“In a word,” Caldwell said, “politics? The art of the possible?”
The senator nodded. “We’re shaped by what we do.” He smiled. “Bent couldn’t shuck the habit of command if he tried. He’s like a veteran airplane pilot, uncomfortable when anybody else is at the controls.”
More and more interesting. “And Paul Norris?” Caldwell said. “Grover Frazee? How do you explain their behavior?”
The senator smiled. “I’ll tell you a story about Paul Norris. At college he had a fine suite of rooms in Adams House. His bedroom window looked right out at the campanile of the Catholic church. Some of us had an idea and Paul went along. We mounted an air rifle on the window sill in a steady rest aimed at the bell tower. At midnight when the church bell struck twelve, we pulled the trigger and the bell struck thirteen.”
Caldwell was smiling now, nodding, in this moment taken back forty years to youthful fervor. “Go on.”
“We did it again the second night,” the senator said. “A couple of Catholics who lived in Adams House attended Ma-s and reported that the good fathers were understandably puzzled, even mildly upset. There was talk of a miracle.” The senator paused. “The third night the bishop came over from Boston to listen for himself. We didn’t disappoint him. The clock struck thirteen. Then we dismantled the steady rest and took the air rifle away.”
Caldwell, smiling still, said, “But what about Paul Norris?”
The senator shook his head. “He wanted to keep it up. Night after night. He couldn’t see that it was best left right there—a mystery. Among other unpleasant things about Paul, he was stupid, and I don’t like to waste time arguing with stupid people.” He paused again. “Although, God knows, a politician can’t ever hope to avoid it.” Caldwell said, “You said part of your—acceptance was that some things couldn’t be avoided, some decisions had to be accepted. What other parts?”
“I suppose,” the senator said slowly, “that I have a sniggly feeling it’s all for the best. Don’t ask me how, because I can’t give even a rational theory.” He paused. “Do you recall,” he said, “that in Athens, when things went wrong, the king had to die? Theseus’s father threw himself off the cliff because the black sails on Theseus’s ship indicated that things had gone wrong.” His smile was apologetic. “Maybe we’re a mass sacrifice? Ridiculous idea, isn’t it?”
“To atone for what?”
The senator’s smile faded, disappeared. “You do keep your nose to the grindstone, don’t you?”
“If you mean,” Caldwell said sharply, “the world’s troubles, the troubles in this country, poverty, bigotry, that kind of thing—what have they to do with us? I’m not responsible for them in any way.”
“A comfortable view.”
Caldwell’s gesture took in the entire room. “I’m not even responsible for these people’s troubles. I just happen to share them.”
The senator was silent.
“If you’re thinking,” Caldwell said, “that because I designed this building I am responsible for its failures, I deny that. The design was, and is, sound. I don’t know all that has happened to produce this end result, but it is not my design that is to blame.”
“I think your reputation is secure,” the senator said, “and that’s the important thing, isn’t it?”
Caldwell studied the senator’s face for mockery. He found none. He relaxed a trifle.
“You asked me,” the senator said, “how to explain Grover Frazee’s behavior. I think I can in one word: panic.” He too looked around the room.
In the far comer the heavy rock beat once more blared from the transistor radio. The almost-naked girl gyrated endlessly. Her eyes were closed, her movements erotically explicit; the world was shut out.
In another comer a mixed group was joined in song. The senator listened carefully.
“‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic,’” he said, “or ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers.’ With my tin ear I can’t tell which.”
By the bar the three religious leaders who had participated in the ceremonies in the plaza conferred: the rabbi, the Catholic priest, and the Protestant minister.
“I can think of a good subject for prayer,” the senator said. “It would have to do with deliverance from a fiery furnace. Nebuchadnezzar would have dug this scene, wouldn’t you say?”
Caldwell said suddenly, “All right, I will have to admit that I share the responsibility. It is not all mine, but I share it.”
The senator stifled a smile. “It doesn’t really matter now, does it?” His voice was gentle.
“It does to me.”
“Ah,” the senator said then, “that’s a different story.”
“There is nothing fallacious in the design.”
“I’m sure of it.”
“Execution. There is where the trouble begins. When you turn the actual work over to others, you have lost control.”
“It’s a hell of a feeling, isn’t it,” the senator said, “when you have to turn over to somebody else something you’ve sweated over?”
There was a long silence. “In your own way.” Caldwell said slowly, “you are a wise man. And compassionate. You make me feel better, cleaner. Thank you.” He started to turn away.
“Which group?” the senator said. He no longer stifled his smile. “Dancing, song or prayer?”
Some of the perceptible tension went out of Caldwell’s narrow shoulders. He half-turned and his smile was easy. “I may sample them all.”
“Good for you,” the senator said.
He walked slowly toward the office, alone. “And now, physician,” he said almost whispering, “heal thyself.”
The governor was coming out of the office. His expression was inscrutable. “Come along, Jake,” he said. “We’ve got good news, I hope.” He paused. “But if this try fails too, then I think we are really going to have panic. We may anyway.” He paused again. “The traditional rush for the lifeboats or the exit.”
The governor found a chair and climbed upon it. He raised his voice. “I promised news if and when there was any. Now I want your attention.”
The singing died away. Someone turned down the transistor radio’s volume. The room was hushed.
“We are going to try again to get a line into this room,” the governor said. “This time—”
“More crap!’ Cary Wycoff’s voice dull with anger, tinged with terror. “Another sugar pill to keep us quiet!”
“This time,” the governor said, and his voice carried through Cary’s, “they are going to try to shoot the line in from a helicopter.” He paused. “I want this entire side of the room cleared so nobody will be hurt if the shot is successful.” He beckoned the fire commissioner. “Have two or three men standing by to pounce on the line when it comes through the windows. Then—”
“When?” Cary shouted. “You mean if! And you know goddam good and well that it isn’t going to happen.” The words were almost running together now. “All along you’ve kept things from us, made your own decisions, your own little deals—” He took a deep shuddering breath.
“We’re stuck here! Right from the start it’s been a fuckup! Rotten clear through, the whole city government!”
From the crowd behind Cary Wycoff there was a low, angry murmur.
“Easy, Cary,” Bob Ramsay said. He shouldered his way through the crowd to tower over Wycoff. “Easy, I say. Everything has been done that could be, and now this—”
“Shit! Give the voters that crap, don’t give it to us. We’re here to—die, man! And who’s responsible? That’s what I want to know. WHO?”
“I’m afraid we all killed Grandma.” Senator Peters’s voice raised enough for attention. He faced Wycoff and took his time. “Ever since I’ve known you, Cary, you’ve had more questions than a tenement has rats. But damned few answers, only reactions. Have you wet your pants yet? You’ve made every other infantile move.”