He was a little taken aback. Like having the sweeper talk back.
"Senator," I said, "you talk big. Let's get right down to rock-bottom,
and let's stay there until we're finished. Okay?... All right; in
words of one syllable, you want us to do what amounts to declaring war
on the rest of the world, winning the war and then running things our
way. Right?"
The Senator teetered on those mental heels again. His lips sucked in
and sharp hollows formed in his cheeks. I could see his mind reach all
the way across the table and throw face-up the cards, one by one.
"You're Mr. Miller, I presume, although we haven't been formally
introduced." His eager eyes flickered over me. "You haven't said much
so far, and it's just as well that you spoke when you did."
Legree groped for his cigar case, and Suggs rumbled on.
"You said I talk big, Mr. Miller, and I'm going to take that as a
compliment. Yes, I do talk big. And you talk plain. I like men who
talk plain. We're going to get along well together." And he paused to
let his thoughts catch up.
I gave my needle a little push. "You're still talking big, Senator," I
reminded him.
He resented that, and tried to hide it. "Hardly, Mr. Miller. Hardly.
But you asked a question, and I'll try to talk plain, like you do. If
we have to fight the rest of the world to do things our way, the
American way, then my answer is yes. Yes!"
Legree grinned his saturnine smile through a blue wreath of smoke and
Morgan sat back in his chair with an almost silent exhalation. The
rest of the group seated around that great table affected me hardly at
all one way or another. Suggs was the spokesman for one faction and
I--well, Morgan was willing to let me talk; the Old Man was sunk in
the dumb obscurity of his chair, and who else was there to speak for
me? Who else?
All right, Miller. Take it slow and easy. Watch your temper. Say what
you have that's important, and let it go at that. But--say it!
Now, there's one thing I learned long ago; you get a lot further if
the other loses his temper first, and the best way to pry the lid of a
temper is the use of the unexpected. The man who is handy with his
hands will crack wide open with ridicule, with words used as the
lever. The man who is handy with words is a different nut to crack;
slap him down with insults while his verbal guard is down. If his
temper doesn't snap in the first two minutes, it never will.
So, because I thought it was the right thing to say, and because I
didn't like the Senator anyway, I said, "Senator Suggs, you talked
plain. That's good. I like men who talk plain. Let's have some more of
that talk. Let's get this right on the record for everyone here to see
and hear.
"I don't like you, Senator. I like neither you nor your ideas, nor
anything about you or your thoughts. How long has it been, Senator,
since anyone has told you right to your face--not in a newspaper--that
you're a self-convinced liar and a hypocrite, and that you and your
ideas and everything about you stink to high heaven?"
"Stink" was the word that got him. He'd expected a nice gentlemanly
quarrel with gentlemanly words above the table and rapiers below, and
instead had walked around the corner and taken a barrel-stave across
the mouth. His face flushed in an instant to a livid unhealthy red,
his lips pulled away from his yellow teeth, his eyes seemed to
protrude visibly. A beautiful sight.
It took him long seconds to throttle his gasping shock. I gave him
just enough time to inhale for a long tirade, just long enough to open
that fish-like mouth for words that might have been anything, then I
let him have it again. And I don't know whether or not I told you, I
was a sergeant before I got busted back to private, first class.
"Shut up!" I bellowed, and my roar boomed back at me from all those
startled, those stunned faces. Shut up shut up shut up shut up....
* * * * *
I'm certain that those walls had never heard anything above a quiet
murmur before that night. I just shocked Suggs and the rest into a
panicky silence while I ranted. I had to talk fast, because while
volume and violence are a good temporary substitute for brilliance, I
knew I wasn't going to have the floor forever.
"Let's talk straight, Suggs. Get this once, because I'm not repeating
it, and get that silly look off your face--" I'd heard he was
vain--"you and your constituents and your Army and your Navy can go to
hell, as far as I care for any of them. I'm the man you want to keep
your shirt clean while the rest of the world wallows in filth; I'm the
man that's supposed to let you and your type, God forbid, rule the
world; I'm the man--" I leaned over the table as far as I could, as
far as I dared.
"Suggs," and I poured venom down his shirtfront, "the only thing that
keeps me from despising the Government of the United States and the
people in it is the fact that I know you're not typical. You're a
freak, a monster!" And I threw in another to keep him off balance.
"You even _look_ like a fish!
"Remember this, Senator. Remember this one thing; if I ever see, if I
ever hear as much as one word from you about war or bombs, in private
or public, you'll live just long enough for me to hear about it!"
I threw a disgusted glance at the rest of the table. "One thing you
don't know, Senator, is that I can kill you where you sit. Smith!"
