Dr. Frank Cannon was just standing there, looking at his brother. There
was a definite look of respect on his face.
Senator Cannon said: "You're all great guys--thanks. But I've got to
get downstairs and make a speech. Ed, get the recording tape out of that
set; I want to make some notes on what he said. And hurry it up, we
haven't got too long."
"No canned speech for you, eh, Jim?" Spanding said.
"Amen to that, too," said Representative Matson as he opened the panel
in the side of the TV set.
* * * * *
From a hundred thousand loudspeakers all over the United States, from
the rockbound coast of Maine to the equally rockbound coast of Alaska,
from the sun-washed coast of Florida to the ditto coast of Hawaii, the
immortal voice of Bing Crosby, preserved forever in an electronic
pattern made from a decades-old recording, told of a desire for a White
Christmas. It was a voice and a tune and a lyric that aroused nostalgia
even in the hearts of Floridians and Californians and Hawaiians who had
never seen snow in their lives.
The other carols rang out, too--"Silent Night," "Hark! The Herald Angels
Sing," "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen," "O Little Town of Bethlehem," and
all the others. All over the nation, in millions upon millions of
Christian homes, the faithful prepared to celebrate the birth, the
coming, of their Saviour, Who had come to bring peace on Earth to men.
And in millions of other American homes, the Children of Abraham
celebrated the Festival of Lights--_Chanukah_, the Dedication--the
giving of thanks for the Blessing of God upon the priestly family of
the Maccabees, who, twenty-odd centuries before, had taken up arms
against the tyranny of a dynasty which had banned the worship of
Almighty God, and who, by winning, had made themselves a symbol forever
of the moral struggle against the forces that oppress the free mind of
Man.
The newspapers and television newscasts were full of the age-old "human
interest stories" which, in spite of their predictability--the abandoned
baby, the dying child, the wretchedly ill oldster--still brought a tear
to the eye during the Holiday Season.
As President-elect Cannon slowly made his cabinet appointments, the
announcements appeared, but there was hardly any discussion of them,
much less any hue and cry.
One editorial writer did make a comment: "It is encouraging to see that
President-elect Cannon consults with Vice-President-elect Matthew Fisher
regularly and frequently as the appointments are made. For a good many
years, ever since the Eisenhower Administration, back in the Fifties, it
has been the policy of most of our Chief Executives to make sure that
the Vice President is groomed to take over smoothly if anything should
happen to the President. Senator Cannon, however, is, as far as we know,
the first President-elect who has begun this grooming before the
Inauguration. This, in our opinion, shows both wisdom and political
astuteness."
By the second week of the New Year, the new Cabinet had been picked.
Contrary to the rumors before the election, the senator's brother had
not been selected for any post whatever, but the men who _were_ picked
for Cabinet posts were certainly of high caliber. The United States
Senate had confirmed them all before Inauguration Day.
That day was clear and cold in Washington. After the seemingly endless
ceremonies and ceremonials, after the Inaugural Ball, and the Inaugural
Supper, and the Inaugural Et Cetera, President James Cannon went to bed,
complaining of a "slight headache".
[Illustration]
"Frankly," he told Vice President Matthew Fisher, "it is a real
head-splitter." He took four aspirin and went to bed.
He said he felt "a little better" the next day.
* * * * *
The fifth of February.
Ten forty-eight in the evening.
The White House, Washington, D.C.
Dr. Frank Hewlitt Cannon stood in a darkened bedroom in Blair House,
across the street from the Executive Mansion, nervously looking out the
window, at the big white house across the way. He was not nervous for
himself, although he had plenty of reason to be. He was clad in pajamas,
as his brother had ordered, and had even taken the extra precaution of
rumpling up his hair.
He looked at his watch, and then looked back at the White House.
_How long?_ he thought. _How long?_
He looked at his wrist again. The sweep hand only moved when he looked
at it, apparently. He dropped his hands and clasped them behind his
back. How long before he would know?
_My kid brother_, he thought. _I could always outthink him and outfight
him. But he's got something I haven't got. He's stuck to his guns and
fought hard all these years. I couldn't do what he's doing tonight, and
I know it. You're a better man than I am, kid._
Across Pennsylvania Avenue, Senator James Cannon was doing some heavy
consideration, too. He sat on the edge of his bed and looked at the
small tubular device in his hand.
