Every day, in every way, I am getting
better and better.
--Émile Coué
I had one of those heartbeat hangovers where every pump of blood sent a
hammer of pain to my head.
Mae was being very good and gave me coffee and eggs and tomato juice
and aspirin, and I managed to shower and shave under my own power.
An expense-account taxi took me downtown to the White House. The guards
at the gate glanced at my identification and waved me on. It should
have been a proud moment--my first day on the job in the Executive
Mansion--but I felt like hell. It wasn't only the hangover, which had
begun to recede to a dull throb. It was the disenchantment with the
whole picture. Instead of walking in with head high I sort of shuffled
in, looking at my feet, and almost bumped into a man in the lobby.
It was Rod Harris of the AP. I'd never met him but I knew him by sight.
If there was anybody I didn't want to see right this minute it was a
representative of the free and untrammeled press.
"You're Sam Kent, aren't you?" Rod said, introducing himself. I gave
him a hearty but phony handshake and said, "I hope you haven't got
sixteen questions to throw at me all at once. I'd appreciate it if
you'd give me a chance to find my way around first."
"Sure," Rod said. "No hurry at all. I just wanted to say
congratulations, on behalf of the White House Correspondents
Association."
"That's very nice of you. Thanks. I appreciate it."
"One thing, though," Rod said. "I might as well say it and get it over
with. We held a meeting last night and voted to drop World Wide from
membership. Nothing personal, and we were sorry as hell to have to do
it, but--well, I think you understand."
"Oh?" I said. "You did, eh? Well, I'm sorry to hear that. But Ian beat
you to it and quit."
"I know. Ian's one of the best. It's rough on him. It's also rough on
Stew Macon. World Wide rushed him down here to replace Ian and he's
wandering around like a dog with skunk-smell all over him, poor guy."
"Stew? Where is he?"
"He's in your office."
"I'd better go cheer him up. Look, I'll see you and the other guys
later. Josh used to hold his daily briefings about eleven, didn't he?
I'll try to have something for you then."
"Okay," Rod said. "Good luck."
"Thanks." I didn't say I'd need it, but I sure thought it.
I knew where the Press Secretary's office was from earlier junkets
to Washington. I went in and found Stew pacing up and down the room,
smoking.
"Hi, chiefie," he said. "Boy, am I glad to see you. I feel like a
pariah."
"Misery loves company, eh?"
"You can say that again. Boy, do you look terrible. Aren't you happy
here in the old lap of the gods?"
"Happy as the ninth pup at feeding time," I said. "I spent the night
getting drunk with your predecessor and I've got the grandfather of all
hangovers."
"Poor Ian," Stew said. He sat on the big desk that was now mine and put
his cigarette out in an oversized ashtray. "Poor me, too. I thought
this was going to be a big deal, taking over the Washington bureau.
John Hyatt told me Ian quit, but he didn't tell me why. I thought my
biggest problem was going to be getting along with Reb Sylvester, who
must have figured he was in line for bureau chief. But this is another
kettle entirely."
"I suppose you're _persona non grata_ in the press room?"
"The chill is on, believe me. Continental's in the same boat. But their
man didn't even show up this morning."
Ian had mentioned that Continental Broadcasting Corporation had also
been bought up.
"Look," I said. "You don't have to go back to the press room. Ian said
last night WW's moved into the White House. All we have to do is find
Door C. That's where he said it is. Let me ring the old bell and find
out where Door C is."
"I'd rather be in the press room," Stew said, but I found a button and
pressed it.
"Yes, Mr. Kent?" a woman's voice said.
"Where's Door C?"
"I beg your pardon?" The voice sounded vaguely familiar.
"Where is World Wide?"
"Oh. It's just on the other side of your office, Mr. Kent. I'll be glad
to show you."
"Good."
One of my three doors opened and Joy Linx came in. "Good morning, Sam,"
she said.
"Well, good morning," I said. "What are you doing here?"
Then I remembered that Gov had said she'd be with me in Washington.
"I'm your secretary," Joy said. "I thought they told you."
"They did and I'm delighted," I said. "Forgive me for not remembering.
I'll need every friendly face there is. Joy, I want you to meet another
fly in the web--Stew Macon. Stew, this is Joy Linx, somebody's Girl
Friday. I guess now she's mine."
"Some people have all the luck," Stew said. "Hi, Joy. I'm delighted,
too."
"Now for that door," Joy said. She opened the third door and said,
"Behold, World Wide."
It was virtually a duplicate of World Wide's New York newsroom. There
were the banks of teletype and the piles of newspapers and the desks.
Reb Sylvester sat in the slot, a cup of coffee on the desk next to a
row of freshly sharpened pencils. He was smoking a pipe and reading the
comic page of the _Washington Post_.
"What's new, Reb?" I said.
He put down the paper. "Funny you should ask that, Sam," he said.
"Nothing is. It's absolutely dead. Have you got a dispatch, perchance?"
"Hi, Reb," Stew said.
"Hi, Stew. What's happening at the crossroads of the free world? What's
the true poop? Are there any bulletins or flashes to be sent this humid
forenoon?"
Reb was obviously in a bitter mood. He'd been passed over for
promotion, not to mention being sold out.
"What's on the wire so far?" I asked him.
"Out of Washington? Well, we've got a hundred words on the little girl
who was mauled by the lion in the zoo and a fifty-word follow-up on the
woman who had quadruplets yesterday. Aside from that it's been rather
quiet. At the moment we're waiting, you might say, for the morning
briefing by the Presidential Press Secretary to learn whether our proud
Ship of State is still afloat."
