Seven Days in May

Monday Night

Casey left his car in a garage on F Street and walked around the block past the Treasury building. The softness of evening had dropped over the city like a veil, blurring the sharp edges of daytime. The statue of Albert Gallatin in front of the Treasury seemed friendly, almost lifelike, in the dusk. There were few people on Pennsylvania Avenue, for Washington, unlike Paris or London, withdraws into itself after sunset. It is a habit that Europeans patronize but which Americans feel lends a kind of lonely dignity to their capital. Casey was simply thankful for the lack of pedestrians on the streets; he did not care, to be seen just then.

He had viewed the scene scores of times: the great elms arching over the sidewalk from the White House lawn, the last white-capped guide still prowling the corner in quest of a late tourist, the handful of bench sitters dozing in Lafayette Park, the glow from the great hanging lantern on the White House portico. Tonight the calm setting seemed somehow unreal, strangely detached from his own mission.

Casey turned the corner down East Executive Avenue and walked quickly to the east gate, where a White House policeman stood outside his cubicle. In the semicircular driveway beyond, Girard was waiting, his eyelids half lowered like tiny curtains in the big head, his hands jammed in his pants pockets. "Here's my man, officer," he said. "He's okay." Girard made no effort to suppress his curiosity as they walked along the wide ground-floor hallway through the east wing to the mansion itself. "What the devil is this all about, Jiggs?" "Paul, I told you I can't tell you about it. That's got to be up to the President. Did you brief him on me?"

"Sure." Girard paused before he pressed the elevator button. "Listen, Jiggs, I hope this isn't more trouble. The Man's got all the headaches he can stand right now."

The elevator doors slid open and they stepped into the little car. With walnut paneling, rich brown carpeting, and two oval windows in the doors, it seemed almost like a small room. Girard motioned Casey off at the second floor and led him across the cavernous hall-actually a great room in itself-that swept almost the whole width of the mansion.

The President's study was oval in shape. Casey guessed that it must be directly above the ornate Blue Room on the first floor. Here, in the living quarters, the colors were warmer, thanks to soft yellow carpeting and slip covers, but the study was still far too large for Casey's taste or comfort. Its high ceiling, pilastered walls, tall bookcases, and shoulder-high marble mantel combined to make him feel a little less than life-size. President Lyman was reading, his big feet all but hiding the footstool on which they rested, when Casey and Girard entered. An Irish setter with silky red-brown hair and sad eyes lay curled on a little hooked rug beside the President's chair. Lyman laid his glasses on a table, stood up quickly and came forward smiling, his large hand extended. The dog accompanied him and sniffed gravely at the cuffs of Casey's trousers.

"Hello, Colonel. It's a pleasure to see you outside of business hours."

"If this isn't business," Girard said, "I'll strangle him." He returned to the door. "I'll leave you two alone."

"Colonel," said Lyman as the door closed, "meet Trimmer. He's a political dog. He has absolutely no convictions, but he's loyal to his friends."

"I've read about him, sir," said Casey. "Good evening, Trimmer."

"Ever been up here before, Colonel?"

"No, sir. Just social occasions downstairs. Awful big rooms, sir."

Lyman laughed. "Too big for living and too small for conventions. I don't blame Harry Truman and the others for getting out of here every time they had the chance. Sometimes it gives me the creeps." Lyman swept his arm around the room, his bony wrist thrusting out of the shirt cuff.

"Still, for a place big enough to hold a ball in, this room is about as cozy as you could expect. They tell me it used to be pretty stiff until Mrs. Kennedy did it over in this yellow. And she found that old footstool somewhere. The Fraziers left it that way and Doris and I decided we couldn't improve on it either."

Casey was vastly ill at ease. He was no stranger to high officials, including this President, but somehow even Lyman's small talk, though obviously intended to relax him, made the nature of his errand suddenly seem to dwindle in dimension. What had been real and immediate in the roar of Great Falls now looked fuzzy and a bit improbable. He stood somewhat stiffly.

"Drink, Colonel?"

