THE UNKNOWN LAW

Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, June 1964.

“Then you would say, sir, that the United States has no plans for occupying any of the asteroids at all?”

“The United States has no plans for occupying any of the asteroids at all, at the present time. By that I do not mean to say that we have plans for occupation at any future time. Our action, our policy, in this regard, remains fluid. What we intend to do must continue to take notice of the intentions of the other Space Powers and the decisions of the United Nations.”

There was a pause. The President faced the assembled reporters. Then, “Thank you, Mr. President—” The reporters stood up to applaud politely. They faded from view as the 3D wall went blank. A faint bell sounded and a tiny light went on, set in a hood in a far corner of his desk. He lifted the hood and took up a cup of the famous green tea which was almost a trademark of his, steaming hot as he liked it. Prior to the campaign, “In public—coffee,” his advisors had said. But then came the ugly business in Brazil, followed by Colombia coffee pricing itself off the market and other supplies inadequate, followed by the popular coup d’état in Formosa, which had, for the moment, scarcely any thing to sell—except green tea! Formosa was popular, Dave Smith was popular, coffee wasn’t, Byers continued to drink coffee. It wasn’t that that elected Smith, anymore than it was hard cider elected Harrison, almost a century and a half earlier. It had helped, though.

Now he sat, in the privacy of his White House office and sipped his cup, watching the wall come alive again, this time with open circuit 3D—Steven Senty’s bland face and voice giving the inconsequentia of the news.

“—and, apropos of the President’s comments on the asteroid question, it is agreed that the other as yet unfilled cabinet position will go to millionaire moon-estate operator Hartley Gordon, though as yet official confirmation is lacking. Gordon’s readiness to bail the party out of the hole the last campaign left it in hasn’t been forgotten. Gordon, however, sees himself as an organizer, not an administrator; privately tells friends he will resign after clearing up the ‘mess’ the Space Department is now in. Likely successors include ex-diplomat Charles Salem Smith, no relation—” The newscaster smiled; the President made a rude noise. “And Party Stalwart J. T. Macdonald, who gave up a shoo-in chance at his father’s old seat in the House to direct President Smith’s campaign in the Southeast. Those in the real know say that his chances are better than might be expected.”

Roger David Smith made a rude noise again, followed it by a ruder word, drank tea.

“A small but time-honored tradition gets in its once-every-four-years airing this afternoon when three major minor—or minor major, ha, ha, officeholders pay their traditional call to greet the new president in person. Personal visits with a president have become increasingly rare, partly because of security problems: how dangerous they can be was demonstrated by the assassination of President Kennedy and the attempted assassination of President Byers: and partly because of the perfection and improvement of the 3D system. No official basis for this ceremony exists, but old-time residents of the District like to tell how it originated. Back in George Washington’s time, it seems that—”

The wall went blank, the President took another mouthful of unfermented tea, and reflected sourly just how much he hated the “like to tell” locution. Did the faces of old-time residents of the District light up when they had the opportunity to tell? Did they chuckle, set up the occasion or opportunity, did—Oh, well. He looked at his watch. It was just exactly time. He touched his fingertip to the Ready button. A bell chimed, some rooms away. Pleased, smiling, he repeated this, then three times, fast. Then he frowned in self-reproof, withdrew his hand.

Roger David Smith was thirty-five years old, just past the minimum age the Constitution sets for the presidency, and had occupied the office for exactly three days and two hours. His dark, rugged face, marked with the scars of the shrapnel he had picked up in Sumatra, showed no trace inevitable to the time and place. The new president had not even been born when Warren Gamaliel Harding was playing hide-and-go-seek with his teen-age mistress in the presidential cloakroom; nor when John Calvin Coolidge took two-hour naps every afternoon on the sofa in his office.

Some recollection of this may have been in the President’s mind; just before the press conference he had made a teleview call (untapped—the presidential circuit was said to be untappable: he hoped so, but had taken care to keep the conversation innocuous,), and a woman’s face was still in his eyes and a woman’s voice still in his ears—would always be, it seemed—and although poor Harding had managed to hide his own cheap amour, the light which beat unceasingly down on whoever held the office was now almost intolerable.

