Seven Days in May

Saturday, 1 P.M.

A mass of newspapermen, so tightly packed that some men had to take notes against the backs of others, pushed and heaved in Frank Simon's west wing press office like a great school of mackerel rushing inshore to feed. The room, heated by two hundred bodies and a sudden early blast of Washington summer weather, was as sticky as a steam bath. Shouted questions spurted from the over-all uproar. Nobody could hear anything.

Simon climbed on his swivel chair and waved his hands to abate the din. He finally managed to cut the noise by perhaps half. Now the shouted questions came through.

"When do we get text?"

"Is Lyman quitting?"

"Did he get all the networks?"

"What the hell is it all about?"

Simon, his thin face twitching, beads of sweat standing on his forehead, continued to flail the air with his hands. At last the room subsided into something approaching order.

"If you'll be quiet for one minute," he yelled, his voice hoarse, "I'll try to tell you what I know. First, the President requested fifteen minutes of time on all networks for a speech of major national importance. He got it, and he goes on the air at one o'clock, Eastern Daylight. He will speak from the Cabinet room. There's space for three poolers. Second, there will be no advance text, but ..."

Groans and curses crackled in the crowd and ran like a lighted fuse out of the room into the overflow filling the corridor and part of the lobby.

"Okay, okay," shouted Simon. "Could we have some quiet, for God's sake? Stan, get down from there or somebody's going to get hurt."

A photographer had boosted himself on top of a filing cabinet to get a picture of the crowd. He stood precariously on one leg. He paid no attention to Simon's order.

"Whose idea was this no text?" It was the booming voice of Hal Brennan of the New York Times, a hulking extrovert who regarded his trade as a primeval struggle between reporter and news source.

"Nobody's," snapped Simon. "It just isn't written yet. Now listen, dammit! We're putting a relay of stenotypists by a TV set, and you'll have transcript, in takes, starting right after the President begins speaking. We'll set up a distribution table in the lobby. You'll have the whole thing by one-thirty."

"Frank," asked a voice from somewhere in the rear, "there's a report General Dieffenbach has quit as Army chief of staff. How about it?"

"I'm sorry," Simon answered, "I don't know a thing. There are a lot of rumors. We'll just have to wait until one o'clock."

"Who's writing the speech?"

"The President. And I honestly don't have the least idea of what he's going to talk about."

A derisive laugh sputtered through the crowd, but the throng began to break up. Within a few minutes, by chattering threes and fours, it had been transplanted to the lobby to wait in customary bedlam.

Malcolm Waters lingered by Simon's desk. The press secretary nervously lit a cigarette and leaned confidentially toward the AP correspondent.

"So help me Hannah, Milky," he said, "I don't know any more about this than you do. Probably less."

Waters dropped his voice. "Something funny's going on. They had about thirty Treasury agents in the Secretary's office across the street last night until almost midnight. None of them knew why they'd been called in. And I heard Art Corwin had his whole detail on duty last night."

"I know, I know," Simon said bleakly. "Milky, he won't tell me a thing. Whatever it is, he cut me out completely."

Several reporters had lingered inside Simon's doorway. Waters put his face close to the press secretary's ear. "Was General Scott over here last night?"

Simon looked startled. "Scott? You got me, Milky. For all he's told me, he could have had Alexander the Great in here last night."

Sixty feet away President Lyman sat at his office desk in shirt sleeves. A half dozen sheets of paper, covered with scribbling, were strewn around the desktop. Christopher Todd, immaculate as usual in gray suit and figured tie, sat across from the President, writing on a large yellow lined pad. Ray Clark, his collar undone and tie drooping, sat at the corner of the desk. He tapped his teeth with a pencil as he stared at a page of notes. Outside, the noon heat of the first real summer day shimmered on the rosebushes and the shiny magnolia leaves, but the air conditioning kept the President's office comfortable.

"I didn't feel easy about all those troops at Site Y," Lyman said, "but Barney says they can't go anywhere without planes. He thought it would be better not to spring that on the Army vice chief until after the speech."