"Why ... yes, sir. Scotch, please, sir. A little on the pale side, if you don't mind."

"Fine. I'll keep you company."

The drinks mixed, the two men sat down in the yellow-covered armchairs with a little end table between them. Trimmer settled down again on his rug, his eyes on Casey. Over the white marble mantel, the prim features of Healy's Euphemia Van Rensselaer looked down on them, not altogether approvingly. Casey was facing the tall triple windows which provided, through sheer mesh curtains, a vista of the darkening Ellipse. The fountain on the south lawn raised its stream of water below the balcony. Far away, down by the tidal basin, stood the domed colonnade of the Jefferson Memorial, its central statue softly spotlighted. A little to the left, and much closer, rose the gray-white shaft of the Washington Monument, red lights at its top as a warning to low-flying aircraft.

"And now, Colonel. That matter of national security." Lyman's eyes were on Casey.

Casey licked his lips, hesitated a moment and then began just as he had rehearsed it on the drive from home.

"Mr. President," he asked, "have you ever heard of a military unit known as ECOMCON?"

"No, I don't believe I have. What does it mean?" "I'm not sure, sir, but in normal military abbreviations, I'd think it would stand for something like 'Emergency Communications Control.' "

"Never heard of anything like that," the President said.

Casey took his second step.

"I know a colonel isn't supposed to question his commander in chief, sir, but have you ever authorized the formation of any type of secret unit, regardless of its name, that has something to do with preserving the security of things like telephones, or television and radio?"

Lyman leaned forward, puzzled. "No, I haven't."

"Excuse me again, sir, but one more question. Do you know of the existence of a secret army installation that has been set up somewhere near El Paso recently?"

"The answer is 'no' again, Colonel. Why?"

"Well, sir, I hadn't heard of it either, until yesterday. And as the director of the Joint Staff I'm fully cleared and I'm supposed to know everything that goes on in the military establishment. That's even more true of you, sir, as commander in chief."

Lyman sipped his drink for the first time. Casey reached gratefully for his own highball and took a swallow before he went on.

"In a way I'm relieved that you said 'no' to those questions, Mr. President, but in a way I'm not. I mean, if you had said you knew all about ECOMCON, I'd have said thanks and apologized for bothering you and asked permission to go home. I'd have been pretty embarrassed. But the way it is, Mr. President, it's worse. I'm frightened, sir."

"We don't scare easy in this house, Colonel. Suppose you let me have the whole story."

"Well, sir, yesterday I learned from an old Army friend, a Colonel Henderson, that he's executive officer of ECOMCON. Today I learned that the commanding officer is another man I know, an Army colonel named John Broderick. Both of them are Signal Corps, which means their outfit has something to do with communications. They've had a hundred officers and thirty-five hundred men training secretly at a desert base near El Paso for six weeks or so.

"I ran into Henderson by accident and naturally he thought I knew all about it, because of my job. He said one odd thing that got me thinking, something about how they spent more time in training 'on the seizing than on the preventing.' He complained that somebody up here must have a defeatist attitude because their book seemed to assume that the Communists already had the facilities."

"What facilities?" Lyman broke in.

"He didn't say."

"Who set up this outfit?"

"I assume General Scott did, sir. At least Henderson and Broderick were up here to report directly to the chairman today.

"Of course," Casey went on, "when I heard, I assumed that I had been cut out of it for some perfectly logical security reason. It didn't occur to me then that you might not know about it. It just seemed odd. Then this morning I got another jolt. Look at this, sir."

Casey took the memo-sized paper from his wallet, unfolded it carefully, and handed it to the President. Lyman reached for his glasses. He studied the note for a minute.

"I must say I can't make much out of this scrawl, Colonel."

"That's General Hardesty's writing, sir. I know it pretty well. The paper comes from one of the memo pads they use in the Joint Chiefs' meeting room. It was rolled up in a ball in an ashtray and I happened to pick it up this morning."

"What does it say? I can't make sense out of the part of it I can read, let alone the rest." Lyman held out the note.