Smith got up from the desk and faced the door just as it opened, just as the Chief Usher’s voice announced the callers. He frowned again, slightly, trying to remember just exactly what it was the retiring president had said to him three days ago; quickly erased the frown and let the thought fade. He smiled politely. The smile was not returned.

The three minor major, or major minor officeholders entered, and there was the usual brief see-sawing before the order in which they approached the president was decided. Anderson, the Federal Armorer, was first; a square-shaped, ruddy man, with crispy gray hair. After him, the Sergeant-Secretary of the Cabinet, Lovel, tall and bony and pale. Both wore the plaids which were, with their short capes, fashionable for formal but unceremonial occasions. Dressed in the lime-green which psycho-dynamicists included among the preferred shades for work clothes was Gabrielli, Civil Provost of the Capital, elf-small and moving soundlessly; the President knew that he held the Medal of Honor for his part in the assault on Telukbetung.

Not one of them smiled.

The door closed behind them, and, after a second or two, the silence was broken by the small noise of the door in the outer office being shut.

“Gentlemen,” said Roger David Smith, keeping up the little smile, though with a little difficulty. He extended his hand. Each of the callers took it in turn; still, none smiled. A feeling of unease settled on the President, not great, but definite. Thoughts of other times he had felt it came to him in quick-rushing reflection. There was the time he had been summoned to see his CO, in Sumatra, near The Rice Paddy, that dreadful summer, expecting to be court-martialed for exceeding his orders; instead he had been commended for quick thinking. There was the time six Party leaders had called on him in his hotel room at the Convention, to tell him (he had been thinking) that he stood no chance after all of being offered the vice-presidential nomination; instead they had asked him to allow his name to go forward for the presidency. And there was the third time, in between the other two, when he had first met the woman to whom he had earlier this afternoon spoken to on the teleview. She doesn’t like me, was his instant thought then. But she had become his mistress after all.

She could not become his wife.

“Mr. President,” said Anderson, “we have come to ask you to accept our felicitations on your selection as Chief Magistrate of the Republic, and to assure you that we stand, as always, ready to assist you in maintaining the integrity of our national confederation.”

In the silence which followed this declaration Smith had time to reflect that it all seemed damned odd. He started to say, “Thank you,” but Anderson was already speaking.

“We’ll be as brief as we can, sir,” he said. “We’ve made this same declaration to other presidents, in happier times, in unhappier times, and in times equally unhappy. I’ve done it on five occasions—I’m acting as spokesman because of seniority in office—Lovel and Gabrielli have done it four times each.”

The President of the United States said, “I don’t really know—”

“You don’t really know what this is all about, sir, do you?” Roger David Smith shook his head. The Federal Armorer nodded, unsurprised. “Except—well, I remember now, just before we left for the inauguration, President Byers told me…let’s see…he did tell me you would come here today to tell me something. And he said, ‘You’d better believe them, too.’ I remember now. I was a little surprised, but there were so many other things on my mind right then.… And besides that, only what I’ve seen in the newspapers and 3D: very little.” This was all damned odd, he thought. He thought also of his appointments schedule—tire Ambassador of the great (and sole remaining) neutral power of the Nether Orient, two western state governors eager to see what they could do about mustering regional support for the president’s program (and even more eager to see what they could do about mustering presidential support for their own putative senatorial campaigns), the American Representative to the U.N.—who, of course, should have been scheduled before the governors, but politics had to go on as usual, no matter what. Even if the “what” be the ever-shaky Condominium of the Moon, the threat of the South American Civil War spreading into Central America, the looming rocketry strike, and—not once and again, but again and again—the matter of the asteroids… Still, his appointments secretary had allotted fifteen minutes to these three men. So—

“As I understand it, this tradition began when the first three men to hold your office saved George Washington from an assassination attempt,” said President Smith. “And that he promised them that they would have the power to nominate their own successors and to greet every new president on the third day of his term. Isn’t that—?”

Anderson asked, “Correct? Not quite, Mr. President.”

