"Where are you off to?" her father said. "I told Mom i wouldn't be able to stay through. Mr. Cleveland's back from Quantico. I have to see him." "Will you come to the dance afterward?" Madeline sneezed. 'I'm not sure, Dad." "Take care of that cold. You look fierce.t The two men went inside. Madeline clung to the wooden rail, hastening down the slippery steps. Awaiter %with a sandwich and a double martini on a tray was knocking at the door of Hugh Cleveland's suite when Madeline got there. The rich familiar voice sounded peevish. 'It's open, it's open, come on in." Her employer, wearing an unbecoming purple silk robe, sat with his stocking feet up on an imitation antique desk, talking into a telephone and making pencil notes on a racing form. "What about Hialeah?" he was saying. "Got anything good there for tomorrow?" He waved at her, putting his hand for a moment over the mouthpiece. "Hey Matty! I thought you weren't going to make it. Sign that. Give him a buck." The waiter, a small dull-eyed youngster, hovered in the room, staring with a vacuous grin as Cleveland talked to the bookmaker. "Mr. Cleveland, I just want to tell you I'm a big fan of yours," he blurted when Cleveland hung up. "I really think you're terrific. So does my whole family. We never miss the amateur hour." 'Thanks," Cleveland rumbled with a heavy-lidded look, fingering his sandy hair. 'Want anything, Matty?" 'A drink, thanks. I've got a cold." 'Bring her another double," said Cleveland, with a sudden charming smile at the waiter. 'And get me three Havana cigars. Monte Cristos, if there are any. See how fast you can do it." "Yes, sir, Mr. Cleveland." 'How was Quantico?" Madeline threw her coat on a chair and sat down, blowing her nose. "The stage'll work fine. The commandant's all excited. He thinks it's a wonderful recruiting stunt." Yawning, Cleveland lit a cigar and explained the arrangements for the broadcast that he had made with the commandant. 'He showed me all over the camp. I saw a real combat exercise. Jesus, those marines shoot live ammunition over each other's heads! I'll be deaf for a week," he said, rubbing his ears. "I guess they won't put you through that." "Me? Am I going there?" "Sure. Tomorrow."'What for?" 'Screen the performers, get the personal stuff on them, and all that. They've already got an amateur thing going there, it turns out. They call it the Happy Hour." Madeline said, "The Happy Hour's an old custom all through the service." 'Really? It was news to me. Anyhow, that makes it a cinch." He described the arrangements for her interview at Quantico. The doorbell rang. Blowing her nose, Madeline went to answer it. "I think I've got a fever. I don't want to go and interview a lot of marines." A girl with dyed black hair stood simpering in the doorway, in a yellow coat and yellow snow boots, showing stained teeth in a thickly painted mouth. Her smile faded when Madeline opened the door. "I was looking for Mr. Hugh Cleveland." "Right here, baby," he called. The girl came into the suite with uncertain steps, peering from Cleveland to Madeline. "What is this?" she said. "Wait in there," he said, indicating the bedroom with his thumb. "I'll be along." The girl closed the bedroom door behind her. Ignoring Cleveland's embarrassed grin, Madeline snatched her coat and jerked on one sleeve and the other. 'Good-night. I'll talk to you tomorrow." "You've got a drink coming." "I don't want it. I want to get to bed. I'm shivering." Cleveland came padding to her in stocking feet and put his hand on her forehead. She pushed it away. "You have no fever." "Don't touch me, please." "What's the matter?" "I just don't like to be touched." The waiter knocked at the door and came in. 'Double martini, sir, and the Monte Cristos." "Great. Thanks." Cleveland offered the tray to Madeline when the waiter left. "Here. Takeoff your coat and drink up." Both hands jammed in her coat pockets, Madeline said, "It's not fair to keep a prostitute waiting. All she has to sell is time." Hugh Cleveland slowly grinned, putting down the tray. "Why, Madeline Henry." "I'm sorry. I feel extremely lousy. Good-night." Cleveland strode to the bedroom. A murmur of voices, and the girl, tucking money in a shiny yellow purse, emerged from the room. She gave Madeline a tough unpleasant sad glance, and left the suite. "Sit down and have your drink. Here's all the dope on Quantico" -he flourished a manila envelope-'and who to see, and the list of the Performers. If you're still not feeling well tomorrow just call me, and I'll have Nat or Arnold come down and take over. #$ "Oh, I guess I'll manage." Madeline sat, throwing her coat back on her shoulders, and drank. "How are your folks?" "Fine." "Any interesting guests at dinner?" "Alistair Tudsbury, for one." "Tudsbury! Say, there's genius. There's a man I'd like to meet. He's got style, Tudsbury, and a superb radio voice. But he'd never come on Who's in Town. Who else?" "Air Commodore Burne-Wilke, of the R.A.F." "Is an air commodore somebody?" "From what my father says, he more or less ran the Battle of Britain." Wrinkling his nose, Cleveland put his feet on the desk again. "Hmmm. Not bad. The Battle of Britain's awfully tired, though, isn't it? I don't know if he'd mean anything today, Matty. The audience has had the Battle of Britain, up to here." "I wouldn't dream of asking him." "I would." Hands clasped, two fingers pressed judidously to his chin, Cleveland shook his head. "No. Dated. I say balls to the Battle of Britain." "There was Senator Lacouture." Her employer's thick sandy eyebrows rose. "Now, he's hot. That's right, isn't he an in-law of yours, or something?" 