This was a boy who needed stepping on. Or else he was a thoroughly
disillusioned reporter masking his true feelings with quips.
I gave him the benefit of the doubt and said, "The old ship has
survived a lot worse than this. As for the other, I'll be seeing Gov in
a little while. That might produce a little news."
Stew said, "See you later, then. I'll stay here and try out the
typewriters."
My hangover was waking up again and I was glad to get out of the
newsroom and back to my own office. Joy Linx was waiting for me with an
Alka-Seltzer and a cup of coffee.
"Thanks, Joy. How'd you know?"
"It's my job to know, Mr. Kent."
"Cut out that Mr. Kent stuff. I'm just old Sam, the confused man. What
do you know about all these new goings-on?"
"Which new goings-on in particular? There've been a whole passel of
them."
"Oh, there have, have there? Tell me about World Wide and Continental
for a starter."
"It all ties in with the big picture," Joy said. "We want the Americans
to have the true official position when the big stories break."
"Who's _we_? And why couldn't the free press be depended on to give the
true story? It always has."
"_We_ is the government, of course. As for the other, I think it has to
do with point of view. The facts have a way of being misinterpreted by
a hostile press."
"Oh, and it'll be the job of World Wide and Continental to spoonfeed
the official line down the public's throat?"
"That's a rather crude way to put it, but I'd say it's accurate. We've
hired Clyde B. Fitchburn to help."
"What?" I said. "Not the Voice of Doom?"
Joy smiled. "The same. We couldn't afford to have him on the other
side, spreading hysteria. So he's been persuaded to join up."
"It's amazing," I said, "what a lot of money will do."
"Don't be cynical, Sam."
Joy said no more than that. She didn't have to. As a dweller myself
in a big glass house I was especially vulnerable to rocks. I took
a contrite swallow of coffee and said, "Okay. We'll ease away from
that one. Now what are the big stories? It seems to me that I'm the
least-informed Press Secretary of all time."
"Well, there's the summit conference," Joy said. She couldn't have
been more off-hand about it if she had said "It's ten o'clock."
"_What_ summit conference?" I practically yelled. "When? Where?"
"I'll start with _who_," Joy said. "It'll be the heads of government of
the United States, the Soviet Union, Britain, France, Germany, India,
Israel, the United Arab Republic, Japan and China. Both Chinas. I think
that's all. Oh, and the Secretary-General of the United Nations and the
Monolithians, of course."
"Of course," I said, dazed. "And when is this little huddle taking
place? It's bound to take months of preparation."
"Not at all. It's scheduled for Saturday."
"Saturday! Not _this_ Saturday? The day after tomorrow?"
"That's right. Saturday, August ninth."
"You'd better make me another Alka-Seltzer."
"Okay," she said. "That'll give you a chance to brace yourself for the
_where_."
I poured down the fizzing drink and felt it start to work in my poor
stomach.
"I guess I'm ready now. Where is this crazy summit conference going to
be held? Here? London? Moscow? If it's here I'm going to cut my throat
right now. It's bad enough covering such a free-for-all, it'll be
murder organizing it."
"Put your razor away," Joy said. "It's not going to be held here. It's
going to be held in space."
* * * * *
The President buzzed for me while I was still trying to take it all
in. He was very businesslike, with none of the man-to-man intimacy of
the other night. He welcomed me to the job, said he assumed Miss Linx
had filled me in on the summit conference and told me he wanted me
to make the announcement at my 11 o'clock press briefing. He handed
me a prepared statement that he said was being issued more or less
simultaneously in London, Moscow, Cairo, Paris and all the other
capitals concerned.
Gov looked tired. I tried to question him but he said most of the
answers were in the statement, which ran to about 600 words. Everything
else was off the record and I'd have to say "no comment."
As for himself, he was not going to hold a press conference this week
and there probably wouldn't be any other news until after everybody got
back from Ultra.
"Ultra?" I asked.
"That's the name of the space station where we'll be meeting.
The Monolithians moored it out there in whatever the hell it's
called--cislunar space. This side of the moon. It's in the handout."
"Yes, sir," I said, glancing through it quickly. "When will you be
leaving?"
"Tomorrow morning, but that's off the record. You'll be going, too,
Sam, and so will Miss Linx, so you'd better pack an overnight bag."
My reaction to that must have shown in my face, because the President
said, "I'm not looking forward to the trip, either, Sam, but it has to
be made and we might as well reconcile ourselves to getting it over
with. Everything ought to be a lot simpler afterward."
I was curious to know what hidden meaning, if any, there was in that
last remark, but he waved me out.
My first meeting with the press, which I had been dreading, went off
beautifully. Any personal or sarcastic questions the reporters might
have asked were forgotten as I made the summit-in-space announcement
and passed the handout around. I answered a few questions without
going beyond the words of the announcement, but then, on being
pressed, I made up a headline phrase to summarize the purpose of the
precedent-shattering conclave. Its aim, I said, cribbing a bit from
the Constitution, was to secure the blessings of interplanetary peace,
friendship and liberty. Actually, that was what the 600-word statement
added up to, more or less.
Just before they began their mad dash to the telephones I told them the
lid was on--that there'd be nothing further from the White House today.
Joy closed the door behind the last of them and I collapsed into my
chair. She gave me a sympathetic smile.
"So much for that," she said. "I think it went very well. Now is it
time to lock up the shop and pack for our space journey?"
The old keyboard test, designed to cover all contingencies, came to my
mind. "Pack my bag with six dozen liquor jugs," I said. "And maybe that
wouldn't be a bad idea."