The Old Man was astonished as the Senator, who sat with gaping piscine
mouth and pop eyes. "Yes, Peter?"
"Tell him," I snapped. "Tell him how Kellner found out that I can stop
a heart just as fast as I can a truck. And you'd better tell him while
you're at it that Kellner thinks I'm emotionally unstable, subject to
fits of temper. Tell that to the Senator. Tell him what Kellner said
about me."
Smith coughed. "I think you all agree that Mr. Miller is a trifle upset.
You can form your own opinion as to his temper. As to the other ... well,
Dr. Kellner is the top man in his field. He tested Peter--Mr. Miller--very
thoroughly. I would give very careful consideration to whatever he says
about Peter's capabilities."
Now you can see what makes a diplomat. When Smith was finished talking
it sounded as though Kellner had actually said that I could murder
someone. And yet Smith hadn't told even a tiny bit of a lie. Lying, as
any married man knows, is knowing what to say and what not to say at
the right time. But to get back to the rest. I dismissed Suggs. I
ignored him for all the rest of the time he was there. Even when I
looked directly at him, and that hurt him. I have hopes, high hopes,
that might have brought on the real heart attack he had the next day.
"So," I said generally to the rest of the table, "let's just assume
from now on that you're dealing with a homicidal maniac with unlimited
power. Is that the phrase you were thinking of, General?"
General Legree jumped as though he had seen me pull the pin on a live
grenade.
"Forget it, General," I told him kindly. "I just read a lot of your
speeches. Now you, Mr. Morgan, you're apparently having a meeting. I
got here a little late. How about telling me the score?"
The tension seemed to seep out of the room as tangible as a stream of
water. Suggs shrank up in his chair like a little old kobold, the
Generals shifted into easier positions with the old familiar creak of
expensive leather, and the man Smith looked right at me with his right
eye closed. I'd said what he wanted me to say, but now what? Where did
we go from here?
Undersecretary of State Theodore Morgan was one of the career men to
be found in State Departments throughout the world, if by that you
mean someone who has had the same job for years. The newspapers liked
to tee off on him occasionally, using his pseudo-British mannerisms
and habits for caricature. And the great American public, I suppose,
considered him pretty much as a jerk, as the public is most apt to do
when regarding a man who wore striped pants and a top hat in public
and apparently liked it. But the Old Man, Smith--and I never did find
out if Morgan was Smith's boss or vice versa--set me straight on a lot
of things about Morgan. He had a fairly rough job, as jobs are when
you do something you dislike merely because policy has been set by
higherups. Let's just say he did the best he could, and let it go at
that.
He was in charge of the meeting, all right. He knew just how to handle
Simon Legree, and without Suggs things went fairly smooth--on the
surface.
"Mr. Miller," he said, "you made a rather abrupt entrance into the
conversation. I think it better if we have it understood right now
that we prefer to use reason instead of volume."
"Call me Pete," I said. I knew, somehow that he hadn't disapproved too
much of what I'd said, and he was cracking down at the outset just to
show the rest that _he_ wasn't intimidated. "Pete is all right with
me, since I'm sure that this is all among friends." I looked around,
and they were all friends. Especially the two generals that had seen
me stop the trucks from the Federal Building window. I don't say they
were actually afraid; just cautious. Just friends.
I went on. "Maybe I can help break the ice. I suppose you were talking
about what you were going to do about things in general, and in
particular, me. Well, go ahead."
So they did.
I won't bother with the details of the rest of the meeting or
conference, or whatever you want to call it, because I don't think the
details are too important. For one thing, when the first flush wore
off, and I began to realize the colossal bluff I'd gotten away with, I
got a little weak in the knees. For another, Morgan and Smith did all
the talking to amount to anything. Legree, who seemed to be the
self-appointed spokesman for the Army, really didn't have much to say
when he knew that the State Department had all the cards, with me the
joker. The Navy played right along when it was tentatively agreed that
it was to be an island where I would be "stationed," as they
euphemistically called it; they knew that islands are surrounded by
water, and who sails on the water? The FBI got in their little piece
when they were made responsible for general security. My contribution
was that I was to be responsible to State, in the person of Smith, and
Smith was to be the boss as far as conditions were concerned. When I
brought that up I knew the Old Man was thinking of all the times I'd
complained about his guardianship, and wrote him a tiny note so he
wouldn't get too pleased with himself.
"The lesser--or the least--of many evils. Don't get swell-headed." He
just grinned when he read it, and stuck it in his pocket to save for
Morgan, I feel sure.
