The chubby man handed him a small envelope. "Apparently he wrote that a
long time ago. Told his daughter to send it to Public Information Board
immediately in event of his death. Read it."
Shandor unfolded the thin paper, and blinked unbelieving:
_In event of my death during the next few months, a certain amount
of biographical writing will be inevitable. It is my express wish
that this writing, in whatever form it may take, be done by Mr.
Thomas L. Shandor, staff writer of the Federal Public Information
Board._
_I believe that man alone is qualified to handle this assignment._
_(Signed) David P. Ingersoll
Secretary of State,
United States of America._
_4 June, 1981_
Shandor read the message a second time, then folded it carefully and
placed it in his pocket, his forehead creased. "I suppose you want the
story to be big," he said dully.
Hart's eyes gleamed a moment of triumph. "As big as you can make it," he
said eagerly. "Don't spare time or effort, Tommy. You'll be relieved of
all assignments until you have it done--if you'll take it."
"Oh, yes," said Shandor softly. "I'll take it."
* * * * *
He landed the small PIB 'copter on an airstrip in the outskirts of
Georgetown, haggled with Security officials for a few moments, and
grabbed an old weatherbeaten cab, giving the address of the Ingersoll
estate as he settled back in the cushions. A small radio was set inside
the door; he snapped it on, fiddled with the dial until he found a PIB
news report. And as he listened he felt his heart sink lower and lower,
and the old familiar feeling of dirtiness swept over him, the feeling of
being a part in an enormous, overpowering scheme of corruption and
degradation. The Berlin conference was reaching a common meeting ground,
the report said, with Russian, Chinese, and American officials making
the first real progress in the week of talks. Hope rising for an early
armistice on the Indian front. Suddenly he hunched forward, blinking in
surprise as the announcer continued the broadcast: "The Secretary of
State, David Ingersoll, was stricken with a slight head cold this
evening on the eve of his departure for the Berlin Conference, and was
advised to postpone the trip temporarily. John Harris Darby, first
undersecretary, was dispatched in his place. Mr. Ingersoll expressed
confidence that Mr. Darby would be able to handle the talks as well as
himself, in view of the optimistic trend in Berlin last night--"
Shandor snapped the radio off viciously, a roar of disgust rising in his
throat, cut off just in time. Lies, lies, lies. Some people _knew_ they
were lies--what could they really think? People like David Ingersoll's
wife--
Carefully he reined in his thoughts, channelled them. He had called the
Ingersoll home the night before, announcing his arrival this morning--
The taxi ground up a gravelled driveway, stopped before an Army jeep at
the iron-grilled gateway. A Security Officer flipped a cigarette onto
the ground, shaking his head. "Can't go in, Secretary's orders."
Shandor stepped from the cab, briefcase under his arm. He showed his
card, scowled when the officer continued shaking his head. "Orders say
_nobody_--"
"Look, blockhead," Shandor grated. "If you want to hang by your toes, I
can put through a special check-line to Washington to confirm my
appointment here. I'll also recommend you for the salt mines."
The officer growled, "Wise guy," and shuffled into the guard shack.
Minutes later he appeared again, jerked his thumb toward the estate.
"Take off," he said. "See that you check here at the gate before you
leave."
He was admitted to the huge house by a stone-faced butler, who led him
through a maze of corridors into a huge dining room. Morning sunlight
gleamed through a glassed-in wall, and Shandor stopped at the door,
almost speechless.
He knew he'd seen the girl somewhere. At one of the Washington parties,
or in the newspapers. Her face was unmistakable; it was the sort of face
that a man never forgets once he glimpses it--thin, puckish, with
wide-set grey eyes that seemed both somber and secretly amused, a full,
sensitive mouth, and blonde hair, exceedingly fine, cropped close about
her ears. She was eating her breakfast, a rolled up newspaper by her
plate, and as she looked up, her eyes were not warm. She just stared at
Shandor angrily for a moment, then set down her coffee cup and threw the
paper to the floor with a slam. "You're Shandor, I suppose."
Shandor looked at the paper, then back at her. "Yes, I'm Tom Shandor.
But you're not Mrs. Ingersoll--"
"A profound observation. Mother isn't interested in seeing anyone this
morning, particularly you." She motioned to a chair. "You can talk to me
if you want to."
Shandor sank down in the proffered seat, struggling to readjust his
thinking. "Well," he said finally. "I--I wasn't expecting you--" he
broke into a grin--"but I should think you could help. You know what I'm
trying to do--I mean, about your father. I want to write a story, and
the logical place to start would be with his family--"
The girl blinked wide eyes innocently. "Why don't you start with the
newspaper files?" she asked, her voice silky. "You'd find all sorts of
information about daddy there. Pages and pages--"
"No, no-- I don't want that kind of information. You're his daughter,
Miss Ingersoll, you could tell me about him as a man. Something about
his personal life, what sort of man he was--"
She shrugged indifferently, buttered a piece of toast, as Shandor felt
most acutely the pangs of his own missed breakfast. "He got up at seven
every morning," she said. "He brushed his teeth and ate breakfast. At
nine o'clock the State Department called for him--"