"He's right." Todd nodded. "That gang has to be broken up with the utmost care or we could have some ugly stories on our hands."

"I don't see why we can't keep the base," said Clark, "for the same type of training, and just bring in some new officers, maybe make Henderson the C.O., and weed out the bad apples in the noncoms. It's a pity to break up an outfit with that much morale."

"Maybe that's not such a bad idea, Ray," said Lyman. "I'll talk to Barney about it."

"Does Admiral Palmer know about his future yet?" asked Todd.

"No." Lyman grinned. "If he listens this afternoon, he'll get a surprise. I'd like to see his face. Well, come on. I like the beginning, but the end's still pretty weak."

The three men worked on, largely in silence. Occasionally Todd or Clark, reviewing a page, would offer a phrase. If the President nodded, it would go in. A Filipino messboy brought in three sandwiches, milk and coffee. Soon crumbs and coffee stains marred the scattered papers.

At 12:30 Esther Townsend opened the door.

"The girls will have to have that in five minutes," she said, "if you want a clean copy to read."

Lyman handed her a sheaf of papers. Whole lines were crossed out. Smudges mingled with inked insertions.

"You read it to the girls," he said. "That's everything but the last two or three minutes."

She was back again at 12:45. "You'll have to give me the rest now, or we can't make it."

Lyman handed her two more pages. "That's enough," he said. "I'll go with this for the last page or so. It isn't all legible, but I know what I want to say now anyway."

A few minutes before one o'clock, the three men walked into the Cabinet room. Lyman held ten sheets of clean manuscript, typed in large print on the special speech typewriter for easy reading. On the bottom were two handwritten pages, messy with last-minute corrections.

At the door of the Cabinet room Lyman paused in front of Esther.

"How do I look?" he asked. "Doris and Liz will be watching in Louisville, and I don't want the family to be ashamed of the old man."

Esther grinned at him and pointed her forefinger at her temple in their private code: Quiet, secretary thinking. Then she checked his appearance, straightened his tie, and flicked a crumb off his shirt.

"Okay, Governor, you'll do," she said. "Of course, those bags under your eyes are big enough to frighten a redcap, but they make you look more like a statesman."

Clark whispered to his friend, "Be good."

The room was in hushed turmoil. Five television cameras, one for each major network, were aimed at the center of the long Cabinet table. A half-dozen sound engineers, wearing earphones, tried to avoid tripping over the tangle of wires and cables as they checked their control boxes and connections. Still and newsreel photographers squeezed in on both sides of the big TV cameras.

Lyman took his place behind a small portable podium, adorned with the presidential seal, which rested on the table. On each side of him stood a flag standard, one bearing the national colors, the other his own flag. Esther, Todd, Clark and Art Corwin stood against the side wall behind the three "pool" newspapermen who would report personal touches and color for the rest of the press contingent, now crowded around four television sets in the pressroom, lobby and Simon's office.

As the door closed, Lyman caught a glimpse of an Army warrant officer, his face blank, sitting in the outer hall, a black briefcase lying in his lap.

One of the men wearing earphones held up his index finger to the President: one minute to go. He bent his finger: 30 seconds. The murmuring in the room quieted. The director closed his fist as five television newsmen said, each into his own microphone, "Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States."

The fist came up again, the index finger shot imperiously at Lyman, and the President was on the air.

My fellow citizens:

I am sorry to interrupt you in the middle of a pleasant day when you are relaxing after a busy week of work. It is beautiful here in Washington today, and I understand it is pretty much the same all across the country-really the first day of summer for all of us. So I am grateful to you for taking a few minutes to listen to me.

In front of the TV set in Frank Simon's office, Hugh Ulanski of the UPI snorted. "What the hell is this, anyway-a new weather forecast program?" The crowd of reporters snickered. Simon growled, "Shut up, Hugh."