_Will Frank be safe? That's the only weak point in the plan._
Frank was safe. He _had_ to be. Frank hadn't been over from Blair House
in three days. They hadn't even _seen_ each other in three days. The
Secret Service men--
He threw a glance toward the door that led from his bedroom to the hall.
The Secret Service agents would know that Frank couldn't possibly have
had anything to do with it. The only possible connection would be the
hypogun itself. He looked at the little gadget. _Hell_, he thought; _now
or never_.
He got up and strode purposefully into the bathroom. He smiled crookedly
at his own reflection in the mirror. It was damnably difficult for a
President to outwit his own bodyguard.
_Get on with it!_
He swallowed the capsule Frank had given him. Then, placing the muzzle
against the precise spots Frank had shown him, James Cannon pulled the
trigger. Once ... twice ... thrice ...
Against each nerve center in his left side. Fine.
Now that it was done, all fear--all trepidation--left Senator James
Cannon. Now there was no way to go but ahead.
First, the hypogun that had blown the drug into his body. Two minutes to
get rid of that, for that was the only thing that could tie Frank in to
the plan.
They had already agreed that there was no way to get rid of it. It
couldn't be destroyed or thrown away. There was only one way that it
could be taken from the White House ...
Cannon left his fingerprints on it, dropped it into the wastebasket, and
covered it with tissue paper. Then he left the bathroom and walked
toward the hall door. Beyond it, he knew, were the guarding Secret
Service men.
And already his left side was beginning to feel odd.
He walked to the door and opened it. He had a scowl on his face.
"Hello, Jenkins--Grossman," he said, as the two men turned. "I've got a
hell of a headache again. Aspirin doesn't seem to help, and I can't get
any sleep." He looked rather dazed, as though he wasn't sure of his
surroundings. He smiled lopsidedly. "Call Frank, over at Blair House,
will you? Hurry?" Then he swallowed, looked dazed, and fell to the floor
in a heap.
The two Secret Service men didn't move, but they shouted loudly. Their
orders were to guard the body of the President--_literally_! Until it
was declared legally dead, that body was their responsibility.
The other Secret Service men in the White House came on the run. Within
one minute after Cannon had fallen, a call had gone to Blair House,
asking for the President's brother.
Inside of another two minutes, Dr. Frank Cannon was coming through the
front door of the Executive Mansion. In spite of the chill outside, he
was wearing only a topcoat over his pajamas.
"What happened?" he snapped, with the authority that only a physician
can muster. "Where is he?"
He heard the story on the way to the President's room. Jenkins and
Grossman were still standing over the fallen Chief Executive. "We
haven't moved him, except to make him more comfortable," said Grossman.
"He's still O.K.... I mean, he's breathing, and his heart's still going.
But we didn't want to move him--"
"Fine!" snapped the doctor. "Best thing." He knelt over his brother and
picked up his wrist. "Have you called anyone else?" he asked sharply
while he felt the pulse.
"The Naval Hospital," said another agent. "They're coming fast!"
"Fine!" repeated Dr. Frank. By this time, most of the White House staff
was awake. Frank Cannon let go the wrist and stood up quickly. "Can't
tell for sure, but it looks like a slight stroke. Excuse me."
He went into the Executive bedroom, and on into the bathroom. He closed
the door. Quickly, he fished the hypogun out of the wastebasket and
dropped it into the little black bag which he had carried with him. He
came out with a glass of water. Everything was taken care of.
* * * * *
_PRESIDENT SUFFERS STROKE!
JHC Taken To US Naval Hospital
In Washington After Stroke In
White House_
All over the world, headlines and newscasts in a hundred tongues
carried the story. And from all over the world came messages of
sympathy and concern for the stricken Chief Executive. From England,
simultaneous messages arrived from the Sovereign and the Prime Minister;
from France, notes from both the President and the Premier of the
Seventh Republic; from Ethiopia, condolences from His Imperial Majesty
and from the Chief Executive. The United German Federation, the
Constitutional Kingdom of Spain, the Republic of Italy, the United
Austro-Yugoslavian Commonwealth, and the Polish Free State all sent rush
radiograms. So did Argentina, Bolivia, Brazil, Chile, Colombia, Ecuador,
Paraguay, Peru, Uruguay, and Venezuela. From Africa, Australia, Southern
Asia, Oceania, and Central America came expressive words of sorrow.