Casey took it again and read the note out loud: " 'Air lift ECOMCON. 40 K-212s at Site Y by 0700 Sat. Chi, NY, LA. Utah?'

"It looks to me, sir, like Air Force jet transports- that's the K-212-are scheduled to lift this whole command out of Site Y-that's what Henderson called the base near El Paso-before the alert Saturday, and take the troops to Chicago, New York, Los Angeles, and maybe Utah. The telephone company has big relay facilities for its long lines, you know, sir, in Utah."

Lyman eyed Casey closely. Casey, in his turn, noted a frown on the President's face. He wondered whether it was a sign of concentration-or of suspicion.

"Just what are you leading up to, Colonel?"

"I'm not sure, as I said, Mr. President. But let me try to tell you the other things that have happened in the past two days. It's all very hard for me to sort out, even in my own mind."

Lyman nodded. Slowly, carefully, and in detail, Casey recounted every oddity that had occurred since Sunday morning. He began with Scott's invitation to the five field commanders for wagers on the Preakness, Admiral Barnswell's curt "no bet" reply, and the unusual emphasis that Scott had put on the need for silence on Casey's part. He told of meeting Senator Prentice at the Dillard party, of Prentice's outspoken condemnation of Lyman and praise of Scott, and of his use of a phrase that indicated knowledge of the alert. He explained how he had seen Prentice's car parked outside Scott's quarters at midnight, and how Scott had lied to him about that visit by saying he had been asleep by 10:30. He told of Scott's apparently lying again when he said no one on Capitol Hill knew of plans for the alert. He mentioned Dorsey Hough's sudden transfer. He quoted Broderick's previously stated views on the desirability of a government without a Congress, and cited his bitter disdain for civilian leaders. He reminded Lyman that the Joint Chiefs had set the alert for a time when Congress would be in recess, when the Vice-President would be abroad- and when the President would be in the underground command post at Mount Thunder. He told of his surprise when he noted in the paper that Gianelli would be in a remote mountain hamlet in Italy Saturday night.

By the time he had finished, the White House was in the full embrace of night. Only the street lights and the glint of water in the fountain could be seen through the windows. Casey glanced at his watch. He had talked for almost an hour without interruption.

President Lyman stretched and ran a big hand through his wiry hair. He walked over to a small table, selected a pipe, and went through the fussy little preparations for smoking it. Casey, uneasy again in the silence that followed his long recital, drank off the last ice water in the bottom of his glass.

"Colonel," said the President at last. "Let me ask you a question or two. How long have you worked with General Scott?"

"Just about a year, sir."

Lyman struck a match and pulled at the pipe until he had it going.

"Have you mentioned what you've just told me to anyone else?"

"No, sir. Paul asked about it, but I thought you were the only one I should talk to, under the circumstances. I haven't said a thing to anyone else."

Lyman, back in his chair, crossed his feet on the stool and tried several smoke rings. There was a little too much draft from the open windows.

"What is Scott's real attitude on the treaty?" the President asked. "I know he's been against it in his testimony on the Hill, and I gather he's leaked some stories to the newspapers. But how deeply does he feel?"

"He thinks it's a terrible mistake, sir, a tragic one. He believes the Russians will cheat and make us look silly, at best, or use it as a cover for a surprise attack some night, at worst."

"And you, Colonel, how do you feel?"

Casey shook his head. "I can't make up my mind, Mr. President. Some days I think it's the only way out for both sides. Other days I think we're being played for suckers. I guess I really think it's your business, yours and the Senate's. You did it, and they agreed, so I don't see how we in the military can question it. I mean, we can question it, but we can't fight it. Well, we shouldn't, anyway."

Lyman smiled.

"Jiggs, isn't it?" he asked. "Isn't that what they call you?"

"Yes, sir, it is." Casey began to feel almost normal.

"So you stand by the Constitution, Jiggs?"

"Well, I never thought about it just that way, Mr. President. That's what we've got, and I guess it's worked pretty well so far. I sure wouldn't want to be the one to say we ought to change it."