'His daughter married my brother." The one on the submarine?""No. The aviator." 'What do you think? Would Lacouture come to New York?" 'For the chance to attack Lend-Lease, I think he'd go to Seattle." "Well, Lend-Lease is front-page. Not that one person in forty knows what it's all about. Let's get Lacouture. Do you mind talking to him?" "No." Madeline finished her drink and stood. 'Fine. Set him up for Monday if you can. We're kind of blah on Monday." Madeline tapped the envelope in her hand, regarding it absently. The drink was making her feel better. "There are Happy Hours at all the Navy bases, you know," she said. "Practically on every ship. Probably in the Army camps, too. Couldn't you do another show like this every now and then? It's something different." Cleveland shook his head. 'It's a one-shot, Matty. just a novelty. The regular amateurs are the meat and potatoes." "If we get in the war," Madeline said, "they'll start drafting talented people, won't they? There'll be camps all over the country." "Well, could be." With his most engaging smile, he waved a thumb at the bedroom door. "Sorry about her, kid. I thought you weren't coming tonight." "It doesn't make the slightest difference to me, I assure you." 'You really disapprove of me. I know you do. The way my wife does. You've had a good upbringing." 'I hope so." "Well, see, I wasn't that fortunate." "Good-night, Hugh." "Say, listen." With an amused genial squint, Cleveland scratched his head. "There might be something in that Happy Hour thing at that, if we do get in the war. It might be a series in itself. Start a file on Wartime Ideas, Matty. Type up a memo on that and stash it away." "All right." "Your father's an insider. Does he think we'll get in the war?" "He thinks we're in it.the Cleveland stretched and yawned. 'Really? But the war's sort of petering out, isn't it? Nothing's happening, except for the messing around in Greece and Africa." "The Germans are sinking a couple of hundred thousand tons a month in the Atlantic." "Is that a lot? It's all relative, I'd imagine. I guess Hitler's got it won, though." Cleveland yawned again. 'All right, Matty. See you back in New York." When the girl had gone, Cleveland picked up the telephone, yawning and yawning. "Bell captain... Cleveland. Oh, is that you, Eddy? Fine. Listen, Eddy, she looked all right but I was busy. I sent her down to the bar for a while. Blackhair, yellow coat, yellow purse. Thanks, Eddy." The sloiv movement of a Brahms symphony was putting Victor Henry in a doze, when a tap and a whisper roused him, "Captain Henry?" The girl usher appeared excited and awed. "The White House is on the telephone for you." He spoke a few words in his wife's ear and departed. During applause after the symphony, Rhoda said, looking around at his still empty chair, "Pug's evidently gone back to the White House." "Man's life isn't his own, is it?" Kirby said. "When has it ever been?" Pamela said, "Will he rejoin you at the dance?" Rhoda made a helpless gesture. An hour or so later, Victor Henry stood at the entrance to the grand ballroom of the Sboreham, glumly surveying the scene: the brilliantly dressed dancers crowding the floor; the stage festooned with American flags and union jacks; the huge spangled letters, BUNDLISS FOR BIUTAJN, arching over the brassy orchestra; and the long jolly queues at two enormous buffets laden with meats, salads, cheeses, and cakes. The naval aide at the White House had just told him, among other things, of thirty thousand tons sunk in the North Atlantic in the past two days. Alistair Tudsbury came capering past him, with a blonde lady of forty or so quite naked from the bosom up except for a diamond necklace. The correspondent's gold-chained paunch kept the lady at some distance, but her spirits seemed no less hilarious for that. He dragged his had leg a bit as he danced, obviously determined to ignore it. "Ah, there, Pug! You're glaring like Savonarola, dear boy." "I'm looking for Rhoda." "She's down at the other end. You know Irina Balsey?" "Hello, Ifina." The blonde lady giggled, waving fingers at Henry. "Did Pamela come to the dance?" 'She went back to the office. The little prig's doing the overworked patriot." Tudsbury twirled the blonde away with vigor ill-suited to his size and lameness. Crossing the dance floor, Victor Henry saw his wife at a little round side table with Palmer Kirby.