Smith caught a fleeting resemblance, in the older man’s face, to his own father’s. Quickly, the thought brought others: his father’s insistence, gentle but insistent, when young Dave Smith had failed to make the Space Academy, that he go to law school rather than Paris; then Sumatra, cutting short his legal career before it had really begun; the entry into politics via a local “reform” club; Sarra—

For ten years, almost, everything had been Sarra. Jim, too, of course, but mainly Sarra. The state legislature, the race for the House seat, getting Jim’s father to use his great popularity and influence… And how had he, Roger David Smith, repaid the old man? By putting horns on his son. Fortunately, the old man never knew. But Jim knew—Jim must know. He just didn’t care. So—Roger David (“Dave”) Smith, here he was: the high school teacher’s son, the youngest man ever to sit in the White House. Jefferson, Jackson, Lincoln, the two Roosevelts… Kennedy and now Dave Smith. And it was all Sarra. She would have made a damned vigorous president herself, he thought, not for the first time. Only she would never do it, even if it were possible; she’d rather have Jim be elected, had the chance existed, and rule through him. Rule? Reign!

And, sighing, without being aware that he was sighing, his eye fell on the new asteroid chart they had installed only this morning. White lights for the U.N., blue for the U.S.A., red for the U.S.S.R., and yellow for the disputed ones—ones which were, in American eyes, disputed: the Russians, of course, had a different listing.

His eyes came back to Anderson, his mind recalled Anderson’s last comment. “‘Not quite correct?’ Your jobs aren’t civil service and they’re not on the patronage list, either. So—

Lovel said nothing, bent his long gaunt face a few inches toward his senior, who caught the movement, nodded, and said, “That’s true enough, sir, about our being traditionally allowed to nominate our successors. Not exactly true about the assassination thing. Not the whole truth.”

The whole truth, Anderson went on to say, standing on the rug which a Persian ambassador had given Mrs. Grover Cleveland; the whole truth was that during Washington’s first Administration, at a time when New York was still the Capital, a great danger towards the nation had arisen, arisen in secret—a cabal, as it was then called. A plot to seize power, to force the new president to follow the direction of a group of men who, alarmed by the radical ideas then emanating from France, intended a more rigorous system of government.

There was evidence, oh, there was evidence in plenty. But it was not evidence that you could bring to court, on which you could base a hope that the matter would be settled swiftly and peacefully.

Delay meant either a successful coup d’état and an oligarchy like that of the Venetian Republic—rule by the heads of the great families, secret police, dungeons, and everything hateful and dangerous to liberty-loving Americans—or else full civil war. The nation was new, the nation was young and weak, operating under a constitution barely tried and largely suspect. British troops still maintained bases on American soil, Spanish armies ringed our Southern and Western borders, French navies were on the seas; and the Indians, still powerful, were everywhere…

“I’ve never heard a word of it,” Smith declared. “I’m not sure I believe it. Although—” memory flashed—”is this what President Byers meant when he said I’d better believe you? Because—”

“It’s all true, sir,” Anderson said. “Great names were involved. Conway’s Cabal was nothing in comparison to it. Three men came and brought the evidence before President Washington—they’d served under him in the War of the Revolution—they presented him with the evidence on his third day in office. One was the Federal Armorer, William Dickensheet.”

“One was the Sergeant-Secretary of the cabinet, Richard Main,” said Lovel.

“The third was Simon Stavers, Civil Provost of the Capital,” Gabrielli said.

President Smith stared at them. It hardly seemed possible to remain in doubt of these three men, known to be honorable career men, sober, stable and loyal. But surely they had not come to give him a history lesson? “Go on,” he said.

Those three, Anderson continued, discussed the matter a whole night through with President Washington. They debated as to what the right course would be. Speed—as it was counted in those days of slow and difficult transport and communication—speed was essential, if the country was to be spared either a tyranny whose end no man could foresee, or a bloody domestic war. Wars, perhaps, and perhaps ending in invasion and conquest and an end to national independence.

Despite the teleview, the luminescents, the model on his desk of the latest moonship, Roger Smith felt something of that evening so far back—he believed it now, he did believe; it was impossible to doubt those three good men any longer: the archaic formula of their greeting to him (“…our felicitations on your selection as Chief Magistrate…we stand, as always, ready to assist you in maintaining the integrity of our national confederation”)—that long-distant night when the Father of his Country, no doubt with his wig set aside and perhaps his famous painful and ill-fitting false teeth as well, debated what move to make and make fast…and the candles guttered in the dimness. President Smith had his own problems, the United States of America under the First Administration of President Roger David Smith had its own problems. They were heavy, grave and great, and no one now spoke of or scarcely dared dream of any “return to normalcy.” (The Harding note again!)

