"I said I would answer no more questions."
"This has nothing to do with what we were talking about before," Lyman said. "Frankly, I'm curious. A President needs all the help he can get, and you're a resourceful thinker, General-to put it mildly."
"I would never have signed that treaty."
"I know that. But suppose you became President after one was signed and ratified. How would you have responded yesterday?"
Scott had turned as if to go to the door, but now he paused and looked at the President, apparently searching Lyman's face for a clue to his sincerity. The General gripped his right fist with the palm and fingers of his left hand. Obviously intrigued with the problem, he frowned in concentration.
"Are you serious, Mr. President?"
"I have never been more serious, General."
"Well, then." Scott's grip on his fist tightened. Clearly all the other arguments of the evening were erased from his mind for the moment. He stood in silence.
"First," he said slowly, "I would have contacted the Russians and demanded an immediate meeting with Feemerov."
Lyman smiled for the first time in half an hour. When he had conceived the idea of a confrontation with the Soviet Premier, the thought had taken almost precisely the same number of seconds to form in his mind.
"It may surprise you, General," he said, "but I've already done that. The Secretary of State, at my request, has ordered our embassy in Moscow to set up a session with Feemerov. I propose to meet him at the earliest opportunity next week."
Scott's face showed genuine surprise, but he shook his head.
"I'm not sure I can believe that, Mr. President," he said.
"There's the phone," said Lyman, pointing to it. "You are welcome to call the Secretary and check it with him if you like."
Scott shrugged off the suggestion in the manner of one gentleman willing to take the word of another. "And what do you plan to do when you meet him?" he asked.
"No, General," Lyman said, "I'm the one who needs the advice, remember? What would you do at such a meeting?"
It was apparent that, however distasteful Scott found the line of inquiry into which Lyman was pushing him, his mind was eager to cope with the problem. The little net of wrinkles around his eyes pulled together.
"My course," he said, "would be simple and direct. I would demand to visit Yakutsk. If the Communist refused, I would go before the United Nations and denounce him as a fraud and a cheat. Then I would start assembling more warheads for the Olympus."
Lyman burst into laughter, surprising himself almost as much as Scott.
"You regard that line of action as funny?" asked Scott.
"Not at all, not at all." Lyman tapered off into chuckles and shook his head. "It's just the irony of the situation, General."
Scott bristled. "I fail to see the humor in it."
"Sit down, General." Lyman, with his awkward gesture, indicated the couch. "I want to tell you something about the office which you apparently intended to seize tomorrow."
"That's a lie."
"Sit down."
Scott hesitated a moment, then seated himself. Curiosity, thought Lyman, is a wonderful thing. The President sat down again in his armchair.
"What struck me as funny," he said, "was that you proposed almost the same steps that I've contemplated myself-at least up to a point. I intend to try to use this Yakutsk business as the lever to force Feemerov to accept a foolproof inspection system-for assembly plants as well as the dismantling sites. Now that we've caught him in the act, we can make him choose between being exposed as a traitor to civilization or letting the inspectors go anywhere in Russia. At any rate, I'm going to try it before I go to the UN or start assembling more Olympus warheads."
Scott said nothing, though his face reflected disbelief.
"So," continued Lyman, "if you were charged with directing the foreign policy of this country you would start out on this thing about the way I'm starting. And I'm sure that if you had my responsibilities you'd make that last try to get really thorough inspection controls, too. So you'd act pretty much as I am going to. And yet you want to dislodge this administration. Doesn't that strike you as-well-somewhat odd, General?"
"I deny the allegation," Scott said angrily. "And I must say most of this conversation seems odd to me."
Lyman crossed his legs in an effort at relaxation and the big feet stuck out like misplaced logs in a woodpile. He felt tense and tired, but he struggled to make himself understood.
"It's really too bad, General. We could have worked so well as a team, with each of us exercising his proper and traditional responsibility. Your answers to my questions show how much alike we think. Actually, you know, there isn't really much that a man with average intelligence can overlook in this job. And there isn't much that another man could do differently -no matter what the cut of his clothes."
"Is that intended as some kind of slur on my uniform?"
"Oh, good God, no," Lyman said. "No, I'm just trying to say that the great problems of this office, so many of them really insoluble, are not susceptible to superior handling by--let's say-the military rather than the civilian. The problems, General, remain the same."
"Some men act. Others talk," Scott snapped.
Lyman shook his head sadly. "General, you have a real blind spot. Can't you see how close together we are on this thing? Can't you now, really?"
"Frankly, Mr. President, I think you've lost touch with reality. And I think this kind of rambling self-analysis proves it."
Scott's words came out harshly. Fatigue again engulfed Lyman. I can't get through to this man, he thought, I just can't get through. He felt a sudden knot in his stomach, and he could see a mist drifting- years ago-across a Korean ridge.
"Listen, Mr. President." Scott spoke softly, but his voice seemed to hammer at Lyman. "You have lost the respect of the country. Your policies have brought us to the edge of disaster. Business does not trust you. Labor flaunts its disdain for you with those missile strikes. Military morale has sunk to the lowest point in thirty years, thanks to your stubborn refusal to provide even decent minimum compensation for service to the nation. Your treaty was the act of a naïve boy."
"That's ugly talk, General." Lyman's voice seemed weak by contrast.
"Those are facts," said Scott. "The public has no faith in you. The Gallup Poll may not be exactly accurate, but it's pretty close. Unless the country is rallied by a voice of authority and discipline, it can be lost in a month."
"And that voice is yours, General?" The way Lyman said it, the question was almost a statement of fact.
"I didn't say that," Scott replied. "But certainly you cannot expect me to pretend that I would act as you would, and so assume at least partial responsibility for the bankruptcy of the Lyman administration."
This man is immovable, thought Lyman. I simply cannot make him understand. Has my administration failed in the same way to explain itself to the country? Is that the meaning of what he's saying? Is he right in saying the time for talk is past? Doesn't anyone understand what's at stake here?
He felt faint, and the mist rose again in the mind's eye, drifting across the rugged, treeless ridges.
I've got to talk to Ray, he thought. Yes, Ray. Where is he? I've got to see him. Why, he's right next door, in the Monroe Room. I can just walk in there and talk to him. He'll know what to do.
Lyman sat still, staring at Scott, but his mind swung erratically. He ought to get into the Monroe Room, get to Ray, get his help, get the strength he could always draw from his friend. Hadn't Ray saved his life -and his pride, his courage, his self-respect-on the ridge in Korea? Couldn't he do it once more, just once more, to help him get over this ridge too? He felt, and wanted to feel again, Clark's open hand across his face, driving strength back into him.