'Hello, dear!" she called. "So you escaped! Get yourself a plate and join us. The veal is Marvelous." "I'll bring you some," said Kirby, hastily rising. "Sit down, Pug." "No, no, Fred. I have to run along." "Oh, dear," Rhoda said. "You're not staying at all?" "No, I just came to tell you I'll be gone overnight, and longer. I'm heading home to pack a bag, and then I'll be off." possibly Palmer Kirby said to him with a stiff smile, "Sorry you can't stay. It's — fine party." 'Make the best of it. You won't find such living in London." "Oh, damn," Rhoda said. Pug bent over his wife and kissed her cheek. "Sorry, darling. Enjoy the dance." The figure in blue disappeared among the dancers. Rhoda and Palmer Kirby sat without speaking. The music jazzily blared. Dancers moved past them, sometimes calling to Rhoda, "Lovely party, dear. Marvellous." She was smiling and waving in response when Kirby pushed aside his half-full plate of cooling food. "Well, I leave for New York at seven tomorrow, myself. I'd better turn in. It was an excellent dinner, and a fine concert. Thanks, Rhoda." 'Talmer, I just have to stay another half hour or so." Kirby's face was set, his large brown eyes distant and melancholy. Rhoda said, "Well, will I see you again before you go to London?" "I'm afraid not." With an alert searching look at him, she deliberately wiped her mouth with a napkin. "I'll walk out with you." In the crowded lobby, Rhoda stopped at a full-length mirror. Primping her hair, glancing at Kirby now and then in the glass, she spoke in a tone of the most careless chitchat. "I'm sorry. I meant to tell Pug as soon as he got back. But he had so much to do, with his new job. And he was so relieved to be home. I just couldn't, that's all." Kirby nodded, with a cold expression. She went on, 'All right. Then along came this awful jolt, ByTon marrying this girl in Lisbon. It took both of us days and days to simmer down. And hard upon that Janice arrived, all pregnant and whatnot. I mean, this close prospect of becoming grandparents, for the first timeyou've just got to let me pick my momen dear. It won't be easy at best." "Rhoda, you and Pug have many things that bind you together. I fully realize it." She turned and looked in his eyes, then went back to her primping.
"Don't we?" He said, frowning at her image in the mirror, "I've been very uncomfortable tonight. I really want to get married again, Rhoda. I've never felt that more strongly than I did at your dinner table." "Palmer, don't give me an ultimatum, for heaven's sake. I can't be rushed." Rhoda faced him, speaking rapidly, shifting her eyes around the lobby, and smiling at a woman who swished by in trailing orange satin. 'Or rather, do just as you please, dear. Bring back an English wife, why don't you? You'll find dozens of fine women there eager to adore you, and delighted to come to America." "I won't bring home an English wife." He took her hand, glancing up and down her body with a sudden smile. "My God, how pretty you look tonight! And what a fine dinner you put on, and what a grand success this dance is! You're quite a manager. My guess is I won't get back till May. That should be plenty of time, Rhoda. You know it should be. Good-bye." Rhoda went back to the dance, much relieved. That last moment had cleared the air. At least until May, she could go on juggling. Wearing owlish black-rimmed spectacles, Pamela Tudsbury clattered away at a typewriter, in her mauve evening dress and fancy hairdo. A desk lamp lit the machine; the rest of the shabby, windowless little office was in half-darkness. A knock came on the door. "Bless my soul, that was quick!" She opened the door to Victor Henry, in a brown felt hat and brown topcoat, carrying a canvas overnight bag. She walked to a silex steaming on a small table amid piled papers, pamphlets, and technical books. "Black you drink it, with sugar, as I recall. "Good memory." She poured two cups of coffee and settled into the swivel chair by the typewriter. They sipped, regarding each other in the lamplight. "You look absurd," Pug Henry said. 'Oh, I know, but he wants it by eight in the morning." She took off the glasses and rubbed her eyes. "It was either get up at five, or finish it tonight. I wasn't sleepy, and I hadn't the faintest desire either to dance or to stuff myself." 'What are you working on?" She hesitated, then smiled. "I daresay you know a lot more about it than I do. The annex on landing craft." "Oh, yes. That one. Quite a document, eh?" "It seems like sheer fantasy. Can the UnitedStates really develop all those designs and build those thousands of machines by 1943?" 