Chesbro shook his head. "Oh, no. You don't know Polly. Believe me, men
aren't her--" He hesitated, and said, "Believe me, she has too much
sense to get involved with a two-bit operator like him. She's loyal,
Sharon. Absolutely loyal to me." He was silent for a moment and then,
without looking at the girl, he said, "Polly's a funny kid. She isn't,
uh, _normal_, if you know what I mean, like you'd think a wife would
be--but she's loyal. Absolutely."
Sharon Froman took a deep, quiet breath. Ah-ha, Mr. Chesbro, she
thought to herself with satisfaction, the wife isn't quite normal,
eh? Somehow or other she doesn't respond when you get that urge, and
the years go by, and then you notice that you aren't getting the urge
as often--as far as she's concerned at any rate. So after a while you
don't even worry when she's off with another man.
Sharon nodded wisely to herself. Just the way it had been with Hesch
and his first wife. She'd made a man out of Hesch, even if he had
finally let her down, and she could make a man out of this unpromising
lout too--
The unpromising lout sat up sharply. "Hey," he yelled, "something's
coming! It's got a state-police escort. Maybe it's Akslund!"
* * * * *
The congressman was on the best of terms with the Air Force--possibly
because he held appointments on three appropriations committees.
The Air Force had been delighted to fly him up from Washington that
morning, and had been eager to fly him right into the disaster area in
a helicopter; but Representative Akslund himself had put his foot down
about that. Transport planes were one thing; helicopters were something
else. So the last fifteen miles of his trip were in a car furnished
through the courtesy of the state police.
"Unbelievable," he murmured--but enunciating every syllable crisply and
clearly. "It looks as if a war had been fought over every inch of this
lovely countryside. I estimate the damage I have already seen is in the
millions." Out of the corner of his eye he observed that the AP man
who had tagged along wasn't writing anything down. Disappointing; but
Akslund was too old a hand to try to hint about it. The AP man would be
with him for a good many hours yet. There was plenty of time for direct
quotes.
The police car ahead sounded its siren. The congressman craned his neck.
"Road block," the driver explained. "They'll pass us right through,
sir."
But they didn't. The driver of the car ahead stuck out his arm and
semaphored a stop; the congressman's chauffeur braked sharp and smooth,
and stopped a yard away from the other car's bumper.
A state trooper on point duty walked over and said, "Sorry to hold you
up, sir. You can pass, of course, but there's a man here who says he--"
Artie Chesbro appeared, panting. He stuck his hand in the open window.
"Good to see you again, Halmer," he said. "I'm Artie Chesbro. State
delegation. Perhaps you remember our little chat at the Waldorf last
year--the fund dinner."
Representative Akslund opened the matchless filing case in his head
and riffled through the cards. He remembered. "Glad to see you again,
Chesbro. Are you in this mess?"
"Up to my eyebrows. From the very start. There were eight of us trapped
in a building all night long; one was killed by gasoline fumes,
another's in the hospital with pneumonia this minute. But that's not
the point. I've been thinking heavily about relief and reconstruction,
Halmer, and I've developed some ideas I'd like to share with you. Mind
if I come along?"
Representative Akslund noticed that the AP man was scribbling at last.
Eight trapped all night, one dead, one dying. This Chesbro knew what
he was talking about. His interests were medium-big and diversified,
said the _Chesbro_ card in Akslund's head; he'd be able to give him the
sound businessman's viewpoint. Akslund knew he had to move fast; the
first public figure to hit the headlines and newscasts with a formal
plan would skim the publicity cream. How to be a statesman-humanitarian
in one easy lesson. Chesbro would save him time.
"Get in," he told Artie.
"Room for my assistant, Miss Froman?" Artie asked.
"Of course, Chesbro. I need facts and I need them fast."
Artie waved the come-on to Sharon in the car on the shoulder.
She reached into the back of the car for her manuscript briefcase and
gaily ran for the limousine. She didn't even bother to lock up the car,
which Artie had rented with a solemn promise that he'd return it to the
garage in exactly two hours. It would get back to the man somehow, she
thought contentedly. Big things were happening now; no time for trivia.
* * * * *