The Man

Someone was tugging at his shoulder, wrenching at it, and he gave way a little to stop the hurt, twisting his head, and he saw it was the Secret Service agent Otto Beggs. As he tried to speak, he was struck sharply on the jaw. His free hand went to his jaw and came away with a handful of gooey, dripping white and yellow egg and pieces of shell. There had been no physical pain in being struck, only psychic pain, followed by shock and fear.

“Come on, come on, outa here, Mr. President, outa here. Got to get you to where it’s safe!” Beggs was shouting.

They had surrounded him entirely now, his white Praetorians, almost lifting him from his feet as they hustled him across the platform, down the rear steps, and through the heavy lines of gathering police officers and faculty members, into the Main Administration Building behind.

Once, breathless, before being shoved inside, he had turned, wanting to call out something to the misled multitude, to explain why he had a

Presently-he would never know how he had arrived there-he found himself on the tan leather couch in Chancellor McKaye’s high-ceilinged, oak-paneled office. The swift transition from the animal bedlam of the disorder outside to the hushed quiet of the soundproofed office left him limp and dizzy. Familiar persons came and went: Beggs wiping the egg from Dilman’s chin, Chancellor McKaye with his endless apologies, and Admiral Oates with his stethoscope and tranquilizers. After the dour White House physician had barred all visitors but those who were absolutely necessary and then himself had left, Dilman had received Tim Fla

“I’m sorry, I’m damn sorry, Mr. President,” the press secretary said, scratching his head through his rumpled red hair. “That was unexpected. Even the reporters were thrown.”

“What are they saying?” Dilman wanted to know.

“Most of them think it was pla

Dilman thought about this. “No, I don’t think so,” he said at last. “I don’t think one organization would be big enough. I think-I believe all of us misjudged Negro sentiment here and around the country. I can see it now, after the fact. Because the Crispus Society, the NAACP, the Urban League were still for going slowly, for the minorities bill, outspoken against the activist outfits like the Turnerites, we thought that was the heavy majority of Negro opinion. We’re wrong, Tim. I think those young Negro boys have had it. They may not be Turnerites, but they’re sympathetic, they want action. Gradualism is out. They’re rebelling against their fathers, who accommodated themselves to the segregation system. The young are disenchanted by the recent past. Their fathers failed. Hurley and his leaders represented a new look in paternal authority. And now, without thinking it out, they expected the first Negro in the Presidency to see things their way. And I refused. I went along with their fathers and the white men who fenced them in. I used a legal instrument to cut off their momentum and make their goal harder to reach. They weren’t positive I’d do it, but they suspected I would, and they came here prepared for it, with their signs and slogans, waiting. That’s the sum of it, I’d guess, the gospel truth.”

“Do you want to say anything like that to the press?” Fla

“Now? Lord, no. Now’s no time for reason and psychological explanations. Let this break up, and die down. Maybe we can issue something later.”

“Well, I’ll keep the correspondents away from you,” Fla

“Good luck to Reb Blaser,” Dilman said with a grimace.

Fla

“I think you’ll find you’re wrong,” said Dilman. “They’ll look on the minorities bill as a white man’s bill. They’ll look on that as a forgiveness bribe, after today’s a

“Maybe,” said Fla

“I hope maybe, Tim,” said Dilman. “When are we supposed to leave here?”

“After the Chancellor’s luncheon and-”

“Cancel it,” said Dilman. “McKaye’ll understand.”

“Done,” said Fla

“Yes. Is he safe? Will you find out about him? Give me a little while alone here to get my bearings, and then send him along.”

“Okay.”

“Tim, I could stand a drink, nothing too potent. Maybe a small brandy or some wine-”

Dilman had been alone ten minutes when Beggs opened the door to admit his press secretary once more. Fla

“The Dean of the Law School provided this,” he said. “Sherry. Will that do?”

“It’ll do fine.”

“The mob is gradually dispersing,” Fla

“Any serious injuries?”

“A few bloody noses, one fractured wrist, that’s all. By the way, someone located Julian. He’s in his dorm room with his friends. He’s shaken up a bit, naturally, but he’s okay.”

“I’ll be ready for him in-in fifteen minutes.”

Alone once more, Dilman unwrapped a cigar, readied it, but was too distracted to light it. He put it down in the tray, reached for the decanter with his trembling hand, then realized that Fla

He reconsidered what he had done today. He had urged his people, already so grievously hurt, to uphold white men’s laws. He had alienated his Negro support. But conversely, had he gained white support, restored the majority of the people’s confidence in him? He was doubtful of this. The white electorate probably felt that he was carrying out, with reluctance, what T. C.’s advisers insisted he carry out. He had lost much, won little.

Yet these mathematics were not what concerned and bothered him. If he had felt positively in the right, nothing on earth would have disturbed him. What bothered him, as it had from the begi

He had finished his sherry, and then realized with a start that not fifteen minutes but twice that time had gone by. He jumped up, went to the door, and opened it. Beggs, who was planted outside, quickly turned.