He stepped down from the podium. As the audience rose to its feet, Trevellion saw an aide scurrying towards Admiral Floyd, a telephone extension in his hand.
'Mr President,' Floyd called gruffly. 'One moment, Mr President.'
Trevellion watched the. President halt in his tracks, turn, then speak briefly on the extension. Raising his voice, he announced from the crowded floor:
'You'll be relieved to know that the Soviet rescue ship has started to lift Safari's crew. The first diving bell was locked on satisfactorily to the submarine's hatch ten minutes ago. It's nice to know,' he added, turning to leave the room, 'that they're human, after all.'
There was for Pascoe Trevellion a dream-like quality about the scene as they wrung his hands, pressed their congratulations upon Quarrie and himself, the warmth of American spontaneity suddenly spilling over. Then, discreetly leaving Quarrie to the circle of delighted officers, Trevellion slipped away to the communication complex which was at the end of the long corridor.
'Ministry of Defence, London,' he asked the operator. 'First Sea Lord, please.'
The voice he knew so well could have been next door.
'First Sea Lord here.'
'Trevellion, sir.'
'Well?'
'It's all over,' Trevellion said quietly. 'SD'S worked, si They're getting out of Norway.'
'And the nuclear threat?'
'Cancelled, sir.'
Trevellion could hear only the crackling in the phone. The: Anthony Layde said quietly:
'They've sunk Orcus. The Russians recovered thirty-four survivors.'
'Farge, sir?'
'The Norwegian resistance picked up several dead, Farge among 'em. His body's been identified.'
'Thanks, sir,' Trevellion said. 'He was my PWO in Icarus.'
'Better come home, Pascoe,' Layde said gruffly, 'to the haven where you would be.'
The instrument clicked. Trevellion walked outside, blinked in the afternoon sunlight, noted the vivid colours of the garden. The cut lawn smelt sweet: a beautiful day, spring in Washington. The avenues were framed in colour, clouds of rose and yellow, pink and white, where the ornamental trees blossomed. Down the highways the traffic streamed, a jet-liner roaring overhead. A beautiful world, fragile, precariously balanced. Trevellion straightened his lanky frame. He'd walk back to his hotel this evening, back to the real world where humanity bustled; where men and women earned their daily bread, free to make their own decisions, to lead their lives the way they chose, to live in peace. What was it that President Roosevelt had told the world, before taking his country into World War II?
Trevellion, walking towards the hustling crowds on the sidewalks, retrieved those words of hope from the recesses of his mind:
'We look forward to a world founded upon four essential freedoms. The first is freedom of speech and expression — everywhere in the world. The second is freedom of every person to worship God in his own way — everywhere in the world. The third is freedom from want… the fourth is freedom from fear.'