A Shade of Difference (3 page)

Recalling that conversation, and recalling Brig, the Secretary of State was aware for a second that the bright autumn day beyond the glass which at almost every turning commingled the United Nations with all outdoors had become shadowed over. With an effort he shook off the profound depression that sometimes came over him when he thought of that shocking suicide, so necessary in some ways yet so unnecessary in others, and told himself that he must not think of things that would weaken or distract him now that he was about to enter First Committee and try to walk the delicate tightrope between loyalty to the British ally beside him and the savage onslaught he knew was coming from the Soviet Ambassador as he heaped ridicule and scorn upon the plan for gradual emancipation of Terrible Terry’s Gorotoland. The M’Bulu—that clever, willful, deviously determined young man. What game was he playing, and where did it fit on the chessboard of Soviet-American relations? There was a place for it, he was quite sure, but whether it would be on his side of the board or Vasily Tashikov’s, he did not know.

But he was sure the M’Bulu knew, and he contemplated for a rueful moment the perils that can sometimes arise from an education at Oxford, the London School of Economics, and Harvard University, fused into one shrewd brain and fired with a fierce ambition.

After their luncheon on the plane, he remembered as he paused in the long, red-carpeted corridor to greet the delegate from Cameroun, two ladies from Nicaragua, and the Ceylonese who was executive director of the Economic and Social Council, a certain practical animation had come upon the Geneva-bound party. With the meal they had put past things away and begun to think seriously about what lay ahead. Harley—even now, six months after his accession, Orrin still referred to the President by his given name in his thoughts and sometimes, embarrassingly, in face-to-face conversation—had moved, with the same surprising sure-footedness that had characterized all his actions in the first hectic week of his Administration, to put the problem in the perspective he deemed best for the country.

“Orrin will probably tell me I’m all wet,” he had begun with a little smile at the Secretary, “but I think the best thing for us to do is keep calm and follow my lead.” He looked at the glistening waters far below, beginning to turn silvery in the flat rays of the afternoon sun as the day declined and night raced toward them out of Europe. “I do have one, you know,” he added in a tone that chided them with a little humorous mildness for thinking he might not. “Even though I think maybe I’ll just keep it to myself for a while.”

“But, Mr. President—” Orrin had begun with some impatience.

“Even though we too have now landed an expedition successfully on the moon,” the President continued calmly, “in the eyes of the world we go to Geneva, to some degree, under Soviet threat. They demanded that we go, and the Presi—my predecessor—had already accepted before our own expedition landed. So when I followed through on his acceptance, it appeared that we were yielding to threat and were afraid to stay away. You understand, of course,” he added quietly, so that if they did not understand it, there would be no doubt, “that we were not. I was not. I thought it best to go letting them think that. I think it is still best to let them think that.”

“I don’t quite see—” Bob Munson began in a puzzled tone.

“Surprise has its advantages,” the President said. “One lesson I learned from
him,”
he commented with a sudden chuckle, and for a moment they could see the predecessor he referred to, so strong, so dominant, so determined, so devoted to the country, and so full of tricks. “Would he ever be surprised to see me now!”

“He’s not the only one,” Tom August blurted out, and then corrected himself hastily. “That is, Mr. President—I mean—” But the President led their laughter, and after a moment the Senator from Minnesota stopped blushing and joined in, timidly at first, but with a growing assurance.

“We don’t sound at all like a group of men on their way to surrender their country,” Senator Strickland observed with satisfaction, and the President smiled.

“No more are we; though, as I say, I think it’s just as well they continue to think there’s at least an outside chance. They’re awfully cocky after that broadcast from the moon and that big stout ultimatum to get to Geneva. And here we are, of course, getting to Geneva. So let them dream. I have an idea or two about it.”

“My only worry, Mr. President,” Bob Munson said, “is whether we should have let them think, even for a minute, that we were giving in. I rather wondered, in fact, why you didn’t tell them to go to hell the minute you took over.”

“I believe in giving his head to an opponent who’s riding for a fall,” the President said. “It makes the tumble that much more emphatic. Don’t worry, Bob. We’ll work it out.”