I would not take your time today for anything less than a question of grave concern to every American. For some of us in the White House, this has been a week of heavy trial, and in some respects of heartbreak and deep disappointment. There are three matters on which I felt it was my duty to report to you without delay.

In an Italian mountain village, Vice-President Vincent Gianelli sat at an ancient wooden table in a café. Gianelli cocked his head in puzzlement as he listened to the President on his little portable radio. What was this all about? That Gallup Poll must've shaken Jordan Lyman up more than he realized.

First, I must announce with regret that I have today asked the Attorney General to prepare to go into court on Monday morning to seek an injunction to end the missile strikes. I realize that responsible segments of organized labor-and that includes, of course, the vast majority of working men and women, as well as their union leaders-are as distressed about these work stoppages as I am. I appreciate the efforts of President Lindsay of the AFL-CIO and his colleagues. But the strike still continues, and it is my responsibility to protect the national interest. In this critical time there can be no gambling with the safety of the United States.

In his new, rambling home in suburban Maryland Cliff Lindsay rose from his chair in a flush of anger. "Double-cross," he muttered to himself. "He gave me until Monday and now he's beat me out of forty-eight hours." Lindsay stamped to the telephone to call the head of the Teamsters on the West Coast.

In his bombproof underground office at Vandenberg Missile base, General George Seager, overseer of the nation's intercontinental missiles, nodded his head grudgingly. Cancellation of the alert had come last night, and this morning a rumor came through the Air Force grapevine that Jim Scott had been fired. But, thank God, the President was showing some steel at last on these strikes. It was about time. Seager moved his chair closer to the TV set. What about Operation Preakness?

Second, my fellow Americans, I must inform you that a most critical problem has arisen with regard to the nuclear disarmament treaty recently ratified by the Senate. It is so serious as to raise doubts whether the implementation of the treaty can begin, as scheduled, on July first.

Senator Frederick Prentice of California listened to his car radio as he drove his Thunderbird convertible along Route 9 toward the Blue Ridge-and Mount Thunder. He had spent the night at his hilltop cabin north of Leesburg, a retreat without a telephone where he went to relax. Now, by prearrangement with General Scott, he was on his way to Mount Thunder to help give the nation the firm leadership it deserved. It will not serve you now, Jordan Lyman, to have second thoughts about that treaty. The fat's in the fire, and you're too late.

Security prohibits me from discussing the exact nature of this problem. All I can say now is that I hope to resolve it. We must resolve it, and do so quickly, if we are to be able to see this treaty, for which we all have such great hopes, go into effect. Therefore, two days ago I asked our ambassador in Moscow to request Chairman Feemerov to meet me at once. He has agreed, and I plan to meet him Wednesday in Vienna.

At the office of United Press International a few blocks from the White House a news editor swung away from his TV set and shouted to a teletype operator waiting a few feet away: "Bulletin. President will meet Feemerov in Vienna Wednesday." In the Associated Press office on Connecticut Avenue two precious seconds were saved, for the bureau chief himself sat at the "A" wire teletype. When he heard Lyman's announcement, his fingers hurried over the keyboard:

FLASH

LYMAN MEETS FEEMEROV

IN VIENNA WEDNESDAY.

The bureau chief turned back to his TV set-but stayed by the teletype.

I shall be accompanied by the Secretary of State and others of my associates. We go with concern, of course, but I say to you-and to others who may hear me- that we go without fear. I have every hope that the meeting will resolve the problems that have arisen, and that the treaty will go into effect at Los Alamos and Semipalatinsk as planned on July 1. I regret that I can say no more on this matter at the present time.

In his office at the Central Intelligence Agency, across the Potomac River in Virginia, Saul Lieberman nodded his head approvingly. Just right. The odds are ten to one against success, but we can try. Lyman was good on this one. He's a real clutch hitter, all right.

In a Louisville hospital room Doris Lyman reached over to the bed and took her daughter's hand. "Oh, Liz. I should have gone home yesterday." Elizabeth replied quietly: "You go this afternoon, Mom. I'm all right now."