"Neither would I," Lyman said, "and I've thought about it a lot. Especially lately, after this row over the treaty. How do the other chiefs feel about the treaty, Jiggs?"

"Just like General Scott, sir. They're all against it. The C.N.O., Admiral Palmer, sometimes even gets a little violent on the subject."

No sooner had he finished the sentence than Casey felt a rush of guilt. Criticizing a ranking officer inside the service was one thing, but outside quite another.

"I didn't mean to single out the Admiral, sir. They all feel that way. It's just that he-"

Lyman cut him off. "Forget it, Colonel. By the way, at that meeting this morning-the one where you think that note was written-were all of them there? All five chiefs?"

"No, sir. As a matter of fact, Admiral Palmer wasn't in it." Now Casey was thoroughly confused.

"Anything unusual about that?"

"No ... Yes, sort of. Now that I think of it, he didn't have a representative there either. I mean, it's not unusual for a chief to miss a meeting, but they always send someone to sit in for them. In fact, I can't remember another time when a service just wasn't there at all."

Lyman thought for a minute, then apparently dismissed this line.

"By the way, Colonel, who are Scott's special friends in the press and television? Do you know?"

The question startled Casey. He glanced at the President's face for a clue, but Lyman was studying the bowl of his pipe.

"Well, sir," Casey said hesitantly, "I'm not really sure. He knows some of the big columnists, and he has lunch or dinner occasionally with a group of Washington bureau chiefs, but I don't know of any of them being a special friend. The editor of Life has been in a couple of times, and of course the military writers for the Baltimore Sun and the Star here.

"I can't think of any others ... Wait a minute. He's very close to that television commentator, Harold MacPherson. I think he's with RBC. MacPherson has called several times when I've been in the General's office, and I know they've seen each other socially. Frequently, I'd say."

"And that horse pool business?" The President seemed to be going over the things Casey had told him. "I don't quite get your point on that."

"I wouldn't have thought anything," Casey said, "except along with everything else. Frankly, sir, I think that message could be a code for some kind of ... well, action, on Saturday, and not about the race at all. And then, if that's right, Admiral Barnswell has included himself out."

Again there was silence.

"Well, to sum it up, Jiggs, what are you suggesting?"

"I don't know for sure, sir." Casey fumbled for the right words. "Just some possibilities, I guess. What we call capabilities in military intelligence, if you know what I mean. I guess it all sounds fantastic, just saying it, but I thought it was my duty to lay it all out for you."

The President's voice was suddenly hard.

"You afraid to speak plain English, Colonel?"

"No, sir. It's just that-"

Lyman interrupted harshly.

"Do you mean you think there may be a military plot to take over the government?"

The words hit Casey like a blow. He had avoided the idea, even in his own thoughts. Now it was there, an ugly presence in the room.

"I guess so, sir," he said wanly, "as long as you use the word 'may,' making it a possibility only, I mean."

"Are you aware that you could be broken right out of the service," Lyman snapped, "for what you have said and done tonight?"

It was Casey's turn to stiffen. The cords stood out in his short, thick neck.

"Yes, sir, I am. But I thought it all out pretty carefully this afternoon and I came here and said it." He added quietly: "I thought about the consequences, Mr. President. I've been a Marine for twenty-two years."

Lyman's sudden harshness seemed to slip away. He went over to the little bar, mixed himself another Scotch and asked Casey if he wouldn't like a second. Casey nodded. God knows I need one, he thought.

"You know," Lyman said, "I can never get over the caliber of the service academy graduates. The officer corps, the professionals, have been good to the nation. And they've been good for it. The country has believed that-look at the rewards military men have been given, even this office I happen to hold right now. There's been a real feeling of trust between our military and civilians, and damned few countries can say that. I think it's one of our great strengths."

Lyman went on, looking at the liquid in his glass, not so much talking to the other man in the room as musing aloud about the generals and admirals he had known and admired. He spoke with something like awe of the combat records of Scott, Riley and Dieffenbach. He said he agreed with the people who thought Scott might be the next President.

