The Secret Service agent escorting him upstairs had told Weisbrod that Shaunsen was already living in the traditional Presidential Quarters on the second floor, taking measurements and sketching. Weisbrod didn’t think he’d ever before heard a sarcastic tone from a Secret Service agent.
Weisbrod had been here a few times before Daybreak. Every so often, during the last couple of years, the president had invited Weisbrod; Peggy Albarado, the Secretary of Peace; Laura Pressman, the Secretary of Education; and Vice President Samuelson up to his sitting room to talk about “ideas and the long run and where everything really ought to go” while they killed a couple of bottles of good bourbon. He had called them his “Liquor Cabinet.”
The Secret Service man led Weisbrod to the door, nodded politely, and said, “Help him if you can, sir. We all want him to get better.”
“Thanks.” Weisbrod knocked. He interpreted the vague grunt from inside as “come in.”
The man who sat on the couch looked more like the mummified remains of Roger Pendano than anything else. God, on Monday he was fine, and it’s only Thursday!
“Roger?” Weisbrod sat next to him, and turned on the lamp.
The president’s skin was a sick tone of gray, the lines of his face seemed to have deepened by a good ten years, and his eyes were half-closed; he hadn’t really even looked up to see that it was Weisbrod. Tentatively, Graham reached out and rubbed a shoulder; slowly, Pendano turned, and then jumped.
“You think I just appeared.”
“Yeah, yeah, I… Graham?”
“It’s me, Mr. President.”
“Am I…” Pendano looked deeply frustrated. “I’m supposed to make sure about my pills. I think that’s after you go. And I took the ones for when you’re here.” His eyes looked desperate.
Weisbrod stood, taking the president’s hand. He led him over to the pill bottles and pointed. The president nodded, and pointed to the bottle of little red pills. “Just had those a little bit ago.” He pointed to the big white ones. “All the time, and supposed to take one right after you go.” He was panting, and sweat beaded on his forehead from the effort of walking to the table.
Weisbrod pulled out his personal notepad and pen, and wrote:
They are giving you very large doses of barbiturates.
They just gave you speed to wake you up.
Dangerous for you?????
→
The president nodded his head vigorously. Next to Graham’s arrow he scribbled, Last EKG worse thn we told press, kidney failure 2…
He stopped to catch his breath; sweat was actually dripping from his forehead. Weisbrod put a hand on his back and helped him stand straighter; bringing the pad along, he walked the president to the couch. Weisbrod cleaned Pendano’s face with a wet cloth from the bathroom, and loosened his belt and tie.
“I feel better,” Pendano said, softly, writing, They started drugs rt after Shaunsen came.
Need to get off them? Weisbrod wrote.
Can palm/spit out. Somthn 4 DTs?
“I’m glad you’re feeling so much better. I’m pretty sure we can do something to help you get well; I’ll try to stop by more often.” He pointed at the note about DTs and nodded vigorously; Pendano extended his hand, and they shook.
They passed more notes, but Pendano was already exhausted. Weisbrod got him to drink as much water as he would hold. So much crap to wash out of him, I don’t know what else we can do.
He made sure all the notes and the pad they’d been written on were in his pockets before he left, after scribbling one more. Firmly, he told Roger, “I’ll be back, tomorrow if I can, but at least every other day and as often as I can. We’re going to get you well, Roger.” He wrapped Roger up in his arms, pressed his mouth to the man’s ear, and barely breathed, “You were my best. You were always my best. We need you again, Roger, do this for us.”
There were tears in the president’s eyes, but he nodded vigorously and his handshake was surprisingly firm.
On his way out, Weisbrod showed the Secret Service man a note folded to leave the top line visible: ABOUT GETTING THE PRESIDENT WELL.
The man took the note and it vanished; Weisbrod just had to hope he had picked the right guy to pass it to. Christ, Christ, it’s more like Imperial Rome than I could have imagined.
At the door, they issued him a.38 police revolver, and made sure he knew how to use it. Pity I didn’t have this, riding over with Shaunsen; I could have done the best thing I ever did for the United States. He checked his watch and the sun; if he pushed himself and if his sneakers didn’t fall apart on the way (he had a spare pair of leather shoes, not as comfortable but more durable in the new world, in his bag), he might make it back to St. Elizabeth’s with daylight left; the worst would be crossing on the Capitol Street bridge, with nowhere to run if he were ambushed.
As he hurried past the Capitol, he saw a familiar figure from many dinner parties and interviews in a long public life. He waved and shouted, “Hi, Rusty! I like the paper!”
“Hey, Secretary Weisbrod! I see you’re using Washington public transit like we all are. I’ll be sure to report the gesture.” He had thought she was walking dogs, but saw she had three goats with her. Seeing his start, she said, “I live close, and laugh all you want, this is a fair bit of cheese right here.” She grinned. “Say something quotable.”
He gestured at the Capitol building. “What better place to find a bunch of old goats supplying the press with cheese?”
“Dammit, you’re the fourth guy who said something like that.”
“We can’t afford just any old future!”
“That’s the Weisbrod I remember. Have a good night!”
He hurried on into the dark canyons between the office buildings, staying in the middle of the street and away from the abandoned cars where someone might jump out, and thought, Goats on the National Mall.
The only lights visible as he crossed the Capitol Street bridge in the dusk, looking up and down the Anacostia, were the Coleman lanterns of the sentries in the Navy Yard and at Fort McNair.
I guess it’s a good night at that. The gun I have to carry in my pocket while on official duties probably works. A bad night would be one when I needed it to and it didn’t.
I wonder if Romulus Augustulus had a futurologist, and what it was like for him to trot through the dark, deserted streets of Rome.
ABOUT THE SAME TIME. THE WHITE HOUSE. WASHINGTON. DC. 6:30 P.M. EST. THURSDAY, OCTOBER 31.
Roger Pendano looked down at the collection of meds in front of him and thought, All right, last week, I was taking two a day of the green one, for blood pressure. Now there are four of the green one, three times a day, plus two big whites. So that’ll be one green down the hatch, and the rest down the toilet.
He was starting to feel sweaty and sick, and he probably would not sleep tonight. So what? It would make it easier to act groggy and out of it tomorrow, and anyway, I have it coming.
THE NEXT DAY. WASHINGTON, DC. (DRET/ST. ELIZABETH’S.) 7:00 A.M. EST. FRIDAY. NOVEMBER 1.