In a long, high-ceilinged room in the Kremlin, thin shadows stretched in the fading Moscow twilight. Premier Feemerov cocked his bushy head to listen to the translation. The satellite relay system was working perfectly today, and he could study the American President's features on the television screen as the interpreter spoke rapidly. Does Lyman know of Yakutsk? No, that's impossible. He must have some trick of his own up his sleeve.

And now I turn to the third subject which I must discuss with you today. I do so with a heavy heart, for an event has occurred which has disturbed me more than any other since I took up the duties of this office.

It is no secret to any of you that the ratification of the nuclear disarmament treaty inspired a national debate even more vigorous than the one over the original signing of that instrument.

Stewart Dillard, sitting on the porch of his fashionable Chevy Chase home, turned to his wife and chuckled: "It sure wasn't any secret around this house. Lyman should have heard the ruckus Fred Prentice kicked up on the lawn Sunday night." Francine Dillard pouted, "Well, I got nothing but compliments on the party next day, Stew."

Morton Freeman sat in his New York apartment and glowered at a TV set. Wait'll Lyman hears doll-baby MacPherson tonight, he thought, and he'll think the last couple of months have been a finger-painting duel in a nursery. Why wouldn't that Fascist bastard let me have a look at his script for tonight? Somebody ought to castrate him.

It was not the argument that you carried on in your homes and offices, nor the public debate that took place in the Senate, that disturbed me. That is the way this country decides, and we pray that it may ever be so. But hidden from public view, there developed also a bitter opposition to the treaty among some of our highest military leaders.

"Here it comes," Milky Waters whispered to the reporter sitting next to him in Simon's office. "Ten will get you twenty General Scott gets the ax." His colleague looked at Waters in bewilderment. "Scott?"

In the Cabinet room, Clark watched Lyman and thought: Don't rush this now, Jordie, or you'll panic them. Take it slow and easy.

I should take a moment here to explain my own concept of the civilian-military relationship under our system of government. I deeply believe, as I know the overwhelming majority of Americans do, that our military leaders-tempered by battle, matured by countless command decisions, dedicating their entire lives to the service of the nation-should always be afforded every opportunity to speak their views. In the case of the treaty, they were of course given that opportunity.

Admiral Lawrence Palmer, seated at his desk in the Pentagon suite of the chief of Naval Operations, nodded to the aide who sat beside him. "He's right about that," he said. "I testified against it at least five times." The aide protested: "But, sir, they were all executive sessions." Palmer agreed: "Sure. But I got listened to where it counted."

General Parker Hardesty, at home with his wife, exploded. "That's a barefaced lie," he said. "I tried to slip just one paragraph in my Chicago speech and the Secretary's goddam censors killed it."

But once the President and the Senate, as the responsible authorities, make a decision, then, my fellow citizens, debate and opposition among the military must come to an end. That is the way in war: the commander solicits every possible view from his staff, but once he decides on his plan of battle, there can be no disputing it. Any other way would mean confusion, chaos and certain defeat. And so it also must be in the councils of government here in Washington.

In Quarters Six at Fort Myer, General Scott lounged in sports clothes in front of a portable TV set in his second-floor study. Generals Riley and Dieffenbach flanked him.

"You've got to hand it to him," Scott said. "For a man who's dead wrong, he's putting on the best possible face. If only he was that way where it counted."

Riley shrugged. "I'm not impressed, Jim," he said.

"The country's had it. He'll blow everything at Vienna."

Dieffenbach pulled out his wallet. "Not that anybody cares much," he said, "but I've got ten bucks that says Barney Rutkowski is the next chairman."

Scott smiled. "You're playing to my weakness, Ed. You're on. I think it'll be Palmer."

Early this week it came to my attention that the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Scott, and three other members of the Joint Chiefs were not only still opposing the treaty, despite its ratification, but were in fact organizing a formal group in an effort to prevent its implementation on the first of July.

