“I don’t see how you can have it both ways. If what you say is true, then the minute Luke died, Wendell Hollander became President-elect. If that’s true then Brewster can’t supersede Hollander—you can’t make that kind of law retroactive.”
Krayle’s droopy eyes slowly changed shape. “You might have a point there. I don’t think that occurred to any of us.”
“Suppose it occurs to Hollander sometime in the next four years? We could have a hell of a mess—the Presidency up for grabs.”
“What is it you’re getting at?”
Satterthwaite felt the Congressman’s hard stare. Krayle’s eyes burned like gems. McNeely, slumped low in his chair, watched with avid fascination.
Satterthwaite said, “There’s confusion in the laws, that’s obvious. Nobody ever anticipated the unique situation we’re in today—how could they? So no matter what solution is found, someone’s going to, find a legal objection to it.”
“Yes. Go on.”
“I’m willing to accept your interpretation of the laws of succession. Evidently just about everyone agrees with it. But you’ve got to be willing to accept the possibility that if you did go ahead and elect a new Speaker right now, he’d have a legitimate claim on the Presidency.”
“You mean if we elected a new Speaker before noon tomorrow.”
“Of course.”
“Well it would be a disputed claim. It would only make things worse.”
“But such a claim would have a certain legitimacy, wouldn’t it?”
“I suppose you could say that. It’s possible to read the law that way. A lot of people would dispute it.”
“But the alternative is to allow Brewster to continue in office for four years in spite of the fact that he’s obviously flouting the whole purpose of the Constitution.”
“Electing a new Speaker would flout it just as much.” Krayle shook his head. “I can’t go along with you. The point you’re ignoring is that Brewster would fight it tooth and nail—and Brewster’s got the mass popular backing to make an awful fight of it, unlike old Wendy Hollander.”
Liam McNeely said, “I think a lot of that mass popular backing would dwindle away in the flick of an eye if you gave the mass populace an attractive alternative.”
Krayle didn’t accept it. “If you think the country’s ready to explode now, what do you think would happen after we got done dividing it up with this fight you’re proposing? And anyhow I’ll tell you something—Congress has been pushed around enough. They won’t stand for more railroading from your direction. If you were going to switch sides against Brewster why didn’t you do it a lot earlier?”
“Because I hadn’t thought of a viable alternative to Hollander. Neither had anybody else. Look, I’m not against Howard Brewster, I’m only against going through with a hell of a dangerous precedent. I think we have to avoid that if we can.”
“We can’t. It’s too late.”
“I don’t believe that,” Satterthwaite said.
“The thing is,” McNeely said, “Brewster might let go voluntarily. Especially if it’s to defer to a popular choice. He knows if he tries to keep office for another four years his hold on the country will be tarnished. Nobody will ever forget the way he got his second term. It’ll rankle. The dissidents hate him already—and a lot of people will join them.”
Satterthwaite let the air settle before he spoke; when he did it was with quiet emphasis. “I know Howard Brewster. He doesn’t want to be hated. I think we may be able to persuade him to support a move to nominate a new Speaker of the House.”
Krayle sighed. “You’ll have to forgive my skepticism.”
“I’m sure it’s justified. But grant us the possibility, will you?”
“In politics just about anything’s possible, Bill.”
“Good enough. Which brings us to the reason we wanted to talk to you. We can’t have the House members scattering again. Can you corral the membership and keep them on tap for the time between now and Thursday noon?”
Krayle tipped his head back to study him narrowly. “I suppose you’ve even got a candidate all picked out for us too.”
“Of course.”
“Yes?”
“The man who almost got the nomination. The man Fairlie wanted on his own ticket—the man Dex Ethridge designated as his Vice-President.”
“Andrew Bee,” Krayle breathed. “Jesus Christ, Bill, I think you’ve damn well got something there.”
9:45 A.M. EST The big jet landed at Andrews and when it taxied to a stop Lime unbelted himself and left the plane, unrefreshed by the six hours’ sleep above the Atlantic. The scrambler call from Satterthwaite had reached him at Gibraltar and he had obeyed instructions, coming on ahead of the others in a virtually empty plane, leaving Chad Hill in charge to bring all the bodies home, living and dead.
There was no sun. The runway was a little misty, the pavement slick. It was a day filled with gray gloom. An Air Force FOLLOW ME jeep came hissing along to the plane and Satterthwaite was in the passenger seat.
They reached the White House at ten-thirty. The Secret Service people nodded to Satterthwaite and greeted Lime with grave welcomes. Their movements were tracked by many alert eyes while they made their way to the President’s sanctum. Here and there a crate stood in a quiet corner: Brewster had packed weeks ago and it would have been unseemly to begin unpacking again.
Margaret kept them cooling their heels for nearly twenty minutes before they were admitted. Whoever had shared the President’s company in the interval had departed by the side door.
Brewster greeted them with ill-controlled anger. Lime, closing the door after Satterthwaite, looked at the President and was struck by the sheer physical size of the man as he had been struck by it before. On his feet Brewster loomed, he filled the big office the way a caged tiger filled his cell.
“What’s all the mystery, Bill?”
“We have to talk to you, Mr. President.”
“About this Andy Bee business I assume?”
Satterthwaite couldn’t help a little smile. “How long have you known?”
“Several hours. I’ve got a lot of ears—you of all people ought to know that.” The President’s eyes flicked briefly across Lime’s face: quite obviously he wanted to know what Lime was doing here, why he was with Satterthwaite. Quickly Brewster’s attention went back to Satterthwaite: “I suppose it’s an appropriate time for me to make a little ‘Et tu Brute’ speech. It was you, wasn’t it? Or did my sources foul that up?”
“It was me.”
Brewster nodded; the big head shifted, the eyes examined Lime and Satterthwaite in turn. Lime felt the force in them; he met the President’s stare uneasily.
Brewster said, “And now I suppose you’re ready to explain to me all the reasons why I should step aside and yield to Andy Bee.”
The conversation had very little reality for Lime. He was tired, he wasn’t a political animal; out of place, he only watched and awaited his cue.
The President said, “I guess you’ve been letting Fitz Grant bend your ear.”
“Fitz believes you intend to crack down on thousands of radicals.”
“I might have had that in mind. It’s a human reaction, Bill.”
“And now?”
“I’m still thinking on it.”
“It’d be a mistake the country would never recover from.”
“It might,” the President said, “but not for the reason you think it would.”