Special blessings were sent by His Holiness from Vatican City, by the
Patriarch of Istanbul, and by the Archbishop of Canterbury. The
Presidente of the Estados Unidos Mexicanos personally took a plane to
Washington, as did the Governor General of Canada, carrying a personal
message from the Prime Minister. Even the Soviet Union sent a radiogram,
and the story of the tragedy was printed in _Pravda_, accompanied by an
editorial that almost approached straight reporting.
President James Harrington Cannon knew none of this. He was unconscious
and unable to receive visitors.
As far as actual news from the White House was concerned, news
commentator Barton Wayne gave the best summary over a major American TV
network on the morning of the sixth of February:
"Last night, at approximately eleven p.m., James Harrington Cannon,
President of the United States, collapsed at the feet of the Secret
Service men who were guarding him. Within a few minutes, Dr. Frank
Hewlitt Cannon, the President's brother, called by the Secret Service in
obedience to the President's last conscious words, had arrived from
Blair House, where he had been staying.
"Dr. Frank Cannon diagnosed the President's illness as a--quote--slight
stroke--unquote. Later, after the President had been taken to the Naval
Hospital for further diagnosis, Dr. Cannon released a statement.
Quote--further tests have enabled the medical staff of this hospital to
make a more detailed analysis. Apparently, the President has suffered a
slight cerebral hemorrhage which has, temporarily at least, partially
paralyzed the muscles of his left side. The President, however, has
regained consciousness, and his life is in no danger--Unquote.
"After only sixteen days in the White House, the President has fallen
ill. We can only wish him Godspeed and an early recovery."
* * * * *
Dr. Frank Cannon stood firmly by his brother's bedside, shaking his head
firmly. "No, commander; I cannot permit that. I am in charge of this
case, and I shall remain in charge of it until my patient tells me
otherwise."
The graying Navy medical officer pursed his lips. "In cases of this
sort, doctor," he said primly, "the Navy is in charge. The patient is,
after all, the President of the United States."
Dr. Frank went right on shaking his head. "Cuts no ice, commander. I was
specifically summoned by the patient. I agreed to take the case. I will
be most happy to accept your co-operation; I welcome your advice and
aid; but I will _not_ allow my patient to be taken from my charge."
"It is hardly considered proper for the physician in charge of a serious
case to be a relative of the patient."
"Possibly. But it is neither unethical nor illegal." He gave the
commander a dry smile. "I know my brother, commander. Quite well. I also
know that you have the authority and the means to expel me from this
hospital." The smile became positively icy. "And, in view of the former,
I should not advise you to exercise the latter."
The commander wet his lips. "I have no intention of doing so, doctor,"
he said rather huffily. "But, inasmuch as the X rays show no--"
There came a mumble from the man on the bed, and, in that instant, both
men forgot their differences and became physicians again, as they
focused their attention on the patient.
President Cannon was blinking his eyes groggily. Or, rather, _eye_. The
left one refused to do more than show a faint flicker of the lid.
"Hullo, Jamie," Dr. Frank said gently. "How d'you feel?" It took nerves
of steel to show that tender composure. The drug should wear off
quickly, but if Jim Cannon's mind was still fuzzy, and he said the wrong
thing--
For a moment, the President said nothing as he tried to focus his right
eye.
"Don't try to move, Mr. President," said the Navy doctor softly.
President Cannon smiled lopsidedly, the left side of his face refusing
to make the effort. "Arright," he said, in a low, blurred voice. "Wha'
happen', Frang?"
"Apparently," said Dr. Frank carefully, "you've had a little bit of a
stroke, kid. Nothing to worry about. How do you feel?"
"Funny. Li'l dizzy. Don't hurt, though."
"Good. Fine. You'll be O.K. shortly."
The President's voice became stronger. "I'm glad you're here, Frank.
Tell me--is it ... bad?"
"'Tain't good, kid," Dr. Frank said with a bedside grin. "You can't
expect a stroke to put you in the best of health, now, can you?"
The lopsided smile came back. "Guess not." The smile went away, to be
replaced by a puzzled frown. "My whole left side feels dead. What's the
matter?"
Instead of answering, Dr. Frank Cannon turned to the Navy medic. "I'll
let the commander explain that. What's your diagnosis, doctor?"