Millicent Segnier and Eleanor Holbrook sipped highballs as they watched together in New York. "Ye gods," Milly cried, "don't tell me he's going to fire Jim?" Shoo recalled a Marine's arms around her neck, and thought: Jiggs must have done his job well. Maybe they'll make him a general or something. Aloud, she said: "Who cares, Milly? Love that Lyman."

I have the highest regard for General Scott. He possesses one of the finest minds in the government. His advice, over the months, has been of great value, often indispensable, on a hundred and one problems facing me and other civilian authorities. I know he ranks high in the esteem of his countrymen. So he does in mine too. When reports of his participation in an organized plan of opposition to the treaty reached me, I did not credit them. But General Scott, honest and forthright as he is, conceded frankly to me that such was the case.

In a Navy code room at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, Lieutenant (jg) Dorsey Hough had a radio turned on full blast so he could hear it over the chatter of typewriters as sailors with headsets kept the message traffic of the Pacific Fleet flowing to Okinawa, San Francisco, Midway Island, and the ships at sea. Hough's feet were propped on a desk and a magazine lay open in his lap. "That's awful damn fancy language to use to fire a guy just because he bets on the horses," he muttered, half to himself. "That Lyman must be death on gambling."

In a Quonset hut on the New Mexico desert, Colonel John Broderick kicked angrily at the leg of the tripod holding his TV set. The machine crashed to the floor. "I've heard enough of that frigging lecture," he snarled to the major at his side. "If you ask me, we've got a Commie right in the White House, right in the White House!"

Furthermore, and I grant him the courage of his convictions, the General declined to abandon his plans for opposing the treaty further. That being the case, I had no choice but to ask for General Scott's resignation. He tendered it to me last night. Despite my great regret that the nation will be deprived of the talents of this able officer, I accepted his resignation.

Bells rang on teleprinters in newspaper offices across the country:

BULLETIN

GENERAL SCOTT FIRED

Admiral Farley Barnswell, in his cabin aboard the U.S.S. Eisenhower at Gibraltar, tugged at his ear and considered his own position. With Girard dead, did the President have any way of knowing about that memorandum he had signed? No, of course not. Could Girard have telephoned the President between the time he went ashore and the time his plane took off from Madrid? Maybe, but he doubted it. Girard had made no call from the Navy's shore facility at Gibraltar, and he wouldn't have had much time anywhere else. Barnswell rubbed his palms together nervously. Nothing to do now but wait this one out.

I also asked for and received, at the same time, promptly and with every courtesy and consideration, the resignations of three other fine officers: General Hardesty and General Dieffenbach, the Chiefs of Staff of the Air Force and Army, and General Riley, the Commandant of the Marine Corps. Since all these men followed their convictions with honor and courage, I shall request of the Congress that no attempt be made to deprive any of these officers of the full retirement benefits due them. These are small compensation for a lifetime of service to the country. In passing, I might say that I shall present to the Congress, soon after it reconvenes, proposed legislation to liberalize not only such benefits but also the basic pay scales of the armed forces.

Admiral Topping Wilson, commander of the Pacific Fleet, sat in his hilltop house in Honolulu, listening to the President's voice but looking across his porch to Diamond Head and the blue-green Pacific beyond. That message twelve hours ago from the President, canceling the Saturday alert, indicated that Operation Preakness had collapsed. Now his reactions were numbed. Whatever possessed him to join Jim Scott in such a wild venture? He was glad it was over. Honestly, what could Scott have done that Lyman wasn't doing already? Wilson fingered the silver stars on his collar and thought of the days when he stood on the bridge of a cruiser, leading his division into Pearl past the headland over there. He could feel salt spray on his cheeks, and he felt infinitely old.

