"Thought I was making a real mess of things?" asked Lyman.
"Well, yes." Rutkowski grinned. "I'm not going to repeat some of the language Palmer used. It got pretty purple."
"Don't bother to spare me," Lyman said, smiling. "That's everyday talk in my business. You should see some of my mail."
"Palmer says he listened but didn't say much, and when the others tried to draw him out, he backed water. That was all for a while, until Palmer denounced the treaty when the Senate Armed Services Committee questioned him on it. He said Scott must have heard about his statement through the grapevine, because he called him that night to congratulate him. That time again Scott wanted to expand into a general political discussion of your administration, but Palmer wouldn't go for it."
"Is that all?"
"No, it isn't. Palmer says he got a call from Murdock not too long ago, just about the time I did, inviting him to talk over the political situation and the 'military responsibility.' Palmer kind of told him off, I gather. He said he'd already said his piece on the treaty, that it was your show now and that was that. "Oh, there was one other thing. Palmer thinks the other chiefs have had some meetings on this subject that he hasn't been in on. He figures they're getting ready to back some kind of citizens' group that will try to get the treaty repealed, or something. He thinks the chiefs will give it all the covert support they can without having their names appear. He says he doesn't believe in playing that way."
"What do you think of the treaty, Barney?" asked Lyman.
Rutkowski shifted his cigar to the corner of his mouth. "You want it straight, Mr. President?"
"It wouldn't be much use any other way."
"Okay. I think the Russkis are playing you for a sucker. I don't think they have any intention of disarming. Oh, they might dismantle some bombs all right on July 1, but how many more will they be stockpiling at some new base in Siberia?"
"You don't trust our intelligence?" asked Lyman.
"Not on that one, Mr. President. Russia is too big a country."
"But you wouldn't join some group, say General Scott's if he has one, to fight the treaty?"
"Nope," Rutkowski said. "You've made the decision. You asked our advice. We gave it. You didn't take it. All right, now it's up to you. God bless you, Mr. President, I hope it works. If it doesn't, we start earning our pay the hard way."
Lyman hoped his smile looked as warm as he felt. "Barney, I wish you'd been in Washington to give me some advice. I like the way you give it. You don't straddle-like some I know."
"If you'll pardon the language, Mr. President," Rutkowski said, "straddling makes my ass tired. So I never got into the habit."
Lyman got up in his angular way and walked around the desk. As they moved toward the door, the President again asked Rutkowski to keep his visit to Palmer and the White House confidential.
"If I need you again in Washington, Barney," Lyman added, "I hope you'll come down and stay awhile."
"As long as the taxpayers let me have that jet," the General replied, "I'm your man in two hours, any time."
When the door closed, Lyman went to the tall window and stood looking out at the rose garden, his hands in his pockets. The sun shone thinly this morning, but even that was a welcome improvement over yesterday's rain. Had there been a similar improvement in his position? Was Palmer right, perhaps, and was Scott merely up to the old military stratagem of quietly sponsoring a civilian organization to say what the generals were not supposed to say for themselves? If that's all it is, Lyman thought, I'll contribute fifty bucks to the pot and lead three cheers for Scott in Garfinckel's window. But what about ECOMCON? Does the chairman need thirty-five hundred trained saboteurs to reinforce public opinion? Is there an ECOMCON, after all? Well, on that one, Ray Clark should know in a few hours.
When Clark stepped out of his plane at El Paso the heat encased his body. It was still early morning in West Texas, but the sun shone with unfamiliar intensity even from its low angle. Clark ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, grimacing at the taste. He had slept since Dallas, but after boarding the plane in Washington he had drained the half-pint bottle of bourbon in his pocket in a couple of gulps.
His face had the grimy feeling of the overnight traveler and he knew stubble stood out on his cheeks. Clark wasn't sure whether he'd like a drink or breakfast. He decided he'd settle for either.
A lunch counter appeared first. He ordered juice, doughnuts, and coffee and asked the waitress for the name of a good nearby motel.
"Try the Sand 'n' Saddle," she said. "But it's a nice place. Maybe you better shave before you check in, mister."
Clark got the cab driver talking-it wasn't much of a task-on the short ride to the motel.
"Say, I'm looking for an old buddy from down home," Clark said. "You know all the Army bases around here?"
"Ain't many, Mac," the driver replied. "They's just big. You're looking for Fort Bliss, maybe?"
"No, that doesn't sound like it."
"Well, they got White Sands just a little ways up the road in New Mexico. And Holloman airbase, out the same way." The driver studied Clark in the rear-view mirror. "Or Biggs field, here. Any of 'em?"
"Nope," Clark said, "this is a new one. Maybe only a couple months old. Damn, I lost the piece of paper he wrote it down on."
"Well, there's some kinda new base around here somewhere, one they keep pretty quiet. Tell you the truth, Mac, I don't know where it is. We never get no business from it and if Uncle Sam don't want me stickin' my nose in his business, I don't stick it in."
"This buddy," Clark said, "he's in the Signal Corps."
"You got me, pal. I never heard of that neither."
The Sand 'n' Saddle sprawled invitingly in a two-story semicircle from the office where Clark alighted. Through the open passageways he could see a swimming pool and deck chairs. The air conditioning in the office lowered the temperature to a painless 80 degrees. The senator registered simply as "R. Clark, Macon, Georgia." A Mexican teen-ager with a fixed smile and expressionless eyes took Clark's overnight case and led him to a room on the upper level.
A steady current of cool air poured from the gray machine in the window. Clark stooped over and held his face close to the source, massaging his temples and cheekbones.
"How soon can you get me a little whisky?" he asked the bellboy.
"Sorry, boss, the package store doesn't open until ten," said the youth. "It's far from here, too."
"Come on, son." Clark handed him a $10 bill. "You must have a private stock for your good customers."
The boy disappeared and came back a few minutes later with a pint of blended whisky. Clark winced at the label, but took the bottle without comment. Alone, he wrenched the cap off and took a long drink. He coughed and rubbed his smarting eyes. Then, self-consciously resolute, he walked into the bathroom, put the bottle in the medicine cabinet and banged the little door shut. He returned to the bedroom and picked up the telephone.
"Call me in an hour, please," he told the operator.
He stripped to his shorts, climbed under a sheet and went to sleep almost at once. When the phone rang an hour later he felt better. He shaved, changed into a short-sleeved shirt and lightweight sports jacket, and then sat on the edge of the bed, gazing at the slip of paper Casey had given him. Finally he made up his mind and asked the operator to get him the number. A woman answered.
"Mrs. Henderson?"
"Yes."
"Ma'am, my name is Ray Clark. I'm a friend of Mutt's and Jiggs Casey's. Jiggs gave me your phone number and told me to call when I got to town. I just missed Mutt in Washington."
"Oh, that's too bad," she said. "Mutt got in late Monday, but he had to go right out to the base. I'm afraid he'll be there through the weekend, too."