'We can, but I have no reason to think we will. That isn't an operation order. It's a plan." He relished being alone with her in this tiny, dreary, dimly lit office. Pamela's formal half-nudity had a keener if incongruous sweetness here: a bunch of violets, as it were, on a pile of mimeographed memoranda. He said gruffly, "Well, what's the dope on Ted Gallard?" 'I received a letter from his squadron commander only yesterday. It I s quite a long story. The nub of it is that three R.A.F prisoners in his hospital escaped, made their way to the coast, and got picked up and brought home. Teddy was supposed to break out with them. But after your visit he got a room of his own and special surveillance. So he couldn't. They think that by now he's been shipped to Germany and put in a camp for R.A.F prisoners. That's the story. He'll be well treated, simply because we're holding so many Luftwaffe pilots. Still, you can see why I've no particular desire just now to go to posh supper-dances." Victor Henry glanced at the wall clock. "It was my doing, then, that he couldn't get out." "That's ridiculous." 'No, it's a fact. I hesitated before talking to the Luftwaffe about him, you know. I figured it would call attention to him and give him a special status. I wasn't sure whether that would be good or bad. Sometimes it's best to leave things as they fall." "But I asked you to find out what you could about him." "Yes, you did." "You relieved me of a couple of months of agonizing." He said, "Anyway, it's done. And now you know he's still alive. That's something. I'm very glad to hear it, Pam. Well-I guess I'll go along." "Yes, you did." "Where to?" With a surprised grin, he said, "You know better than that." "You can always just shut me up. You're not leaving the country?" He pointed at the small suitcase. "Hardly." 'Because we're finishing up here very soon," she said, (i and in that case I might not see you for a long while." Pug leaned forward, elbows on knees, clasping his hands. He felt little hesitation in confiding to her things he never told his wife. Pamela was, after all, almost as much of an insider as he was. 'The President's had a bad sinus condition for weeks, Pam. Lately he's been running a fever.
This Lend-Lease hubbub isn't helping any. He's taking the train to Hyde Park to rest up for a few days, strictly on the q.t. I'm to ride with him. It's a big surprise. I thought, and sort of hoped, he'd forgotten me." She laughed. 'You're not very forgettable. You're a legend in Bomber Command, you know. The American naval officer who rode a Wellington into the Berlin flak for the fun of it." 'rhat's a laugh," said Pug. 'I was crouching on the deck the whole time with my eyes tight shut and my fingers in my ears. I still shudder to think what would have happened if I'd been shot down and survived. The U.S. naval attache to Berlin, riding over Germany in a British bomber! Lord almighty, you were angry at me for going." 'I certainly was." Pug stood, buttoning his coat. "Thanks for the coffee. I've been yearning for coffee ever since I had to skip it to put on my monkey suit." 'It was a splendid dinner. Your wife's wonderful, Victor. She manages things so well. The way she picked that bowl out of the air, like a conjurer! And she's so beautiful." "Rhoda's all right. Nobody has to sell Rhoda to me." Pamela put on her glasses and ran a sheet of paper into the typewriter. 'Good-bye, then," Pug said, adding awkwardly, "and maybe I'll see you before you go back home." 'That would be nice." She was peering at scribbled papers beside the typewriter. "I've missed you terribly, you know. More so here than in London." Pamela slipped these words out in the quiet manner peculiar to her. Victor Henry had his hand on the doorknob. He paused, and cleared his throat. "Well-that's Rhoda's complaint. I get buried in what I'm doing." 'Oh, I realize that." She looked up at him with eyes glistening roundly through the lenses. "Well? You don't want to keep the President waiting, Captain Henry." N the dark quiet railroad station, two Secret Service men lifted the President from the limousine and set him on his feet. He towered over them in a velvet-collared coat, his big-brimmed soft gray hat pulled low on his head and flapping in the icy wind. Holding one man's arm, leaning on a cane, he lurched and hobbled toward a railed ramp, where be drew on gloves and hauled himself up into the rear car, jerking his legs along. Victor Henry, many yards away, could see the huge shoulders heaving under the overcoat. A tall woman with a nodding brown feather in her hat and a fluttering paper in her hand scampered up and touched Victor Henry's arm. 