He leaned forward, caught up in this account (unaccountably, till now, concealed from him) of the Nation’s first crisis under its Constitution. “What did they decide to do?” he asked.

“Immediate contact was made,” Anderson said, in the same steady tones he had used throughout, “with those members of the Government who were then in town.” He paused. His colleagues nodded slowly, gazing steadfastly at the President. “The leader of the cabal was known, his whereabouts were known. It was also known that if he were removed, the scheme would collapse. It was agreed that the welfare of the Nation depended upon—demanded—his removal.

“He was, accordingly, removed.”

“How?”

“The decision was, by pistoling.”

Smith half-turned his back and struck his fist on his desk.

“Are you trying to tell me,” he cried, “that George Washington ordered the murder of a man he couldn’t convict on a fair trial?” And swung around to face them again.

But they wouldn’t admit the word, murder. Execution was not murder. The slaying of an enemy was not murder in time of war. Nor did “war” depend upon a formal declaration. The welfare of the Nation had to be the paramount thing in the eyes of its Chief. The enjoyment of private scruples was a luxury with which he had no right to indulge himself in his official capacity.

“Go on,” said Smith.

Could anyone looking back, Anderson went on, doubt that the original decision was the best one? It was obvious beyond doubt even at the time. It had been obvious also that similar situations would arise again—and again and again. It was inevitable. So there grew up a law, he said—and the nods of his colleagues’ assents confirmed his words, a law unwritten, but, unlike the so-called “Unwritten law” justifying a husband’s killing his wife’s lover, it was an unknown law—unknown except to the fewest possible people—the men who held these three offices, their predecessors, the President, and the ex-Presidents—but a law, nonetheless, authorizing a President to order the death of any person in the country whose existence constituted what was later to be called a “clear and present danger” to the welfare of the Nation.

“My G-d!” said Roger Smith. Then—a sudden rush of interest overcoming his shock—he asked, “How in the Hell did they miss Aaron Burr?”

“He skipped the country too soon. And by the time he came back he wasn’t dangerous.”

“I see. Well—”

“There have to be limits, of course, Mr. President,” the Federal Armorer explained. “The President has to declare his intention to us. And he can only do it once. Once in each term of office, that is. Because there have to be limits. There have to be—” His voice, for the first time, rose just a trifle.

After a moment, “I see,” said the President. “How often—”

“In the country’s history? Seventeen times. Who carries out the decision? One of us. How chosen? By lot. Is there any danger of detection? Almost none. Over the course of almost two hundred years,” said Anderson, “certain techniques have been developed. Effective ones. How often during our own tenures of office? Once.”

President Smith swallowed. “Who is the man who was…killed?”

“That question, sir, is not answered.”

“I see. I’m sorry. Of course not. Well, which one of you—”

“And that question, sir, is not even asked.”

There was silence. “You’d better believe them,” the ex-President Byers had said. Was there something of a deeper, personal knowledge in Byers’ voice when saying it? Smith could not now remember, the Inauguration, only moments away, had driven anything but bare reception of the words from his mind. He searched his memory; who had died—suddenly—during the previous Administration, whose death might have…? No name occurred to him. He glanced at the clock set into his desk-top at a slant. The fifteen minutes were up. During that fifteen minutes anything might have occurred. Panama invaded by the Continentalists (“South America ends at the northern boundary of Mexico,” Lopez-Cardoso was said to have said; he was dead now, could neither confirm nor deny it; but his slogan of “One Continent, One People, One Faith, One Destiny” was certainly very much alive), the friendly but unstable Colored government of the Free Cape State overthrown by either Black or White intransigents, another “incident” unfavorably affecting the Lunar Condominium—nothing, it seemed, could affect it favorably any more, further troubles in the still-vex’d Asteroids: any or even all of these could have occurred in the quarter-hour he’d just spent chittering over ancient history.

“Have you anything else to tell me?” he asked, starting forward.

