The Man

He folded the sheet of paper, handed it to Fla

About to leave, he saw a hand shoot up. He hesitated. It was the respected and moderate correspondent of the United Press International. “Mr. President-please-your quarantine on all questions, the last week or two, has made our task difficult, if not impossible. In a crisis, the American public deserves at least-”

Fla

Dilman took his press secretary’s arm. “Never mind, Tim.” He nodded to the United Press International correspondent. “All right, your question, and four more, and that is it. If I have further news, you shall be informed of it promptly. The question?”

“According to Reuters, this morning, an informant in the British Embassy in Moscow has stated that Soviet Marshal Vladimir Borov was flown to Baraza last night to take charge. Can you confirm or deny this, sir?”

Dilman said, “It is possible, but speculative. I have received no official word to that effect.”

The New York Times correspondent asked, “Are the United States battalions being kept in their landing areas in Africa, or are they being transported inland to more strategic positions?”

“They are on the move to the frontier. If the Communists strike, we want to be in control of as much ground as possible.”

“Mr. President.” It was the Chicago Tribune correspondent speaking. “Is there any definite information on exactly when you expect the Communist rebels to invade?”

“There is no way of knowing for certain. Intelligence believes the Soviet timetable is set for late today or early tomorrow morning.”

The Associated Press correspondent asked, “If an actual clash takes place, and the Russian Premier then suggests a compromise over Baraza, have you considered any alternative or revised policy in regard to our position in Baraza and toward the Pact countries?”

“As long as I am President, there will be no compromise when it concerns defending democracy anywhere.”

“Mr. President,” a rasping voice called out. It was Reb Blaser, of the Miller newspapers. All eyes were upon him as he pushed forward, and Dilman waited, regarding him with distaste. “Mr. President,” said Blaser, “of course, the Senate will have something to say about what you have just a

“Mr. Blaser,” said Dilman, “the main forces in my command are committed to defending democracy in Baraza, not in the United States Senate. I am here to discuss foreign affairs. Perhaps you might better ask your question of former Secretary of State Eaton, who seems to have become an expert on domestic affairs.” For the first time, there was laughter, and then Dilman added, “If you’ve ever gone to a prize-fight, you will know that the judges’ ballots are not counted before the first bell, but after the last bell-”

“Except when there’s a knockout!” Blaser shouted.

Dilman ignored him. “That is all, gentlemen.”

The United Press International correspondent intoned, “Thank you, Mr. President.”

Briskly, Dilman left the Cabinet Room, parted with Fla

He switched on the television set and dropped into his swivel chair, exhausted.

When the picture came on the screen, it showed Nat Abrahams, in the latter part of his summation of the defense case, earnestly addressing the senators.

“-absurd even to consider that the President violated the Constitution, disregarded the law, displayed contempt for your noble body, by his necessary removal of Secretary of State Eaton,” Abrahams was saying. “Learned senators and judges, as we have attempted to show the other three articles to be a maliciously woven fabric of falsehoods, let me now remind you that the more serious charges embodied in Article IV represent the autocratic, intemperate vengefulness of a small group of legislators. Let me hark back to 1868, when another President’s entire impeachment revolved around his right to override the Tenure of Office Act, ancestor of the New Succession Bill, which President Dilman challenged. Chief Justice Chase, who sat on the bench then, where Chief Justice Johnstone sits now, made the following sage remark, as applicable and important in these troubled times as it was in that day: ‘Acts of Congress,’ he warned, ‘not warranted by the Constitution, are not laws. In case a law believed by the President to be unwarranted by the Constitution is passed, notwithstanding his veto, it seems to me that it is his duty to execute it precisely as if he had held it to be constitutional, except in the case where it directly attacks and impairs the executive power confided to him by the instrument. In that case, it appears to me to be the clear duty of the President to disregard the law, so far at least as it may be necessary to bring the question of its constitutionality before the judiciary tribunals.’

“So spoke a Chief Justice, in the only other impeachment of an American President in our history. So speak I, on behalf of our President today. The issue is simple. President Dilman assumed office swearing to preserve, protect, defend the Constitution. How could he do so, how could he carry out his duties, if another branch of government, by means of a doubtful law, and from motivations not necessary to repeat, stripped him of his power to thus preserve, protect, defend? If the President has no longer the power to remove an adviser who is acting as President behind his back, an adviser ready to sell out democracy in Africa to the Soviet Union while the lawful President himself, determined to save that democracy, is rendered helpless, where, then, is left the executive branch, and where, then, is left the Constitution itself? Learned senators-”

The telephone behind him buzzed, and Dilman sat up, lowered the volume of the television set, and spun around to the console.

“Yes?”

The voice was Miss Foster’s. “Mr. President, I’m sorry, but there’s a new policeman at the north gate who insists on speaking to you directly. He says there is someone at the gate who claims to be a relative of yours and wants to see you. He wouldn’t tell me more.”

“A relative?”

“I told him you couldn’t be-”

“One moment, Miss Foster.” On impulse, he said, “Co

He waited, wondering.

A troubled male voice came on. “Mr. President-”

“Yes-yes-”

“I know I’m not supposed to disturb you, but the person insisted I contact you directly. I know there are crackpots and impostors every day, at least a half dozen daily coming around like this, but this one, she showed me an old beat-up snapshot of you, a photograph from her purse, signed by you, and she-”

“She?” said Dilman slowly.

“A young lady, Mr. President. She claims to be your daughter. I wouldn’t give her the time of day, you understand, because-how should I put it?-she looks white to me-but the newspapers did say you-you have a daughter like that-still, the identification cards in her wallet say her name is Dawson, Linda Dawson, which doesn’t make sense, except she says you might recognize that name even though it’s not her real name, but I thought I ought to-”

“What does she give for her real name?”

“She says her name is Mindy-yes, that’s right-Mindy Dilman, like it’s supposed to be, and she says for me to tell the President she’s better now, and she’s been away too long-”

For the first time in weeks, Dilman felt a real smile ease the muscles of his face.