive, I said,” Arty interjected.
“—and it seems to me that that is what we should do.”
“I think I would be satisfied with such a course,” Orrin Knox said, rather surprisingly, “provided we can be sure Mr. Leffingwell will be here as often as we need him, and will answer us as candidly as we may wish him to.”
“I was about to suggest,” Senator August said with a mild and wistful sarcasm, “before everyone else began talking, that the committee give serious consideration to hearing Mr. Leffingwell in closed session.”
“God damn,” UPI said to AP, “there goes our story.”
“Wait a bit,” AP suggested hurriedly.
“I am prepared to vouch for Mr. Leffingwell’s willingness to be candid,” the chairman went on, “and indeed you have heard his letter pledging exactly that. I think through the medium of executive hearings we can examine into his qualifications and his views without the distractions that might come about in a public hearing.”
“If we can be assured of his cooperation, and assured of a thorough study, Mr. Chairman,” Stanley Danta remarked, “then I would see no serious objection to the course you propose.”
“Well, I do,” Ed Parrish, normally one of the quietest of men, said suddenly from his seat near the foot of the minority side. “This matter concerns the whole United States, indeed the whole world. Why should it not be discussed in public session? What is there to hide? It strikes me, Mr. Chairman, as just one more of those situations where this Congress knocks itself out to protect the secrets of the Executive Branch from the Russians, only to find out when all is said and done that it is something the Russians already know and it is only the American people who have been kept in the dark. I don’t like it, Mr. Chairman.”
“Why don’t we take a vote, Mr. Chairman?” Brigham Anderson suggested calmly. “It seems to me that would be the simplest and most direct and fairest way to proceed.”
Senator August looked hesitant for a second and Bob Munson murmured, “Might as well, Tom. We’ve got ourselves in a box and that’s the only way out.” The chairman rapped his gavel and cleared his throat.
“Very well,” he said, “I shall poll the committee. All those in favor of executive hearings on this nomination will say Aye, all those opposed No … Mr. Munson.”
“Aye,” Bob Munson said.
“Mr. Strickland.”
“No,” said Warren Strickland.
“Mr. Anderson.”
“I pass for the moment, Mr. Chairman,” Brig said, and there was a sudden heightening of tension in the room.
“Mr. Winthrop,” Tom August said, and the senior Senator from Massachusetts, after a long moment’s hesitation, said quietly, “Aye.”
“Mr. Knox.”
“Aye,” Orrin said tersely.
“Mr. DeWilton.”
“No, sir,” Johnny DeWilton said firmly.
“Mr. Danta.”
“Aye,” said Stanley.
“Mr. Cramer.”
“Aye,” Verne Cramer said, and the second relay of wire service reporters got up and stood poised to run downstairs to the teletypes with their second bulletin of the morning.
“Mr. Richardson,” Tom August said and Arly spoke bluntly:
“No.”
“Mr. Parrish.”
“No,” Ed Parrish said.
“Mr. Hines.”
“I’m afraid not, No,” George Hines responded.
“Mr. Smith,” Tom said, and Lafe said, a little defiantly:
“I vote Aye.”
“Is the Senator from Utah ready to vote?” Senator August asked, and Brigham Anderson leaned forward with one hand clasped tightly around his microphone.
“The Senator from Utah,” he said slowly, “votes No.”
Tom August paused, and there was silence in the Caucus Room.
“The committee,” he said gently, “is tied six to six. The chairman votes Aye, the motion is carried, and the hearings on this nomination will be held in executive session. If there are no further questions, I think perhaps we can close this public hearing and recess the committee until Mon—”
It was then, as the reporters sprinted out and the audience let out a concerted gasp of exploded tension and somewhere a photographer struggling angrily for a picture of the committee wailed bitterly, “God damn it, get out of the way!” that there came a little stirring off to one side of the room and out from behind two high school girls and a Capitol cop there emerged a familiar figure, eyelids drooping, hair atangle, manner slow and subtly ironic.
“Mr.—Chairman,” it said, and the room, a moment before alive with the shuffling of people getting ready to leave, abruptly quieted down again.
