There was a long table down the center of a long narrow room. The
woodwork was white and the walls papered a dark green, with
walnut-framed pictures here and there of the kind of men you see in
albums of Civil War vintage.
But the men around the table were as modern as a jet bomber. There
were five of them, three of whom I recognized on sight: Army Chief of
Staff General Lucius Ohlmsted, Secretary of War Franklin McClave, and,
seated at the far end of the table and looking even younger than his
forty-nine years, the President of the United States.
The remaining two were just a couple of men to me: dark business
suits, clean collars, manicured fingernails and the type of faces you
see twenty of on any city block.
* * * * *
I walked on down the room, feeling as conspicuous as a cheer leader at
a wake, while five pairs of eyes sorted me over molecule by molecule.
When I reached the near end of the table, I stopped, resisted an
impulse to salute, and stood there at attention.
The President managed to keep from smiling, although you could see he
wasn't far from it. "Thanks for coming here so promptly, Mr. Quinlan.
I'd like you to meet my associates."
He reeled off names and titles. The two strangers were a Mr. Proudfit
and a Mr. Kramer, occupations not disclosed. Kramer was small and
ageless, with a weather-beaten face and a mouth like a steel trap;
while Mr. Proudfit had the look of a benign monk, until you saw the
tempered steel glint in his piercing eyes.
When introductions were completed, I said, "How do you do?" once,
including them all, and went on waiting. Nobody suggested I sit down,
probably because there were only five chairs around the table to begin
with and the room's two couches were too far away to keep me in the
group. The President gave me the same winning smile that had pulled a
couple million extra votes his way in the last election, and said,
"Let me start off, Mr. Quinlan, by telling you that we've got a
problem on our hands--one that may very well involve the peace and
well-being of the entire country. The details are going to strain your
credulity beyond human limits, I'm afraid--just as they have ours. But
there is enough supporting evidence to what we've heard for us to do
something about it. And that's where you come in."
He paused, evidently waiting for a response from me. There was only
one response I could make--even though I hadn't the slightest idea
what he was talking about. "I'm at your service, Mr. President."
His smile was a medal for my chest. "Thank you. At this point I'd
better let Mr. Kramer take over."
Kramer leaned back in his chair, placed the tips of his fingers
together and stared searchingly at me over them. His voice, when he
spoke, was as dry as his skin. "Mr.--ah--Quinlan, I understand you
were born thirty-one years ago on a Potawatomi Indian reservation in
the state of Michigan."