“I certainly hope so,” Orrin Knox said; and after a moment, explosively, “by God, we’d better!”

And thinking now of the reactions all around the world to that lonely flight across to Geneva, scene of so many blasted hopes and dead ideals, he was aware that he had not been the only one so desperately concerned. Not since Munich had the world waited in quite such fearful expectancy for an international event, and on the short-wave radio as they rode along they could hear the tongues of the nations raised in varying degrees of near-hysteria to chronicle their journey. When they touched down briefly at Shannon, a silent throng had crowded to the gates and along the edges of the field, never stirring, never speaking, as they stepped out to take the air and look about them. Then as they lifted off a great cheer had arisen, touching them deeply. Back in their seats they found that newspapers had been put aboard, and the crisis was made even more emphatic and insistent for them. “WORLD ON BRINK OF DISASTER,” the London
Daily Mail
exclaimed. “WILL U.S.
CAPITULATE?” the
News-Chronicle
wanted to know. “GRAVE CONCERN,” the London
Times
admitted; “P.M. TO ADDRESS HOUSE.” “WAR?” demanded the
Express.
And from their own country, flown up from Paris in the day’s overseas editions, the
New York
Times
carried an eight-column, three-line banner which began “WORLD AWAITS FATEFUL CONFERENCE,” while the
New York
Herald Tribune
warned that “HUMANITY MAY FACE EXTINCTION IF PARLEY FAILS.”

But here was humanity six months later still alive and kicking, and as he and the British Ambassador emerged from the elevator on the lower level and started over the tan and orange Ecuadorian carpets toward the group of delegates, guards, and press standing about the entrance to Conference Room 4, the Secretary of State thought with an ironic conviction that it would probably be a while yet before that condition changed. Whether Geneva had made it less likely or more so that ultimate catastrophe would overtake the world, no one could say with certainty at the moment; but that it had been absolutely imperative for the United States that the conference conclude as it did, there was not now, nor had there been then, the slightest doubt of this, as they became airborne again and turned south for the Continent, they were instinctively aware, although they did not know at the moment just how the President intended to achieve it. He remained bafflingly exclusive about his thoughts, so much so that there were moments when his Senate colleagues came close to dressing him down as though he were still the kindly, rather bumbling, rather timorous, and uncertain Vice President they had known for the past seven years. Senator Munson, indeed, had at one moment started to exclaim, “For God’s sake, Harley!” but had thought better of it and ended in a muffled expletive which did not, however, conceal his definite opinions on the subject. This amused the President.

“Now, Bob,” he said, “and all of you: take it easy. I’m worried about this—” his eyes darkened and a sudden look of disturbing sadness touched his face for a moment—“but suppose I were to show any outward signs of it, or even let myself really feel it inside? Why, you’d be scared to death. I remember how it is, it’s only been a week since I was on the other side of it. There comes a moment sooner or later in any real crisis when the most important thing in the world is to help the man in the White House stay on an even keel, because if he starts to crack, then everything starts to crack. You don’t
want
me to show concern, really; the most absolutely necessary thing in the world for the United States right now is that I
not
show concern. So don’t push me into showing it, because if you force me to show it I may begin to feel it and then nobody could tell what might happen.” He looked at them one by one, an expression of absolute trust and candor that they found very touching. “Now, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, Harley,” Bob Munson said after a moment, “that’s right … okay, I won’t press. But I do think we should have a little more coordinated planning for what we’re going to do. Don’t you, Orrin?” An amused glint came into his eyes. “After all, you’re always so busy about things, and you are Secretary of State. I’m surprised you’re not raising hell on the subject.”

“Well,” Orrin said with an answering smile, “I do assume that at some point along the way the President is going to take the Secretary of State into his confidence—and all of us, in fact. But you know Harley. He has a fearful ego underneath it all.”

“Oh, sure,” the President said. “Oh, sure, sure. I really think you boys ought to give Orrin a medal. He’s really showing great restraint for a man who thinks he ought to be where I am. And may well be, one of these days.”