“Only that at least one of us will remain in the District at all times, in case of, well, immediate need, let’s say… No, sir, nothing else to tell you.”

Smith nodded. Anderson glanced at his colleagues. Gabrielli, the most junior of the three in office, spoke for the first time. “Mr. President, we tender you our renewed assurances that we stand, as always, ready to assist you in maintaining the integrity of our national confederation. And we ask your permission to withdraw.” He was elf-small and some people found his voice amusing, but the President knew that he held the Congressional Medal of Honor for his part in the assault on Telukbetung.

* * * *

After those three came the ambassador of the great neutral power of the Nether Orient, equally full of his grave misgivings about American space policy and his grave insistence upon increased American financial aid to his own country, both couched in the most mellifluous English, and after him came one of the Western American state governors, slyly awkward or awkwardly sly, not even knowing the name of the diplomat who had preceded him but knowing just what to offer and just what to demand in the way of political horse-trading. Neither of these two were present in person, of course. And after him—

“What are you doing here, Jim?” the President demanded, frowning. “Governor Millard was supposed to be next; you’re not down for an appointment until tomorrow afternoon.” He was brusque, not so much because he gave a damn about that as because he had been wondering—tired, disgusted, knowing that his impending interview with the American representative to the U.N. would bring new problems which neither weariness nor disgust could ignore—had been wondering if there were any chance of his being with Sarra that night. There was, he had finally realized, no chance at all. A President of the United States might sell his country down the river or let it drift down by incompetence, but he could never under any circumstances let it be hinted that he had a mistress. Perhaps ten years ago he might have gotten away with it, so far had the pendulum swung from the old morality. But there had been one, or perhaps two, scandals too many; now the pendulum was on the far swing again.

James Thackeray Macdonald smiled, waved his hand; Smith fancied he could smell the familiar odor of the man’s cigar, but of course it was only fancy—the 3D hadn’t gotten that far yet, despite continual efforts. There was not the slightest chance in the world of Jim’s being any sort of menace in his physical person, but—protocol was protocol. “The day I can’t persuade Millard or a thousand yokels like him to trade appointments with me, that’s the day I’ll close the store and go fishing,” Jim said, his ruddy face glowing and cheerful as usual.

“What did you promise him? Off-shore oil rights on the Moon?”

Macdonald leaned back in the chair which he had taken, unbidden, and laughed. It was the famous Macdonald laugh, with rich echoes of his famous father, and, despite everything, Roger Smith found himself smiling faintly. Jim had charm, if nothing else. And there was damned little else between the charm and the nothing else.

“Well, come on, Jim, what the Hell do you want?”

J.T. Macdonald smiled indulgently. “Yes, I know, Rog: okay, I’ll make it brief, and then you can let Nick Mason tell you his latest hard luck story about the Rooshians and the Prooshians. Okay. I spoke to Harley Gordon just a few minutes ago, and he told me that he definitely will not stay in office more than three months, not if you offered him Manhattan Island for a nickel. So what I want to know is, how about my taking an undersecretariat now, so I’ll be able to step into his shoes without any trouble when he quits?”

The faint smile on the President’s face had slipped easily into a frown. Macdonald’s appointment to a Cabinet position had been suggested—once, and not by the President, either. J.T.’s name had been, was being frequently mentioned by the media in this connection, however; but speculation of this sort was too common for the President to think it seemed worth even an unofficial denial. He had assumed it would die down. But Jim seemed to be taking it seriously.

“Have you talked about this with Sarra?” Smith asked.

Now the frown was Macdonald’s, as faint as the President’s smile had been. “Dammit, Rog, I don’t have to talk over every little thing with Sarra. I have a mind of my own, you know.”

“A Cabinet appointment is no little thing, Jim. I never—no, don’t interrupt me—I never promised it to you, I never even suggested it. I know Sarra did mention it, but I never thought you’d think she meant it seriously. Who it was that leaked the fact of your name having been proposed at all I don’t know, but I can’t be committed by a leak, dammit! You have no right, none whatsoever, to treat a lighthearted remark of Sarra’s as if it were a promise from me. I am not to be cornered that way. The Secretariat is out. And that means, so is an undersecretariat.” Macdonald was still trying to speak, but the President swept on over him. “Besides, as far as I’m concerned, it’s been definite for some time now that you would take a position on my personal staff here. Hasn’t it? I value your talents, Jim, especially with meeting people face to face, and—”

But Jim wasn’t taking the compliment. Thanks for nothing, was his attitude. He had no intention of becoming the Presidential Grover Whalen, he said, pinning carnations on visiting dignitaries’ wives, and glad-handing prominent Rotarians and Exempt Spacemen from the Middle West, taking them on personally conducted tours of the White House.

