A Shade of Difference (89 page)

Catching a glimpse of the M’Bulu’s face, which despite his efforts, did not altogether conceal the somber trend of his thoughts, the Majority Leader wondered briefly whether things were really as bad in Molobangwe as the expression might indicate, or whether it was some other facet of his many enterprises that had Terrible Terry worried. Bob Munson still was intrigued by their chat at the Press Club and had passed it along to Orrin Knox a while ago when he had wandered back to the sofa where the Secretary was watching the proceedings. Orrin had nodded.

“We don’t know exactly what happened, but apparently it was indicative of something more serious than just the usual unrest over there.”

“But you’re still going to vote in the UN to give Gorotoland immediate independence,” the Majority Leader had said with an ironic shake of the head. The Secretary had looked thoughtful and refrained from direct answer.

“It’s a matter of balancing. Whether it’s worth more to take the risk of offending the Afro-Asian states by assuring British control for a while longer or gamble on winning the friendship of the Afro-Asian states by helping to speed the British departure—”

“—and run the risk of Communist control of Gorotoland,” Bob Munson said. Orrin Knox nodded.

“That’s the sort of gamble the United States faces, these days.”

“Don’t overdo that balancing act,” Senator Munson said. “We might all fall off the tightrope with a bang, someday.”

“If we fall, I think it’s quite likely to be with a bang,” Orrin agreed with some grimness. “The condition of the world has made that almost a certainty.”

But this comment, which had reawakened some of the gloom about world affairs that often seemed to fill his thoughts nowadays, was not enough to deflect the Majority Leader for long from his immediate task this night. He still had to see Seab safely through his filibuster to his inevitable defeat and, at the same time, make sure that the Senate completed all of its last-minute business so that it could adjourn as soon as it voted on the Hamilton Resolution.

The first part of this two-part project—to see Seab safely through—seemed to be coming along well so far, although Senator Munson was conscious of the fact that Senator Van Ackerman was staying close by and gave no signs of abandoning his earlier intention to harass Senator Cooley all he could. Fortunately there had been little opportunity so far—Fred had refrained from the obvious gambit of trying to debate with Seab, probably because he knew he would be chopped down if he did—but the time was coming when there would be opportunity, and the Majority Leader felt its approach with some uneasiness. He had agreed with Seab in a whispered conversation a couple of hours ago that when the old man grew tired and wanted a rest, he would yield to the Majority Leader, who in turn would yield to other Senators who wished to put their last items in the Congressional Record, make their last little speeches on matters of interest to the folks back home, and otherwise conclude the business of the session. Bob would then yield the floor back to Seab, who could proceed uninterrupted until such time as he decided to, or was forced by exhaustion to, conclude.

The only hitch in this was that Seab would need unanimous consent to yield to him, and he in turn would need unanimous consent to yield to someone else. All that was necessary to stop this was one objection, and the Majority Leader knew where it would come from.

It was becoming apparent, however, that the President Pro Tempore would soon need the respite. It was clear to everyone that he was beginning to feel the strain, even though there were still moments when his voice soared with something of its old power and when his sallies were as sharp and pointed as ever. The slow rate of speech with which he had started in order to pace himself was now even slower; his posture, determinedly erect and challenging to begin with, had gradually relaxed into a more and more stooped and sagging position. There were moments, now, when he leaned forward with both hands gripping his desk, a gesture which he attempted to associate with some particularly emphatic statement in his speech but which fooled no one.

“I think the old buffoon’s beginning to rest,” the
Reporter
murmured above in the thinned-out ranks of the Press Gallery, and the
Chattanooga
Times
nodded.

“You don’t speak for four hours straight at seventy-six without needing a little relief. I doubt if he can keep going much longer.”

“Not without help,” the
Reporter
agreed, and chuckled. “Maybe Fred Van Ackerman will help him.”

To all those watching, the late-stayers in the galleries, the late-stayers in the press, the thirty or so Senators who remained on the floor while their colleagues napped or gossiped in the cloakrooms or had an occasional quick one in the Majority Leader’s office, as was the traditional adjournment-night custom, Fred Van Ackerman was rapidly becoming the center of speculation as midnight came and went. If Fred was going to make any move at all, everyone agreed, it would probably be soon. Given Seab’s obviously increasing tiredness, even his bitterest critics were not too anxious to see Fred go into action. There was a consequent feeling of relief, that perhaps it could all be worked out smoothly, when the Majority Leader rose in one of the President Pro Tempore’s increasingly prolonged—and by now almost painful—pauses, and said quietly, “Mr. President, will the Senator yield to me?”