Oh, now, Seab, Bob Munson thought hurriedly. Now, Seab—
“Mr.—Chairman,” Senator Cooley said thoughtfully. “Mr.—Chairman, I think I might have a little something to contribute. I do think I might.”
Senator August hesitated and looked, a trifle wildly, at the Senator from Michigan. Bob Munson shrugged.
“What is the Senator’s wish?” Tom August asked placatingly. “Would you like to testify, or just file a statement?”
“Oh, Mr. Chairman,” Seab Cooley said softly. “Much more than that. Much—more—than—that. I would like to testify. Others would like to testify. I think many would like to testify. I would like many others to testify. Do you think it could be arranged, Mr. Chairman?”
“Why,” Tom August said; and then, hastily, as he became aware of Arly Richardson and Brigham Anderson stirring down the table and Johnny DeWilton preparing to seek recognition, “Why. Why, yes, Senator, I suppose it could. Would you like to take the stand right now—”
“No, Mr. Chairman,” Senator Cooley said. “No. Much as I would like to oblige you all, I have to meet some constituents for lunch, and then there’s some Appropriations Committee business this afternoon, and I believe after that—”
“Very well, Senator.” Tom August said hurriedly. “I think we can work out something next week that will be satisfactory to all concerned. But I am afraid the full committee may not be able to hear you, because the foreign aid request is coming up from the White House tomorrow morning, and some of us are going to be tied up on that.”
He hesitated, and Bob Munson told him sternly in the privacy of his own mind not to start truckling to the old man, because that would give him the advantage right off the bat; but Arly was stirring again, and Tom August hurried on.
“Would you mind if I named a subcommittee to hear you?” he asked. There was a movement from Seab and the chairman added hastily, “and any witnesses you may care to present?”
“That would be agreeable to me, Mr. Chairman,” Seab said calmly, “if I might also sit as a member of the subcommittee to conduct certain cross-examinations after I testify.”
“You have a right to request that courtesy, Senator,” Tom August told him, and he was entirely correct in that, “and of course we will be glad to accord it to you.”
“Then,” Seab said, and for the first time the shrewd old eyes flickered briefly over the senior Senator from Michigan, “then I think that would all be mighty fine.”
“Good,” Senator August said, with so obvious a note of relief in his voice that the press tables snickered. “The Chair will appoint a subcommittee consisting of the senior Senator from Utah, Mr. Anderson, as chairman; the senior Senator from Illinois, Mr. Knox; the senior Senator from Arkansas, Mr. Richardson; the senior Senator from Massachusetts, Mr. Winthrop; and the senior Senator from Vermont, Mr. DeWilton, to hold such hearings on this nomination as may be necessary to ascertain the true sentiments of the Senate and the country. This hearing is now—”
“Mr. Chairman,” Arly Richardson said sharply. “What does this do to our one-vote majority decision to hold closed hearings? Will the subcommittee hearings be public or closed?”
Tom August looked somewhat despairingly along both sides of the committee table and, finding little comfort anywhere, raised a hand that was beginning to tremble to his forehead.
“Under the circumstances,” he said softly, “it seems likely that they will be open.”
“We’d better make it official,” Senator Richardson said quickly. “I move that the previous committee vote on the question of closed hearings on this nomination be vacated and that all hearings in this matter, whether in subcommittee or full committee, be open.”
“All those in favor,” said Tom August in an uneven voice, “say Aye.”
“Aye,” said the committee as one man, and Bob Munson shrugged and voted with the rest.
“This hearing,” the chairman said in an aggrieved tone, “is now adjourned.”
Orrin Knox made an impatient movement, scooped up his papers and plowed determinedly out through the crowd; Brigham Anderson hung back for a moment as the press came forward to ask his plans for the subcommittee; Howard Sheppard moved quietly out the door surrounded by his dark-blue-pin-stripe-suited entourage; and across the great Caucus Room the eyes of the senior Senator from South Carolina met the eyes of the senior Senator from Michigan head on.
You old bastard, Bob Munson thought bitterly. Just the trace of a grin crossed Seab’s face, and in spite of himself Senator Munson grinned back. But you haven’t won yet, you old coot, he thought; you haven’t won yet, by God!
But he wasn’t at all sure, really, and he knew Seab knew he wasn’t.