“I deserve better than that,” he said, stormily. “If you hadn’t won in the Southeast you wouldn’t be here—”

“Yes, you’re a good man for smoke-filled rooms and rostrums, Jim, just as I’ve just told you: the personal touch. But listen—the Southeast? Don’t let’s kid ourselves. The strategy there wasn’t yours anymore than it was mine. It was Sarra’s, all the way.” Macdonald uttered a short, ugly word. Roger Smith’s head snapped back. “You’re talking to the President of the United States,” he said.

Macdonald laughed. “No, I’m not. I’m talking to the guy who sleeps with my wife.”

Smith stared at him, bleakly.

Then he said, “I’m turning you off. You get out of here.”

But Macdonald shook his head. “You talk to me or I talk to the press. Okay?” Smith said nothing, continued staring at him. “Okay,” Macdonald muttered. What he was going to do, he said, leaning back, and taking out a cigar, was to give Rog a little history lesson, free… His expression, as he lit his cigar, raised his eyebrows, darted little glances at the grim-faced man viewing him, and gazed at the smoke as it came swirling from his own pursed lips, was that of an actor in a classical “B movie”—a heavy, who has just announced that he is “going to enjoy this, very much.”

“Go ahead,” Smith said. “But just remember that while you are getting this off your chest, or wherever the hell you’ve been keeping it, that the job I have is the most difficult one in the world, and that the world isn’t going to stand still for either of us. Now, go ahead.”

Jim, who had waved his hand, lightly, at mention of difficulty, now nodded, puffed at his cigar. After a moment he said, “You’ve heard, I suppose, of Charles Stewart Parnell.”

“Parnell? Parnell? The Irish—”

“That’s the one. Home rule for dear old Ireland. The 1880’s, 90’s. Well, Parnell had a friend named Captain O’Shea—Willie O’Shea. Ever heard of him? No? Doesn’t matter. O’Shea, you see, was useful to Parnell, acted as his confidential agent, took care of difficult matters for him, let his own political career languish in order to help Parnell’s.… And Parnell appreciated it. In fact, he appreciated it so much that he determined to keep O’Shea happy. That is, not exactly Captain O’Shea, but Mrs. O’Shea. The beautiful Kitty O’Shea. Willie wasn’t good enough for her, it would seem. Whether he lacked looks, or glamour, or whether she couldn’t twist him quite so far around her finger as she’d’ve liked to, who knows. Anyway, whatever it was that Willie didn’t have, Smith—oops, sorry—Parnell had it.”

He grinned, lifting his upper lip in front, and glancing sideways at the other man.

“Did Willie know about it? Oh, you bet your life Willie knew about it. He was nobody’s fool. Of course he knew about it. Almost right from the start. Why didn’t he do anything?” Jim considered his own question, shrugged. “Might be any one of a number of reasons. Maybe Willie didn’t think that something was necessarily wrong just because an old book said it was. Maybe Willie liked Parnell—maybe he even loved Parnell, hmm?—so much that he just didn’t care. Or…maybe even…maybe Kitty was the kind of woman that no one man could satisfy, hey? Oh, I don’t just mean sexually. Maybe she had other desires—power, say. A lust for intrigue, for action, for—And maybe Willie figured that, if there had to be another man, well, he’d rather it was Parnell than anyone else. Could’ve been any of those reasons. Or all of them. Hey, Rog?”

Roger David Smith continued to stare at him, said nothing. Now and then he raised a hand and stroked the tiny scars on his face. Macdonald took another fleeting look at him, resumed.

“Well, where were we? Oh, yes—‘And the song he sang / Was, “Old Ireland free.’” Well, Home Rule. It was almost all wrapped up, you see. Gladstone was all for it. Ireland was to have its own government at last, with Parnell as Prime Minister. Now, Willie had worked as hard for the cause as any man. And he felt it was time that he had his reward. It was a modest one—a place in Parnell’s Cabinet.”