“For what purpose, Mr. President?” Senator Cooley inquired with a show of caution. “Is it a question, or—”

“I wondered, Mr. President, if the Senator would yield to me, without losing the floor, so that I might take care of a few last-minute housekeeping details that have to be completed in preparation for adjournment?”

“If the Senator will be brief,” Senator Cooley said, “and in the understanding that I will not lose the floor.”

“Very well, Mr. President,” Senator Munson said. “Now, Mr. President—” he began in a matter-of-fact tone, but of course it didn’t work.

“Wait a minute, Mr. President!” Fred Van Ackerman cried, suddenly leaping up from the book he had been reading with an ostentatious show of attention for the past two hours. “Wait a minute. Suppose the Majority Leader makes his request in proper form, Mr. President.”

“Mr. President,” Bob Munson said, “I ask unanimous consent that the Senator from South Carolina be permitted to yield to me without losing the floor.”

“I object,” said Fred Van Ackerman.

“Objection is heard,” said Victor Ennis of California, in the Chair.

“Mr. President,” the Majority Leader said, “I wonder if the Senator from Wyoming has any conception of what he is doing here in this objection which I can only regard as dilatory, frivolous, and hostile to the efficient completion of the Senate’s business on this adjournment night? This is not the act of one who wishes Senators to be able to complete their tasks and go home, Mr. President. It is the act of one who for some purpose of his own seeks deliberate delay. I wonder if the Senator would enlighten us as to what his purpose is?”

“I
am deliberately delaying?” Fred Van Ackerman demanded in an exasperation almost ludicrous, as Senator Cooley sat slowly down with a watchful expression that did not quite conceal his physical relief. “I am keeping Senators from completing their tasks and going home, as the Majority Leader so pathetically describes? What is the Senator from South Carolina doing, Mr. President? I will tell the Majority Leader what my purpose is. The Senator from South Carolina wants to speak, Mr. President. I am helping him do it. I object to that unanimous consent request, Mr. President.”

“The Senator has registered his objection once,” Victor Ennis said. “That is enough.”

“I do not want to have to make a motion that the Senator from South Carolina be permitted to yield to me without losing the floor, Mr. President,” Bob Munson said, “but of course I can do it by motion.”

“Go ahead,” Fred Van Ackerman said indifferently. “The Senator doesn’t have the votes. In fact,” he said, looking scornfully around the floor, “he doesn’t even have a quorum.”

“Quorums can be gotten.”

“Get one,” Fred Van Ackerman offered. “It won’t help any. Incidentally,” he added sharply, “I believe it is against the rules for the Senator from South Carolina to sit down, Mr. President, as long as he has the floor. Is he giving up the floor, Mr. President?”

“The Senator is correct,” Victor Ennis said reluctantly, as Senator Cooley got to his feet with an attempt at haste that looked somehow ungainly and awkward. “The Senator from South Carolina will remain standing as long as he retains the floor.”

“And the Senator shouldn’t lean against his desk, either, Mr. President,” Fred Van Ackerman said. “That’s the same as sitting.”

“I ask unanimous consent, Mr. President,” Lafe Smith said, jumping up, “that the Senator from South Carolina be permitted to lean against his desk when he so desires without losing the floor.”

“I object,” said Fred Van Ackerman.

“Mr. President—” Lafe began angrily, but Seab Cooley stopped him with a slow gesture of the hand.

“Mr. President,” he said, fighting against the weariness that was now almost uncontrollable in his voice, “I thank my good friend from Iowa for his kind efforts in my behalf, but obviously they are no use at this particular moment. Possibly I can yield to other Senators if they wish to insert material in the Record—”

“Not by unanimous consent, Mr. President, and not while leaning against his desk,” Senator Van Ackerman said with an emphatic relish. “The rules of the Senate are very important, as the Majority Leader has told me sometimes in his little lectures, and I think all of us should observe them. I intend to.”

“Mr. President—” Lafe began again, but again Seab silenced him.

