What a lonely house, Lyman thought. Too big, too empty, no place in it where a man can wall himself off and think his own thoughts undisturbed by the past. What's more, it isn't mine.
From the balcony he could see the intermittent sweep of headlights as motorists curved past the high iron fence at the foot of the White House lawn. As always, they slowed when they came in line with the house, hoping even in the night to catch a glimpse of the inmates.
Fantastic. That was the only word for the colonel's story. Lyman wondered whether the man was sound mentally, despite Girard's assurances. Still, his reactions were normal and average. The way he had been tongue-tied when he came in, the way he had felt about the house, he was just like every other first-time visitor. Maybe a little too much like every other visitor, in fact. Could it possibly be some kind of double play by Scott, to trap him and make him appear a fool before the country, to discredit the treaty? No, that was even more farfetched.
The only prudent course was to check this thing out as quickly and quietly as possible and be done with it. Perhaps, as Girard said, there was some ludicrously simple explanation. Maybe it was a once-in-a-million string of coincidences with no connection whatever. After all, don't they say that if six monkeys hit typewriters long enough, they'd write the Encyclopedia Britannica?
Lyman went back to his armchair and his pipe. It was time to get this thing down to a manageable level. The first thing to do was what Girard said-find out about this ECOMCON business. For that, he'd need someone he could trust. Better start picking the team.
Mentally he began to thumb through his administration, ticking off the men he'd appointed in the sixteen months since his inauguration. Lyman hadn't gone far before he realized what he was doing: he was discarding name after name of men he had picked to do important jobs, but who couldn't be counted on for this one because they weren't tough enough, or trustworthy enough, or close enough to him-or because they might talk about it if it turned out to be a mirage.
Because they might talk. It wasn't that he feared being laughed at. The point was that he wouldn't want even a whisper to get out that he had so much as dreamed it could happen. That would be bad for the country.
And bad for Jordan Lyman too, he thought. Now, isn't that a damn-fool way to decide who can be counted on to help preserve the security of the country? Still, face it, Lyman, you're human and that's part of it. All right, then, who won't talk if it turns out to be a phony, but will stay in all the way and do some good if it's not?
He thought at once that both Girard and Ray Clark would chuckle at his self-analysis and confession. Have to tell them tomorrow. Well, that settled that. There could be no effective defense of his position without Girard and Clark.
Who else? Casey, of course. The colonel might not be the most brilliant officer he'd ever met, but his instincts seemed sound. Let's hope his facts are too. Or hope, dammit, that they aren't. At any rate, Casey was already in this thing up to his eyes.
The Cabinet? Lyman ran swiftly through the list. The Secretary of State would be pedantic, tiresome, and of absolutely no value. The Secretary of Defense talked too much, about everything. Good God, the man was never quiet. Even when he had good ideas, nobody could listen long enough to catch them. Lyman liked Tom Burton, his Secretary of Health, Education and Welfare. In such a power struggle as this one might be, his advice would be good. And he had guts. But the big Negro couldn't slip in and out of the White House without a dozen people noticing it and a hundred questions being asked. His skin makes him risky. Forget it.
Lyman tossed aside one name after another, half wondering whether the process reflected on the men involved or on him for having picked them. He knew he was saving Todd for the last: Christopher Todd, the flinty, cultivated Secretary of the Treasury, the best mind in the government. Furthermore, he had proved he could keep his mouth shut on the President's business. And another big plus-Chris loved a conspiracy. Give him a cloak and he'd invent his own dagger. He also had the Yankee lawyer's ability to spoon through a mass of mush like this and pull out the hard facts. Chris had to be in.
When he ran through the White House staff, beyond Girard, Lyman was surprised how many names fell away like dry leaves in autumn. These were the men who had fought through the campaign with him, had helped set up the administration, but who among them could be relied on in this kind of funny business? Not his press secretary, certainly. Frank Simon skimmed the surface, accurately and swiftly, but this was over his head. He was also too exposed, too much an "outside man." Better for both of us if he doesn't know. Lyman's special counsel? Too legalistic. Law wouldn't help here. His chief lobbyist? Too vain. He'd want to carve out a juicy role for himself.
But there was Art Corwin. The quiet, big-shouldered agent, "Mr. Efficiency" to his men on the White House Secret Service detail, would do anything for the President-for any President. Lyman knew without ever having inquired that Corwin's allegiance was to the Presidency, not to the man who happened to hold it at the moment. What's more, Lyman couldn't move far without Corwin at his side. He had to have him.
Who else, now? The director of the FBI? A powerful man, and thus good to have on your side in a fight. But Lyman hardly knew him; he had spoken to him only three times, always in brisk, formal sessions.
The President took down a copy of the Congressional Directory from a shelf, smiling at the thought that he had to consult a compendium to remember whom he had appointed. He ran through the deputy secretaries and assistant secretaries, the members of commissions, even the courts. The names stared back at him blankly, without sympathy. He really didn't know any of these men that well. For a mission abroad or a legislative opinion, yes. In a fight for the system itself, no.
And so, at last, he came back to six men: himself, Clark, Girard, Casey, Chris Todd, and Art Corwin. And Esther. Good Lord, yes, Esther. He couldn't even make a phone call without her knowing everything. She would be efficient, loyal, cheerful-and she wouldn't be doing it for love of an institution.
At least we're seven to the chiefs' five, Lyman thought. We may lack a few divisions and missiles, but we've got two centuries on our side-and four days. Four days! Casey didn't come here with a dream. He brought an absolute, incredible, fantastic nightmare. It makes no sense at all.
He walked through the door into his bedroom and stood in front of the dresser while he emptied his pants pockets. The whole world to worry about, plus one baffled Marine, plus the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Oh, quit posing, Lyman, he told himself, and go to sleep.
"Time for bed, Trimmer," he said to the setter. "Out you go." The dog stood patiently by the door until Lyman opened it. Then he trotted across the hall, heading for the stairs and his nightly sleeping spot in the serving pantry just outside the kitchen.
As he buttoned his pajamas, the President watched the lights going on in the parked cars around the Ellipse. Curtain must be down at the National, he thought, noting the little knots of people coming from the direction of the theater in the bright patches under the street lights.
It was the end of the daily cycle for Washington, which goes to bed earlier than any other capital in the world. The night baseball game had ended and the last stragglers scuffed across the outfield grass of the stadium toward the exits. In Arlington Cemetery, the guard changed at the Tomb of the Unknowns, the off-duty squad racking up its gleaming ceremonial rifles before turning in for the night.