The commander ran his tongue nervously over his lips before speaking.
"There's apparently a small blood clot in the brain, Mr. President,
interfering with the functioning of the efferent nerves."
"Permanent?"
"We don't know yet, sir. We hope not."
President Cannon sighed. "Well. Thank you, commander. And now, if you
don't mind, I'd like to speak to my brother--alone."
The commander glanced at Dr. Frank, then back at the President.
"Certainly, sir." He turned to leave.
"Just a moment, commander," Dr. Frank said. "There'll be news reporters
out there. Tell them--" He frowned a little. "Tell them that the
President is conscious and quite rational, but that there is still some
weakness. I don't think anything more than that will be necessary."
"I agree. Certainly, doctor." At the door, the commander paused and
said: "I'll keep everyone out until you call."
"Thanks," said Dr. Frank as the door closed behind the Navy man.
As soon as it closed, President Cannon struggled to get up.
"Don't try it, kid," the doctor said, "those muscles are paralyzed, even
if you aren't sick. Here, let me help you."
"How did it come off?" Cannon asked as his brother propped him up.
"Perfectly. No one doubts that it's a stroke. Now what?"
"Give me a cigarette."
"All right, but watch it. Use your right hand, and smoke with the right
side of your mouth. Here." The doctor lit a cigarette and handed it to
his brother. "Now, what's the next step?"
"The next step is to tell Matthew Fisher," said the President.
* * * * *
Dr. Frank Cannon scowled. "Why? Why not just go through with the thing
and let him be fooled along with the rest? It seems to me he'd be ...
well, more secure in his own position if he didn't know."
"No." The President hunched himself up on his pillows. "Can't you raise
the head of this bed?"
Dr. Frank touched a button on the bedside panel, and the upper portion
of the bed rose smoothly at an angle. "Better?"
"Fine. Much better."
"You were saying--"
"Yeah. About Matt Fisher. He has to know. He'll guess eventually, in the
next four years, anyway--unless I hide away somewhere. And I have no
intention of doing that.
"Oh, I'm not trying to show Matt what a great guy I am, Frank. You know
better than that, and so will he. But Matt will have to have all the
facts at hand, if he's to do his job right, and it seems to me that this
is a pretty important fact. What do you say, Frank?"
The doctor nodded slowly. "I think you know more about the situation
than I do. And I trust your judgment, kid. And Matt's, too, I guess."
"No." President Cannon's voice was firm as he looked at his brother
with one bright eye. "Don't trust Matt's judgment, because he doesn't
have any."
Dr. Frank looked astonished. "Then _what_--?" He stopped.
"Matthew Fisher," said President Cannon authoritatively, "doesn't need
judgment any more than _you_ need instinct. No more so, and no less. I
said he doesn't have any judgment, but that's not exactly true. He has
it, but he only uses it for routine work, just as you or I use instinct.
We can override our instinctive reactions when we have to. Matt can
override his judgment when he has to.
"I don't pretend to know how Fisher's mind works. If I did, I wouldn't
be doing this. But I _do_ know that Matt Fisher--by some mental process
I can't even fathom--almost invariably knows the _right_ thing to do,
and he knows it without using judgment."
"And you're still convinced that this is the only way out?" Dr. Frank
asked. "Couldn't you stay in office and let him run things under cover?"
"We discussed all this months ago, Frank," Cannon said wearily. "My
reasons remain the same. Matt couldn't possibly operate efficiently if
he had to go through me every time. And I am human, too; I'd have a
tendency to impose my own judgment on his decisions.
"No, Frank; this is the only way it can work. This country needs Matthew
Fisher as President, but he could never have been elected. Now I've done
my job; now it's time for me to get out of the way and turn the
Presidency over to a man who can handle the office far better than any
other man I know."
"You make him sound like some sort of superman," said Dr. Frank with a
wry grin.
"Hell," said President Cannon, "you don't think I'd turn this job over
to anything less, do you?" He chuckled. "Call him in, will you?"
* * * * *
PRESIDENT CANNON RESIGNS!
Ill Health Given As Reason;
Doctors Say Recovery
Unlikely In Near Future.
VP Fisher To Take Oath Tomorrow.
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from _Analog Science Fact and Science
Fiction_ February 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any
evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without
note.