“No matter. No matter, I say to the Senator. I shall do what I can to accommodate other Senators, and if I am blocked the burden will be upon the junior Senator from Wyoming. We shall just have to see how it goes. Now, where was I, Mr. President—” And he looked slowly through the books and papers, now strewn across both his desk and that of Stanley Danta beside it, in a peering, nearsighted way that was more than a little pathetic. “I believe I was telling the Senate about the situation in the early years of this century, when the condition of the colored people in my state was—”

And in a plodding, still-slower fashion that made his old friends and colleagues wince as many of them drifted back to the floor, drawn by news of the developing situation, he resumed the thread of his discourse, stumbling often, now; pausing uncertainly from time to time, his figure looking even more crumpled and bent; beginning to wander a bit in what he was saying, the uses of deliberate delay long gone in the crushing realities of a growing, grinding, genuine exhaustion.

In this fashion 12:30 came, 1 a.m., 1:30, 2 a.m. Above in the galleries, refilling now as the news went out on late radio and TV programs that a good show was going on in the Senate, there was a growing excitement and gossip, and on the floor, where most of the Senators had now returned, there was a growing tension and dismay as men who had often opposed the President Pro Tempore but never really wished him ill watched the spectacle of his slow disintegration, like a great tree coming down at last after so many decades of standing fierce and straight above them all. Several attempted to interrupt and aid him by asking prolonged questions, but his answers were rambling and disconnected. Finally, impatiently, he made a gesture that he wanted no more interruptions, however kindly meant. Reluctantly they respected this; and the tree continued to fall.

“I wish he would STOP,” Patsy Labaiya whispered furiously to Dolly Munson shortly after 2 a.m. as Seab’s voice, husky and halting, sank finally to an almost inaudible mumble. “He’s seventy-six and he OUGHT TO KNOW BETTER.”

“He doesn’t know how to quit,” Dolly said unhappily. “It’s an honorable trait.”

“But not NOW. Lord knows I think the old fool is utterly wrong on this, but I’m NOT vindictive. I think he should STOP.”

“I don’t think he’ll stop until the Lord tells him to,” Beth Knox said.

“I don’t want the Lord to tell him in front of ME,” Patsy said.

“Neither do I,” Beth said, “but if we want to stay, we’ve got to realize it may happen.”

To her husband, still sitting on the sofa beside Cullee Hamilton, against the Senate wall, the same thought came with a renewed insistence a few moments later when his companion finally stirred uneasily and came out of the dark region of thought where he had seemed to be most of the evening.

“I wish he’d stop,” Cullee said in a voice at once annoyed and concerned. “I never wanted him to kill himself. Can’t we stop him?”

“I don’t know how,” Orrin said with an equal worry, “unless he gets so tired he’s just got to stop. And I imagine that will be a while, yet.”

“But he can hardly talk now,” Cullee protested. “I wish he’d
stop.”

“I wonder—” the Secretary said. “I wonder if he’d believe it if I got a message for him from the President. Hold my seat,” he directed, as though anyone would dream of taking it. “I’ll go call him and see what I can do.”

“He must be asleep by this time,” Cullee said, but Orrin shook his head.

“I think he’s probably waiting for something like this. I’ll be back in a minute.”

There was by now, all through the body and heart and mind of the senior Senator from South Carolina, a bone-weariness so great that he literally did not know whether he could put one word after another to form consecutive sentences; and indeed, though he was too tired to realize it, there were increasing moments when he could not, when he would pause and grope for a thought and sometimes conclude with one considerably different from the one with which he had begun. His voice was now down to almost a whisper (“I can’t hear what he’s saying,” the
Dallas
News
complained at one point in the Press Gallery. “Be thankful for small favors,” the
Washington
Post
told him cheerfully), his eyes were smarting and burning, and a terrible weight seemed to be dragging on his arms and legs. His hands were trembling almost out of control and occasionally they would stray, apparently of their own volition, to the desk-top to give him a quickly furtive bracing—Senator Van Ackerman had been forced to call the Chair’s attention to this five times in the past hour. In addition to everything else, he felt a terrible urge to urinate, which he was not certain he could control much longer. The room was beginning to disintegrate before his eyes, a grayness was creeping over everything; it seemed almost as though he were retreating into some private world a long way from the Senate. Only the instincts and habits of five decades kept him standing, kept him fumbling slowly, ever so slowly, through his papers, kept him talking on slowly, ever so slowly, in his steadily fading whisper. At 2:57 a.m. he made some almost incoherent reference to
“Journal …
yesterday,” and the Majority Leader, feeling close to exhaustion himself from the strain of it all, promptly arose and asked unanimous consent that the Clerk be permitted to read the
Journal
of yesterday’s proceedings without the Senator from South Carolina losing the floor.