Dilman sat back, and fumbled for his drink.
Quickly Nat Abrahams leaned forward and took the papers from Dilman’s lap. “I didn’t write it, Doug. Eagles Industries wrote it. Avery Emmich wrote it. Gordon Oliver wrote it. They wanted me to transmit it to you-first assignment-and I did. I’m ashamed of myself now. I knew, the second I handed it to you, I could never go through with it, pretending it was mine.”
Embarrassed, Dilman tried to stop him. “Forget it, Nat. You did what you had to do, and some of the points in there are well made.”
Abrahams stood up, ripped the paper in half, worked it into a ball, and stuffed it into his trouser pocket.
“It stinks,” he said flatly. “I’ll never do this to you again, no more harmonizing with others on what they believe. I’ll rely on solo. Doug, you’ve said it, there’s good in the minorities bill and there’s bad. It’s a big decision you have to make, and there are a lot of considerations to keep in mind, but you’ll do what you must do, for yourself and others. No one’s going to influence you. You wanted my opinion, and I’ll give it to you if you still want it.”
“I do, I sure do, Nat. Who else can I listen to?”
“Yourself. But let me have my own honest say, and then I’ll shut up… Doug, I hate this minorities bill. I hate its pretense. Every reservation you hold is true, as far as I’m concerned. T. C. and most of Congress invented this legislation as an emergency measure. The country is splintered apart-always has been-but these years it’s been worse than ever. Negro revolution, you bet, and about time. So how does one put down a revolution, especially a just one? By force? Impossible in our democracy. Unthinkable. By giving in to those discriminated against, giving them justice and making democracy a true one? Difficult. Too much ignorance, blind hatred, senseless fear, and politics, for which read compromise. By bribery? The old Roman trick? The only way. So they came up with this MRP. Put down the insurrection and buy peace with money. Money is cheaper than decency. So here is a vast hog-barrel, boondoggling bribe to buy off the Negroes. And the Negroes can’t resist. They are weak, tired of the long slow fight, and-you said it-they’re hungry. If you’ve got to choose between having three square meals a day and money in the bank and all the wonders and advantages of materialism, as against waiting for the less tangible advantages of full liberty, which will you choose? So the Negroes, most of them, have given in. And the whites, big business, big labor unions-they love it. They’ve paid off the revolutionists and their guilty consciences, and they’ve purchased safety. And a good deal more besides, because they’ll make profits, giving with one charitable hand, taking it back with the other.
“Everyone is happy, almost everyone, except those few of your people who are willing to go hungry a little longer to get five-fifths of what belongs to them, not one-fifth, and except the impractical liberals like myself who know better and want better for your people-but, of course, can afford to despise this bill because our stomachs are full. Now you’ve heard all I have to say, Doug, and don’t listen to it. I don’t have to make the decision. I don’t have to worry if I’ve done a disservice to minorities or expediently helped them endure the near future. I don’t have to worry if my opinion is weightier than those of several hundred experts. I don’t have to worry how I feel if I do sign or what will happen to me and the country if I do not sign. Don’t you listen to me, the man from Eagles Industries with a full stomach, Doug. I teed off this way because I wanted you to know I am still the man you’ve always known me to be. As for you, I know-”
There was a sharp knocking, and Dilman’s attention was diverted to the lounge door.
“Mr. President,” a voice called out, “it’s Secretary Eaton.”
“Come in.”
The door swung open, and Eaton entered. He appeared disconcerted to find Abrahams with Dilman, then recovered his poise. His manner toward Dilman was concerned and sympathetic. “I missed you on deck, and I only wanted to know that you were all right, Mr. President. Is everything satisfactory?”
Dilman stood up and offered his Secretary of State a half-humorous grimace. “Mr. Secretary, to be perfectly frank with you, everything couldn’t be worse. I’ve been seasick-”
“I’m sorry, Mr. President.”
“-and while there has been an improvement, I’m still uncomfortable. If I am Commander in Chief of all the troops on land and all the ships at sea, I’d like to issue my first naval order. Have someone turn this damn yacht right around and deposit me safe and sound on God’s good earth.”
Eaton’s conditioned countenance betrayed neither approval nor disapproval. “As you wish it, Mr. President. I’ll transmit your order to Commander Chappell at once.”
“And my apologies to our guests for cutting short their little outing.”
Eaton nodded, and hurriedly left. The second that the cabin door closed, Dilman pivoted toward Nat Abrahams and gave him a wide grin and an elaborate salute.
“How was that, teacher?”
Abrahams smiled. “You’re learning. You get an A.”
Dilman had become solemn once more. “Now what I need is an A where it counts more, in political science.” He took up the manila folder holding the minorities bill and balanced it thoughtfully. “Of course, it all depends on who does the grading, doesn’t it?”
He stuffed the folder into his briefcase, pressed it shut, then went to Abrahams and took him by the arm. “For some reason, I feel better now. I think everything is settling into place, anatomically speaking. I’m ready to fish awhile, if you are. Who knows, Nat? We might even catch something we’ll be proud of…”
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Office of the White House Press Secretary
THE WHITE HOUSE
THE PRESIDENT HAS REQUESTED SPECIAL TIME OF ALL MAJOR TELEVISION AND RADIO NETWORKS TONIGHT TO ADDRESS THE NATION AT 7:00 P.M., EDT, ON THE SUBJECT OF THE MINORITIES REHABILITATION PROGRAM AND THE BILL CONCERNING THIS PROGRAM AWAITING HIS SIGNATURE. THE FULL TEXT OF HIS ADDRESS WILL BE DISTRIBUTED TO THE PRESS FROM THIS OFFICE TEN MINUTES AFTER HE IS ON THE AIR.
ALTHOUGH it was too soon for Governor Talley to have arrived upstairs for their private meeting, before the others came, before the President’s television address began, Secretary of State Arthur Eaton found it impossible to sit out the intervening time in the loneliness of his huge seventh-floor office.
Ever since receiving Governor Talley’s cryptic, but definitely frantic, telephone call from the White House ten minutes ago, Arthur Eaton had been worried and on edge. He had not liked the tone, and the inconceivable implications, of Talley’s abbreviated call. Apparently, even in the privacy of his own White House office, Talley had been suspicious of being overheard or monitored. Yet what he had said, guarded as he had been, had been made meaningful and eloquent enough by his nettled speech and its unnatural brevity.
Pacing, Arthur Eaton reconstructed what little he had heard:
“Arthur? This is Wayne Talley. I’ve just come from Edna Foster’s office. The President wouldn’t see me. He had Miss Foster give back the speech we wrote. He’s written his own.”
“His own? What are you talking about, Wayne? What kind of nonsense is that? Are you pulling my leg?”
“Arthur, I swear-”