After all, what difference did it make who held what Cabinet post? The actual work was always done by underlings, career men, drudges who delighted in details and red tape and hard work…

“Do you see the point, Rog?”

The President nodded. “I see it. And the answer is still ‘No.’”

For the first time something like uncertainty flickered across Macdonald’s face. “Ah, come on, Rog,” he said, almost pleadingly. “You know something? I wouldn’t make the worst Space Secretary in the world. I’ve followed things closely, damned closely. I’ve read up on it very, ver-ry carefully. I’ve got ideas which go beyond re-organizing the bookkeeping system, which is about all that Harley Gordon has in mind, or just sitting tight and hoping that the bogeymen will go away, which is all that Salem Smith has in mind.”

“You’ve got ideas?”

Evidently stung by the tone of the questioning voice, Macdonald went from ruddy to red. “Yes, I’ve got ideas,” he said. “And a lot of other important people have the same ideas—people whose support you’ll damned well be needing.” His eyes left the President’s face and rested on something in the White House room behind the President; met the President’s eyes as he returned his gaze; for an instant, fell; then faced him squarely and defiantly. Smith turned his head. There it was—the white, blue, red and yellow lights of the newly-installed Asteroid chart.

The President snorted. What would Macdonald do? he demanded. Occupy the Asteroids? Was that one of his ideas?

Yes, it was. It certainly was. The USA was tied hand and foot in one big Gordian knot, he said. The Condominium of the Moon, just look at it? The Russians did just as they damned well pleased, and in return for being let alone they raised every kind of hell imaginable with what the United States was doing. Whenever the United States did anything, that is; which was damned seldom…too damned seldom. And Mars? The U.S. had one station on Mars, count them, one; the British had one; the U.N. had two; and the Russians had four! The same as everyone else put together. And yet there were people claiming that the single American Mars station was costing too much.

“In a way they’re right, Rog,” Jim said, confidently now, almost cockily. “For a weather bureau, which is about all we use it for, it is costing too much. But Rog, if we occupied the Asteroids, then Mars Station could be busier than New York! And—rocketry strike? Hell, there’d be so much doing, we could double, triple their pay—the ’teers would be so busy making money they wouldn’t have time to strike!”

“Uh-huh. And which ones would you occupy? Just the ones we claim? The ones the Russians claim, too? Any unclaimed ones we fancy? Or the whole works, maybe?”

For a moment Macdonald’s face hung askew. Then something hateful and ugly entered it. Then he caught control of himself once more.

“How much longer are the American people going to sit still and let the Russians get away with insisting that everything they’ve already claimed is theirs and that everything they haven’t claimed belongs to the U.N.? Where does that leave us? The American people—”

Smith got up abruptly, so abruptly that Macdonald jumped.

“I don’t know who put you up to this—”

“Nobody put me—”

“I could make a good guess. You can tell them that they picked the wrong cat to try the chestnut game. ‘The American people?’ Listen, little Jimmy, the American people showed last November what they wanted in the way of leadership, and it wasn’t your hand that went on the Bible three days ago.”

“You—”

“Me. That’s right. And I’ll tell you something else, I’ll give it to you right between the eyes, fellow—even if you didn’t have these dangerous ideas you still wouldn’t stand a chance at the job. Not a pip in a snow-hole. Because without Sarra you’re not worth a—”

Scarlet, his cigar fallen unnoticed from his hand, Macdonald on his feet gestured and yammered in incoherent rage.

“My appointing you, if you hadn’t so obviously sold yourself out, would have meant that she’d be the brains of the post. And I don’t need her there, I don’t want her there.”

Now silence fell. Outside, the wet gray afternoon vanished as the exterior lights went on.

“Then it’s ‘No,’” Macdonald said, very softly. He looked older, he looked genuinely stricken, he looked a little sick.

“It’s ‘No,’ Jim.”