Smith and Bob Stein and I were the last to leave, and Morgan's grip
for an old man was firm as we shook hands. "You did an excellent
demolition job on the Senator," he said. "You know, Pete, there is one
of the few people that have made me regret the job I have."
"Forget it," I told him. "You can get fired. Me, I got seniority in a
lifetime job. As far as that carp is concerned, you can consider me
your chief steward. I'll run ten miles to take up your grievance with
Suggs."
Morgan smiled politely as he ushered us to the door, but I don't think
he knew what I meant. They don't have unions in State.
* * * * *
The island isn't too bad. I swore, years ago, with the first cold I
ever remember having, that I would never care if I ever saw snow
again. And where I am, there isn't any snow. The beach is yellow as
gold, the sun comes up every day in the east and sets in the west, and
I've got for my personal use the biggest, shiniest bar you ever saw in
all your life. They ship in draft beer for me all the way from La
Crosse, Wisconsin, and Munich, Germany. Every month I get a four-quart
keg from Belfast in Ireland, and I've got all the gadgets I need to
mix anything a barkeep could dream up. The ice I get from what
probably is a six-hundred dollar refrigerator that makes nothing but
ice cubes. I have a subscription to practically every magazine I ever
heard of, and I get daily aerial delivery--that's right. A little
Piper Cub with floats drops the New York _Times_, the _Monitor_, and a
couple of others every morning--of the newspapers with the least
amount of junk. I used to get the Detroit papers, but I found out it
took too much mental effort to avoid looking at the Vital Statistics,
where they record the marriages and deaths.
I finally learned to play bridge. Euchre doesn't seem the same without
a barful of people, and pinochle is not the game that Stein is good
at. Bob Stein, the poor guy--although he never says one word about
it--takes everything in his stride. He spends six weeks out of every
eight here with me and the others that form the crew of this little
island afloat in the Southern Sea. The food is good, and with no limit
to variety and type. We can't be too far from somewhere, because every
once in a while we hear a rattle and banging somewhere out to sea.
Once we heard what sounded like a full scale battle. I pried it out of
Bob Stein that it was just maneuvers, as he called it. I know better.
I see nothing but naval craft, and I suspect that they're not always
just at the horizon for practice.
National affairs? Well, they're not too bad. The big noise came when
the UN wanted my custody and didn't get it. The Old Man once asked me
why I wasn't in favor of it, and I told him. In theory, yes; in
practice, the UN was too dangerous. Personally, I felt that I could
trust very few, and none that I hadn't known before all this happened.
UN supervision meant that I would serve too many masters, and that I
didn't like. And too, there are too many people in the United States
that don't believe in the UN, and might be tempted to do something
about it if they thought I owed allegiance to someone else besides the
United States. I couldn't stir up anything like that, I told him. Deep
down in my heart, I wanted people to like me, to admire me, to think
that I was their hero, and no other country's. I think I can see
admiration and affection in the eyes of the civilians and sailors that
supply me the food and the other things I ask for. They ask me every
once in a while if I'm all right, if I need women. I tell them I
don't, that I'm reconciled with living like I am. And that's true; I
want no other woman except Helen, and her I can't have, for devious
reasons; my name is just anonymous to the world. Smith talked me into
that--his idea was that if no one knew who I was, I'd be just that
much harder to find. He explained that there are several other islands
set up the same as mine, with almost the same conditions and the same
surroundings. He calls it camouflage on a grand scale, and he's the
boss. I know I'm not very smart; just smart enough to know that the
reports in the _Times_ about other people in other parts of the world
with my capabilities are some of the grand-scale camouflage started by
Smith's agents. I'm all alone, and I know it. But sometimes I wake up
in the middle of the night and go for a walk along the beach and kick
up a little sand with my bare feet like Helen and I did on our
honeymoon. They asked me once if I really had to do that. I told them
I felt like it, and they asked me why. I didn't tell them I was just
lonesome.
* * * * *
_CONFIDENTIAL MEMO_
_FROM:_ _Morgan_
_TO:_ _Smith_
_MESSAGE: I don't care how many plants got hit. Draft
another plant. Draft the T i m e s itself. But get those special
editions to Miller and get them there today. Repeat, today!
You're already one day late in getting started on those
hints of probable attack. Better rush the softening up. The
way things are going, all plans are off, and we may need him
in a hurry. And that means we'll need cooperation. You know
Miller. You saw those reports on the Suggs post-mortem. Do I
have to draw diagrams for you? You've got unlimited
authority. Use it. I'm serious about drafting the T i m e s if
you have to. But GET THOSE PAPERS PRINTED AND GET THEM TO
HIM TODAY...._
* * * * *