In the den of a handsomely restored house in the Connecticut countryside, Harold MacPherson slumped in a chair in front of his typewriter. He had pulled out the last sheet just before the President went on the air. Now he slowly tore the whole sheaf of typescript in half, then into quarters, and finally into eighths. He walked to a wicker wastebasket and dropped the pieces in, letting the last shreds flutter off his fingertips. The country is dead, he thought. Dead. Ready to be buried. The Communists have gotten to Jordan Lyman and everything we've worked for so long is finished. He poured two fingers of whisky into a glass and downed it at a gulp. He stared moodily at the initials cut into the glass, turning the tumbler in his two hands, and then hurled it across the room to shatter in the old stone fireplace.

I am taking immediate action, of course, to fill the vacancies created by these resignations, so that there need be no concern about the security of the United States. I am appointing Admiral Lawrence Palmer, now chief of Naval Operations, as the new chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Chief Justice of the United States has kindly consented to administer the oath of office to Admiral Palmer in my office this afternoon.

It will doubtless be suggested that Admiral Palmer was no less opposed to the treaty than his former colleagues on the Joint Chiefs. That is true. However, once the decision was made by the President and approved by the Senate, he stilled his voice and joined the many other military leaders who closed ranks behind their commander in chief. He acted in the tradition of the Constitution and of the military academies, which have given this country a career officer corps that is not only professionally skilled but is also a bulwark of our liberties. Admiral Palmer is an officer of unexcelled ability, foresight and military knowledge, and I am sure he will discharge his new responsibilities well.

In Quarters Six, Dieffenbach silently pulled a $10 bill from his wallet and handed it to Scott. The former chairman squinted and looked out the window toward the Mall and the Capitol, bright in the midday sun. "I could never budge Palmer," he mused.

At Mount Thunder, General Garlock stared at his TV set. The whole thing baffled him. That visit to his home by Gentleman Jim Scott and Billy Riley Tuesday night had been bothering him for four days. Did the President really know something more than he was saying? Should he ask for an appointment at the White House and tell him about the visit? What was his duty? He leaned forward to hear the rest of Lyman's speech.

A new chief of staff for the Air Force has already been appointed. He is General Bernard Rutkowski, until now the commander of our North American Air Defense Command. His life and career exemplify the promise of America; his fine combat record and unique abilities as military tactician and strategist speak for themselves. He was sworn into office last night in this house. I am confident he will serve with distinction alongside Admiral Palmer.

The Army and Marines, and the Navy, have fully qualified deputy commanders who have assumed, for the time being, the command of their services.

Jiggs Casey sat in his living room in Arlington, between his wife and his old friend Mutt Henderson. Marge put her mouth to Casey's ear and whispered, "I'm sorry I made such a fuss about New York, honey. I had no idea that something important really was going on." Casey merely grinned down at her.

Henderson got up from the sofa, absently exploring the purple lump under his left eye with his fingertips. "Jeez, this is an awful lot for a simple country boy to take in one week. How about a guy mixing himself a drink?"

Casey said, "Sure. And fix one for Marge and me too."

When Henderson had gone into the kitchen, Marge asked, "Jiggs, was there some kind of plot, or something, going on this week?" Casey looked at her in surprise.

"I don't know, Marge, I really don't," he said. "I have no certain knowledge-and I have no doubts."

In another suburban subdivision, across the river in Bethesda, Bill Fullerton stood in the shade of the big beech tree behind his home as he listened to the radio resting on the cookout table. Just what the devil was the connection between this and that call from Paul Girard Monday night? And that list of classified bases President Lyman wanted Tuesday morning? After thirty years of sitting in the Budget Bureau and dealing with the Pentagon, he thought, I can smell fish when they're hidden somewhere around, and this thing sure smells fishy. Do you suppose some kind of military operation was involved? And what about Site Y-just where the hell is the place, anyway?

There may be some who believe that these changes in our military high command will weaken the nation in a critical time. To them I say with complete confidence: Put aside your fears. Admiral Palmer, General Rutkowski and the other officers now in charge of our defenses have served in high councils for many years and they are fully prepared and able to assume their new responsibilities.

As I set out for Vienna next week I shall need your support and your prayers, but I shall go in confidence, with the assurance that all is well at home and that the nation, having made its decisions in our traditional way, remains devoted to the basic principles handed to us by the founding fathers.