Casey listened respectfully, sipping his drink. He hadn't realized the President felt this way. He seemed to know everything about the military. He was generous in his evaluation of men. When Lyman told an anecdote about General Riley, a story of which the President was the butt, Casey laughed with him. But he also was becoming aware that this man was far more perceptive and sensitive than he had realized.

"Maybe that's why our system works so well," Lyman concluded, "fitting men with the brains and courage of Scott and Riley in near the top, making use of their talents, but still under civilian control. I'd hate to see that balance upset in some hasty action by men who'd come to regret it until the day they died."

"So would I, sir," Casey said.

"Have you any bright ideas on what I ought to do, Jiggs?"

"No, sir." Casey felt inadequate, almost as if he'd let this man down. "I'm just a buck passer on this one, Mr. President. The solution is way out of my league."

The President unhitched his big feet from in front of him and stood up in an angular series of motions that seemed to proceed one joint at a time. He grasped Casey's hand. There was no perceptible pull, but Casey found himself moving toward the door as he returned the handshake.

"Colonel," Lyman said, "I very much appreciate your coming in to see me. I think perhaps I ought to know where I can reach you at any time. Could you call Miss Townsend, my secretary, in the morning and keep her up to date on where you'll be? I'll tell her to expect the call. Thanks for coming in. Thanks very much."

"Yes, sir. Good night, sir." Casey was out in the big hall. Lyman came after him as he started for the elevator.

"One other thing, Colonel. Now that you've talked to me there are two of us who know about your thoughts. I think maybe I'd better be the one to decide from now on whether anyone else should know. That includes your wife, too."

"I never tell her anything that's classified, sir."

"This conversation has just been classified by the Commander in Chief," Lyman said with a quick smile. "Good night, Jiggs."

When Girard came back to the President's study after meeting Casey on the ground floor and escorting him out, he found Lyman walking restlessly around the room.

"Get a drink in your fist, Paul," the President said. "You'll want one. Your friend Casey thinks he's discovered a military plot to throw us out and take over the government."

"He what?" Girard gaped in disbelief.

"That's what the man says. A regular damn South American junta."

"Oh, Christ." Girard groaned in mock horror. "Not this month. We're booked solid with troubles already."

Lyman ignored the opening for light repartee. He spoke slowly.

"Paul, I'm going to tell you everything he told me. First, there's one thing you need to know. Another All Red alert, a full readiness test, has been scheduled with my approval for Saturday at three p.m. I'm supposed to go up to Mount Thunder for it. Under the security plan, you weren't to know, and neither was anyone else except the chiefs, Casey and Colonel Murdock, Scott's aide. Now remember that and listen to me."

Lyman recounted Casey's full story. He showed Girard the creased scratch-pad sheet with General Hardesty's scribbles, and copies of Scott's message and Barnswell's reply, all of which Casey had left with him. As Lyman talked, Girard sank lower in his chair, his sleepy eyes almost closed, his head cradled between his hands.

"Now let me add a few things I know that I didn't tell Casey about," Lyman said when he had finished. "Several months ago I got a call from General Barney Rutkowski, the chief of the Air Defense Command.

I've known Barney awhile and I guess he thought he could speak freely to me. Anyway, he said General Daniel, the SAC commander, had sounded him out on making a trip up here to talk with Scott about 'the political mess the country's in and the military's responsibility,' or something like that. Barney asked me what to do. I told him that I could use a little advice from Scott, but the upshot was that Barney stalled off the invitation and nothing came of it. At least, I never heard any more about it."

Girard pulled his ear. "I gather your point is that Daniel is one of the men on Scott's betting list."

"That, and the wording of the invitation Barney got," Lyman said. "Now, second. Vince Gianelli told me at lunch today that Prentice was the one who suggested he spend Friday and Saturday nights at his grandfather's place in the mountains. Fred suggested it to him last Friday, Vince says, and he changed his plans to do it. Of course, it's a good publicity gimmick, but it's funny that Prentice would be thinking up ways to help the administration, especially just one day after the Joint Chiefs fixed the date for the alert, which Prentice obviously knows about, if we can believe what Casey says."

