"No?" He was amused. "Don't you remember the discussion we had about
who was going to watch the watchers? Now that there's been a leak, the
Army is going to blame the Navy, the Navy is going to blame the FBI,
and I take punishment from all three." He sighed. "My department
seems, invariably, to be in the middle."
I let it go at that. I didn't have the heart to remind him that a good
portion of the trouble and friction this country has had in its
history has been because the State Department has been sitting on the
water bucket when it should have been playing deep centerfield. No use
worrying about things until the fuse is burnt half its length, I
thought. That might be, for me and all of us, a good policy to adopt,
for the time being. Let the boys at the top fret and worry; let them
wrack their brains and beat their heads against the wall. I'd do what
they told me, if I could. The man that pays the salary worries about
the unemployment tax.
"Stein," I said, "are there any more of those sandwiches?"
The Old Man settled back in his seat and began to read the Kansas City
_Sentinel_ all over again. He was still worried when we landed in
Washington.
He left in a waiting black sedan, and Stein and I stayed in the ship
until it was yanked into a dark hangar by a tiny tractor with great
rubber tires. We slid out the back of the hangar when the wary Stein
thought it was safe, and a taxi rolled us to the Mayflower. There we
registered, I was told, as James Robertson and William Wakefield,
Wisconsin Dells.
"Milwaukee," I suggested, "has better beer."
He took the hint, and when the waiter brought our late dinner, the ice
bucket had eight frosty bottles. They practically sizzled when they
went down. Bob Stein, at times, had some earmarks of genius, even if
you had to lay them bare with an axe.
The first day wasn't bad; we sat around, drank beer and ate huge thick
sirloins on the swindle sheet, and told all the stories we knew. The
radio was blurting either soap operas, hill-billy music, or
lentil-mouthed commentators. The story broken in the _Sentinel_ was
gathering momentum, by what we read and heard, and that was too close
to home. So we made a pact to turn off the radio and keep it that way.
We never missed it.
The second day the beer tasted as good as ever. The steaks were just
as thick and just as tender, the hotel service just as unobtrusive.
Stein was just as cheerful and as pleasant company. But I spent a lot
of time looking out the window.
"You know, Bob," I said thoughtfully, "how would you like a big plate
of spaghetti? Or ravioli? Maybe some pizza?"
He came out of the bathroom wiping his face with a towel, his hair wet
and frizzled.
[Illustration]
"Am I going to have trouble with you?" He was pessimistic. "Aren't
you ever satisfied?"
I turned away from the window and let the curtain flap in the breeze.
"Who wants to be satisfied? How about some sub-gum war mein, or
chicken cacciatora?"
He tossed the towel back through the open door. "Now, look here," he
protested.