Henry Whitney listened in rapt attention to the President's voice. He was in the home of a fellow foreign service officer in Georgetown. When he had checked in with the Spanish desk at the department that morning, they read him an angry cable from Father Archibald at the embassy in Madrid. Whitney hadn't figured out how to handle that one yet, but now he was thinking of other things. Yes, he thought, I'll pray for you, Mr. President, wherever you go and whatever you do. Then he thought of Jordan Lyman's parting pledge to him. Maybe Miss Townsend could arrange something to cool Ambassador Lytle's anger. Better call right after the broadcast is over.

And now, if I may, let me make a few general observations. No matter what convictions and deeply felt motives moved General Scott and his colleagues to act as they did, I had no choice, as President and commander in chief of the armed forces, but to act as I did. To have done otherwise would have been to betray the great trust handed down to us across two centuries by the men who wrote the Constitution.

This is a republic, managed by a President freely elected by all the people. Sometimes the President has been a military man. Sometimes he has been a civilian. It matters not from what profession he may come; once he is elected, he must assume full responsibility, under the Constitution, for the foreign relations and the defense of the United States. He may make mistakes; his decisions may be popular or unpopular; but so long as he remains in office, he may not avoid the responsibility for decision. And it must follow that once he has made a decision-whether for better or for worse-members of the government which he directs must give his policies full support.

It was not the opposition of General Scott and his colleagues which required their resignations. It was the timing of that opposition. Until the Senate ratified the treaty, they had every right-indeed a duty- to speak their views frankly and fully. But once the Senate voted, making the treaty an established national policy of the United States, they were then duty-bound to render it every support within their power as long as they remained on active duty. That they refused to do; and that refusal no President could countenance.

Somewhere, this afternoon, there are listening men who will one day occupy this office. I would betray my obligation to them and to their generation of Americans, as well as my duty to the past and to all of you today, if I failed to act as I have.

I would close with one final observation. There has been abroad in this land, in recent months, a whisper that we have somehow lost our greatness; that we do not have the strength to win-without war-the struggle for liberty throughout the world; that we do not have the fortitude to face, without either surrender or blind violence, the present challenge of men who would use tools as old as tyranny itself to make the future theirs.

I say to you today that this whisper is a vile slander -a slander on America, on its people, on the institutions which we hold dear and which in turn sustain us. Our country is strong-strong enough to be a peacemaker. It is proud-proud enough to be patient. We love our good life-love it enough to die for it if need be, or to forgo some of its benefits to help others less fortunate come closer to achieving it.

So, my fellow citizens, go back to this lovely day in May. Do not weep for your country. Do not listen to the whispers, for they are wrong. We remain strong and proud, peaceful and patient, ready to sacrifice, always willing to help others who seek their way out of the long tunnels of tyranny into the bright sunshine of liberty. Good-by, and God bless you all.

President Lyman's closing sentence crackled incongruously from the radio in the smashed automobile as a Virginia highway patrolman swung his squad car off Route 120. The trooper hurried across the road to the car, which lay on its side against a stone wall. The dust and smoke of violent collision still drifted upward from the wreck.

An Army bus was stopped on the road, and a dozen or so soldiers stood in a little circle around a body lying on the gravel shoulder. A sergeant stepped forward as the patrolman approached.

"We tried first aid, officer," he said, "but he was gone. Died on impact, I guess."

"How'd it happen?"

"We couldn't see too well. One of the boys had a portable radio and we were mostly in the back of the bus listening to the President. The driver says that all of a sudden this car came around the bend right in front of us, going real fast, and swerved off and piled into the wall. Maybe he wasn't paying attention and got scared when he saw us."

The highway patrolman walked over to the battered car, reached inside and switched off the radio. Then he noticed the license tags of the car and swore under his breath. Damn, he thought, I'll be tied up on this one all week.

The rear license plate of the Thunderbird convertible was bent, but easily legible. It was a California plate: USS 1.