The Manchurian Candidate

In July, 1956, at about nine-twenty on a hot night for most New Yorkers, Raymond was reasonably cool as he sat before his opened French windows just inside the small balcony that was cleared by a strong breeze which had bowled down the Hudson River Valley. He was reading Le Compte and Sundeen’s Unified French Course, because he had decided he would like to work directly from the notes of Brillat-Savarin and Escoffier during his recreational cooking periods, a new interest that had come to him since the many pleasant evenings when he had assisted so many expert young women in making so many different kinds of spaghetti sauce.

The telephone, on the desk beside his chair, rang. He picked it up.

“Raymond Shaw, please.” It was a pleasant male voice with an indefinite accent.

“This is he.”

“Why don’t you pass the time by playing a little solitaire?”

“Yes, sir.” Raymond disco

“Raymond?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Can you see the red queen?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you carry an accident insurance policy?”

“No, sir.”

“Then tomorrow you will apply through the insurance department of your newspaper. Take all the standard benefits on a replacement income of two hundred dollars per week for total disability for as long as you have to be away from your job. Also take hospital insurance.”

“The paper carries that for me, sir.”

“Good. One week from next Saturday, on the fourteenth of July, you will report at eleven-ten A.M. to the Timothy Swardon Sanitarium at 84 East Sixty-first Street. We want you here for a check-up. Is it clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good. Good night, Raymond.”

“Good night, sir.” The co

Senator Iselin’s office forwarded a personal letter addressed to Raymond, care of the senator, to the newspaper office in New York. It was postmarked Wainwright, Alaska. Raymond opened it warily and read:

Dear Sarge:

I had to say this or write this to somebody because I think I am going nuts. I mean, I have to say it or write it to somebody who knows what I’m talking about not just anybody and you was my best friend in the army so here goes. Sarge I am in trouble. I’m afraid to go to sleep because I have terrible dreams. I don’t know about you but with me dreams sometimes have sounds and colors and these dreams have a way everything gets all speeded up and it can scare you. I guess you must be wondering about me going chicken like this. The dream keeps coming back to me every time I try to get to sleep. I dream about all the guys on the patrol where you won the Medal for saving us and the dream has a lot of Chinese people

in it and a lot of big brass from the Russian army. Well, it is pretty rough. You have to take my word for that. There is a lot of all kind of things goes on in that dream and I need to tell about it. If you should hear from anybody else on the Patrol who writes you that they are having this kind of a dream I will appreciate if you put them in touch with me. I live in Alaska now and the address is on the envelope. I have a good plumbing business going for me here and I’ll be in good shape if these dreams don’t take too much of the old zing out of me. Well, sarge, I hope everything goes good with you and that if you’re ever around Wainwright, Alaska, you’ll give me a holler. Good luck, kid.

Your old corporal,

Alan Melvin

Raymond had himself reread one part of the letter and he stared at that with distaste and disbelief. It offended him so that he read it and read it again: “you was my best friend in the army.” He tore the letter across, then in quarters, then again. When he could no longer tear it smaller, he dropped the pieces into the wastebasket beside his desk.

Eight

FOR THREE YEARS AFTER TAKING THE OATH OF office as United States Senator in March, 1953, Joh

On the morning of April 9, Joh

Joh

The meeting, held in an intimate amphitheater that had strong lights for the newsreel and television cameras, and many seats for correspondents, opened in the expected ma