At this reference to his long-standing ambitions for the White House, which had been more customary from the late Chief Executive than Orrin expected them to be from his successor, the Secretary of State gave a rather rueful smile and shook his head.

“No, I’ve learned my lesson. I tried—and tried—and it didn’t work out—and then suddenly you appointed me and said you wouldn’t run to succeed yourself next year—and now it does seem a possibility again—but I’ve stopped worrying about it. You can only take so much of this he’s down, he’s up, he’s down, he’s up business, you know. If it happens, it happens. If it doesn’t, well, I can always go back to law, I suppose.”

“You’ve turned Knox into a philosopher,” Senator Munson said. “None of us thought it could be done.”

“If I know Orrin,” the President said, “this reformation will last until the next time he gets up a head of steam about something. Then watch out!”

“Right now,” the Secretary said, “I’m generating a head of steam about the Russians. You may have to hold me down in Geneva, Harl—Mr. President. I suppose it would be quite possible to say something there that would blow up the world.”

“Oh, dear,” Tom August said. “I hope not.”

“It would,” the President said quietly. “And of course you’re just joking now, Orrin. You wouldn’t say anything irresponsible.”

“No. But it is hard to avoid a little irritation now and then.”

“There’s the understatement of the week,” Warren Strickland remarked.

“We’re on the moon, too,” the President pointed out. “Our cards are just as good as theirs, when all is said and done, even though they’ve succeeded in stampeding a lot of the rest of the world into thinking they’re miraculously ten thousand miles ahead.”

“The crowd at Shannon didn’t seem to think so,” Senator Strickland said, and the President nodded.

“An enormous goodwill goes with us. Apparently they feel we mean well.”

“Oh, yes,” Orrin Knox said, “they always feel we mean well. They can kick us around six and nine-tenths days of the week, but now and again, on the remaining one-tenth of the seventh day, they will sometimes reluctantly admit that we mean well.”

The President shrugged.

“Well. That in itself is something.…” He looked below, where the darkness held England, and suddenly leaned forward. “Now, what’s that?”

“It looks to me,” Bob Munson said as they all peered out, “like bonfires. You don’t suppose,” he said half humorously, “they’re for us, do you?”

“I’ll have the radioman check,” the President said, reached for the intercom, and gave the order. In a moment the copilot appeared in the doorway.

“It is for us, sir! We just checked the Air Ministry and the government has suggested that all along the route the people light fires for us. The Ministry says they’re doing it in France, too. We’re going to be lighted all the way in.”

“Well, what do you know,” the President said softly. “So we come to Geneva on a path of light … Tell the pilot to turn on the landing lights and keep sweeping them down to the ground and up again at one-minute intervals from now on. That way they’ll know that we know and that we appreciate it.”

And so they had proceeded, the little beacons flaring out of the darkness far below, the lights of the plane gravely responding as it sped on south over England, the Channel, and France: an exchange of messages, profoundly moving, which emphasized the fearful loneliness of their journey yet gave them much heartening for it.

It would be a long time if ever, he realized as he and Claude Maudulayne entered First Committee and began to move toward their neighboring seats at the left of the inner horseshoe of blue-leather chairs, before any of them would forget the highway of light they had traveled down in the closing moments of their flight. At last the President had broken the silence. “I am always impressed with the enormous kindness of ordinary people. If I have that to support me, I can take my chances with the rest.”

The feeling had been heightened when they landed at Cointrin Airport and, transferring to limousines provided by UN headquarters in Geneva, rode into the city along Route de Meyrin and Rue de la Servette. The citizenry was out in force. American flags showed everywhere, people stood eight and ten deep along the way, and the cheers that began for them at the airport swelled steadily as they drove along. Here, too, was the emphasis on light, springing from some atavistic instinct in the human race, going back so far into ancient night that the mind could not follow even if the mind dared. Torches and flares danced everywhere, and as they turned into Rue de Lausanne and proceeded slowly past the League of Nations building along Lake Geneva to the villa hastily procured for them by the UN, a solid wall of flame kept them company on the left and threw the giant shadows of their progress out across the night-dark water.