Jim nodded. “I’ll wait… I’ll wait until tomorrow. Just the same. Because… ‘history lesson.’ Parnell said ‘No’ to Captain Willie O’Shea, too, you see. And then Willie sued Kitty for divorce, naming Parnell as correspondent. He got the divorce. And Parnell got the axe. His party kicked him out. Gladstone backed off on Home Rule. Parnell died of a broken heart. And Ireland drowned in blood.”

He paused in turning to go, did not look back.

“But I’ll wait till tomorrow, anyway,” he said.

* * * *

Nicholas Mason, the American Representative to the U.N., his face noble and haggard, thanked the President again for having asked him to continue in office. Then, in a low voice, he told his latest tale of defeats, struggles, major setbacks, and minor victories.

Smith interrupted him, “What in your opinion, Mr. Ambassador—in your personal and confidential opinion—would be the effect of a scandal, an open and notorious and unsavory scandal, concerning the personal life of the President?”

Mason brought his mind to bear upon this abrupt question with visible difficulty. Slowly he raised his eyes and looked at Smith. Then a tremor ran over his face. “I can hardly suppose…that this question is hypothetical, Mr. President?” The President shook his head. In a voice still lower, Mason asked, “Could this…scandal of which you speak be averted? Is it possible? Then—”

“Averted only at great cost to the welfare of the Nation, and possibly, probably, involving dangers to its prestige, its proper functioning, and perhaps even its peace.”

Mason slowly raised his hand and laid the palm against his face. “I may at least hope that the danger could not be that great. Even so, it would then be a matter of balancing dangers…costs. I need hardly tell you—I need hardly tell you—at this juncture, anything which would divide the country might well destroy the country. And then—you spoke of our prestige—it’s none too high as it now is… I…” His voice died into a whisper.

Smith muttered, “I could resign, I suppose.”

Mason snapped straight. “No President of the United States has ever resigned! Mr. President! Had you forgotten who would succeed you? If the present Vice-President were put in charge of a chickenyard, my money would be on the hawks and the weasels!”

Smith’s face twisted.

“You have been a soldier, Mr. President,” Mason continued. “I have not. But I know, and you surely know, that there is more than one way to win a battle. It is up to you to decide which way it has to be now. And…need I say…if I can in any way…?”

The President shook his head.

* * * *

Left alone, he got up and went to the windows. It was miserable weather. Only three days ago he had been inaugurated, on a crisp and sparkling afternoon. Despite all he knew of the world scene, the day had seemed flecked with gold. He had caught sight of Sarra, face shining with triumph, dressed in a gray robe which had appeared to his eyes then as brighter than scarlet or crimson. Now the dying sun broke through the clouds briefly and turned the wet walks and puddles red: yet his mood was gray, grayer than it had ever been before in his life. Sarra’s voice rang in his ears, her face was before his eyes, and for the first time he failed to draw comfort from either. Could she deal with Jim at this late stage? Persuade him to do nothing? Could he be trusted to remain persuaded?

Or should he, the President, give the man the office he coveted, oblige him to live up to his own first picture of it, a sinecure in which the actual work was done by others? And depend upon the tight reign of the President from there on?

But would Jim remain content? Might he not have more “ideas”? His own, or others, it might not even matter—ideas, policies, plans, purposes, ambitions? Where would it stop? James Thackeray Macdonald, red-faced little politician, the Secret President of the United States!

But where, where had he gotten the nerve? Why—and how—after all these years, had he brought himself to defy his wife? Except in those easy cajoleries which came so naturally to him, and which had made politics his natural field; except in these shallows he had scarcely ever seemed to have a mind of his own or an ambition which was not Sarra’s. Why, after all these years, had the worm turned?

For a long time, in the lowering dusk, the President of the United States stayed at the window, deep in thought. Then he drew the curtains and went to the teleview.

* * * *

He had thought that the three men might ask many questions—or, rather, bring forth cautions and disagreements disguised as questions—but they asked only two, after all.

Anderson, this time, was silent. It was Lovel who spoke first.

“Mr. President,” he began, “have you concluded that in order to maintain the integrity of our national confederation it is imperative for you to invoke the unknown law?”

“I have,” said Roger David Smith.

Lovel’s face was impassive, but the skin seemed suddenly tighter upon the almost fleshless bones.

“What is his name?” he asked.

Softly, almost gently, the President corrected him.

“Her name,” he said.