"Don't worry about that part of it, boss," Girard said. "Jiggs is solid. He never makes anything up, and he's got a good memory to boot."

"A third point," Lyman went on. "A week ago Sunday, I watched the Harold MacPherson show on RBC. He spent twenty-five minutes blasting me and the treaty and five minutes praising the bejesus out of Scott. I hadn't seen him in quite a while. Actually I watched because Doris had been raving about his sex appeal and it made me curious. The fellow's a spellbinder all right. His style reminds me of Bishop Sheen or Billy Graham years ago. Afterwards I realized I didn't know much about him and I asked Art Corwin to run me a quiet check."

"You could have told me," complained Girard. He, not the head of the White House Secret Service detail, normally did the confidential political chores.

"I meant to, Paul, but I just forgot, frankly. Well, to my surprise, Corwin came back with word that the FBI has quite a file on MacPherson. It seems he belongs to several of those far-right-wing groups. A couple of them have a lot of retired military men in their memberships. You know the kind of thing they advocate."

Girard grunted. "Yeah, stamp out everything. Some of these military guys seem to hate what they call 'socialism' more every time they get another free ride out of it, from the academies on. If you took them seriously, we'd have to indict ourselves for treason-and them with us."

"That's about it. Anyway, Casey says Scott and MacPherson are close friends. That kind of surprised me, but if it's right, then Scott may be playing around with the lunatic fringe.

"Now, fourth. This afternoon Scott called me up about the alert. He wants me to shake off the press at Camp David and take a chopper down to Mount Thunder. I said I'd like to take a newspaper pool man to play square with the boys, but Scott insisted that this alert had to be worked just like the real thing. So I gave in. But you can see what that means. I'll be going to the cave Saturday with only Corwin and one or two other agents, at the most."

"The way you make it sound," Girard commented dryly, "you better take along a couple of divisions of Secret Service men, to say nothing of the Alcohol Tax Unit, the FBI, and anybody else who can fire a gun."

"I take it from that crack that you don't believe Casey's story?" Lyman asked.

"I don't say he isn't telling the truth, boss. I'm sure he is. I just don't agree with the conclusion. I don't think there's any military plot cooking. It's absurd."

"Yes, it is," Lyman said, "but the string of coincidences is getting pretty long."

"The thing that seems unlikeliest to me," Girard said slowly, "is the e-co-hop business, or whatever Casey calls it. How in the devil could Scott set up a big outfit like that, with all the people and supplies involved, without your hearing about it? It may only have been operating six weeks, but they must have started construction right after you signed the treaty last fall."

"On the other hand," Lyman said, "it ought to be easy enough to check."

Girard got up and went over to the phone beside the curved sofa by the windows.

"Sure it is. How about giving Bill Fullerton a call? He's a career man with no ax to grind. And he knows where every dime in the Pentagon is spent."

"Go ahead," Lyman said. "By the way, Paul, you pronounce the name of the unit 'e-com-con.' "

Girard reached Fullerton, head of the military division of the Bureau of the Budget, at his home.

"Bill," he said, "keep this one confidential, because it's from The Man. Have you people ever cleared any money for something called ECOMCON? It's supposed to be an Army outfit with about thirty-five hundred men. That's right... . You haven't, huh?"

Lyman scribbled a note and held it up for Girard: "Any unallocated JCS funds?" Girard was still talking to Fullerton.

"You ever hear of this ECOMCON yourself, Bill?" Girard put his hand over the mouthpiece and spoke to the President. "Never heard of it, he says." He spoke to Fullerton again.

"One other thing, Bill. Do the Joint Chiefs have any unallocated money? ... Oh, yeah. No other way, though? ... Well, listen, Bill, thanks. Hope I didn't get you out of bed. And keep it under your hat, okay? Right. See you."

Girard hung up and turned to Lyman.

"He never heard of it. He says he'd have to, because every new project has to be justified before him first, no matter how highly classified it is. The Joint Chiefs have a hundred million for emergencies, but they're supposed to get your approval in writing and so far as he knows the money hasn't been tapped. Hell, if there are thirty-five hundred men down at that base, that's somewhere around twenty million bucks a year just to feed, pay, and put clothes on ‘em."

Girard mixed himself a second drink. Lyman tapped the bottom of his own glass, long since emptied of the Scotch he'd shared with Casey, on the heel of his hand, but shook his head when Girard offered him the bottle. The two men sat again for several minutes, not speaking.

"My sister's little kid," said bachelor Girard, "would call this Weirdsville. I can't bring myself to think seriously about it."

"That thought has been going through my head too, Paul, but I think I had better proceed on the assumption it might be true."

"Sure." Girard nodded in agreement.

"This could add up to something bad. Something very bad," Lyman said, measuring the words out.

"Yes, it could, boss."

"I'm glad you agree. Then I don't have to spell it out for you."

Lyman walked to the triple window that looked out on the south lawn, swung open the door cut into the right-hand sash, and stepped onto the balcony. The night air felt wonderfully fresh. He stood there looking at the huge obelisk that honored Washington, a good general who'd made a good President too. Out of sight beyond the magnolia tree to his right, he knew, was the memorial to Lincoln, a good President who'd had his troubles-God, hadn't he?-with bad generals. Also out of sight, away up the Mall to the left, was the statue of Grant, that very good general who had made a very bad President. Lyman turned back into the study where Girard waited and went on as if he had not interrupted himself:

"And I think it's just as well, Paul, not to try to spell it out. We might find we were spelling it out all wrong, and that could be very embarrassing."

"Okay," said Girard, "let's play it that way. So what do we do now?"

"If Casey's story means what he thinks it does, we've got only four full days left before Saturday. It's too late to do anything tonight. We've got to start in the morning. Then, if it does check out and we can stop it ... then what?"

"That's easy," Girard said. "You fire the whole crew and haul 'em into court on a sedition charge."

Lyman shook his head.

"No," he said, "I don't think so. Not in this administration, Paul. Not now and not later either. A trial like that would tear this country apart. Well, think about it. Let's break it up now and I'll see you first thing in the morning."

"Good night, Mr. President," Girard said. "Don't lose your sleep over this thing. There may be some ridiculous explanation that'll give us all a good laugh."

Lyman shrugged. "Maybe. Good night, Paul."

Now the President was alone, except for Trimmer. He tugged at his tie, walked back and forth, then stepped out onto the balcony again. Truman's balcony. Everything in this house was a reminder of the past. One of Jack Kennedy's rocking chairs, its cane seat and wooden back, covered with yellow canvas, stood in the corner of this study. The desk, its veneered and inlaid top bulking large on top of delicate tapered legs, had been Monroe's. By the door into the bedroom were two flags, the President's personal standard and the national colors. The latter had stood there unchanged since the day Hawaii was admitted as the fiftieth state in Eisenhower's time.

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.

At the National Press Club the last strong men threw their cards down on the table, drained their glasses, and headed for home. Among them was Malcolm Waters of the Associated Press, who had allowed himself an evening of poker and Virginia Gentleman because The Man had nothing on his schedule until eleven o'clock tomorrow morning.

On Capitol Hill two tired staff men left the Senate Office Building, commiserating with each other over the piles of pre-recess work that kept them at their desks so late.

In a modest split-level house in Arlington Jiggs Casey rubbed his eyes, turned off the lamp, and laid down a battered copy of the World Almanac. It was the only book he had been able to find in the house that contained the text of the Constitution of the United States.

In the small booths around the White House a new shift of policemen took up the task of guaranteeing that the President would be kept safe-as safe as any human being could be-from harm to his person. They guarded the man. The office he occupied took care of itself. For almost two hundred years it had needed no guard.