'You're to go in the President's car, Captain." Climbing the ramp, Pug realized why the President had put on gloves. The steel rails were so cold, the skin of his hands stuck to them. A steward led Victor Henry past a pantry where another steward was rattling ice in a cocktailshaker. "You be stayin' in heah, suh. When you ready, de President innite you join him." The room was an ordinary Pullman sleeper compartment. The strong train smell was the same. The green upholstery was dusty and worn. Victor Henry hung coat and cap in a tiny closet, brushed his hair, cleaned his nails, and gave a flick of a paper towel to his highly polished shoes. The train started in a slow glide, with no jolt and no noise. 'Sit down, sit down, Pug!" The President waved from a lounge chair. "What'll you have? Whiskey sours are on the menu, because Harry drinks them all night long, but we can fix up almost anything." "Whiskey sour will be fine, Mr. President. Thank you." Harry Hopkins, slouching on a green sofa, said, "Hello, Captain." Though Roosevelt was supposed to be ill, Hopkins looked the worse of the two: lean, sunken-chested, gray of skin. The President's color was high, perhaps feverish, his black-rimmed eyes were very bright, and a perky red bow tie went well with the gay relaxed look of his massive face. He bulked huge in the chair, though his legs showed so pitiftffly skeletal through the trousers. It crossed Pug's mind that Washington and Lincoln too had been oversized men. "How are you on poetry, Pug?" said the President, in the cultured accents that always sounded a bit affected to the Navy man. "Do you know that poem that ends, 'There isn't a train I wouldn't take, no matter where it's going'? Golly, that's the way I feel. just getting on this train has made me feel one hundred percent better." The President put the back of his hand to his mouth, and harshly coughed. "Well, ninety percent. If this were a ship, it would be one hundred percent." "I prefer a ship too, sir." "The old grievance, eh, sailor?" "No, sir, truly not. I'm quite happy in War Plans." "Are you? Well, I'm glad to hear it. Of course, I haven't the faintest notion of what you're cooking up with those British fellows." 'So I understand, sir." Eyebrows mischievously arched, the President went on, 'No, not the foggiest. When your draft that the Secretary of War got yesterday bounces back to Lord Burne-Wilke, and he sees corrections in what looks like my handwriting, that will be an accidental resemblance." "I'll remember that.""Yes, indeed. On the very first page of the forwarding letter, if you recall, there's a sentence that begins, When the United States enters the war." Somebody, with a handwriting just like mine, has crossed out that perfectly terrible clause, and written instead, 'In the event that the United States is compelled to enter the war." Small but important change!" A steward passed'a tray of drinks. The President took a tall glass of orange.. "Doctor's orders. Lots and lots of fruit juice. Harry, do you have that ituce. thing with you?" "Right here, Mr. President." "Well, let's get at it. I want to have a snack, and then try to sleep a little-How do you sleep on trains, Pug?" "Fine, sir, if I can just get the heat right. Usually I roast or freeze." The President threw his head back. "Ha, ha! By George, I'll tell you a state secret-the President of the United States has the same trouble! They're building a special armored car for me now. I told them, I said, I don't care about anything else, but that heating system had better work! Harry, let's get in our order for a snack." He glanced at his watch. "Are you hungry, Pug? I am. I'll tell you another state secret. The food at the White House leaves something to be desired. Tell them I want sturgeon and eggs, Harry. I've been thinking of sturgeon and eggs for days." Hopkins went forward. The President's car, so far as Pug could tell, was a regular Pullman lounge car, rearranged to look like a living room. He had expected something more imposing. Roosevelt leaned one elbow on the chair arm, and rested a hand on his knee, looking out of the window in a calm majestic manner. 'I really am feeling better by the minute. I can't tell you how I love being away from the telephone. How are your boys? The naval aviator, and that young submariner?" Victor Henry knew that Roosevelt liked to display his memory, but it still surprised and impressed him. "They're fine, sir, but how do you remember?" The President said with almost boyish gratification, "Oh, a politician has to borrow the virtues of the elephant, Pug. The memory, the thick hide, and of course that long inquisitive nose! Ha ha ha!" Hopkins returned to the sofa, stooping with fatigue, zipped open his portfolio, and handed Captain Henry a document three pages long, with one dark facsin-,ile page attached. "Take a look at this." Pug read the first page with skepticism that shifted to amazement, while the train wheels gently clack-clacked. He leafed through the sheets and looked from Hopkins to the President, not inclined to speak first. What he held in his hands was a summary from army intelligence sources of a startling German operation order, purportedly slipped to a civilian in the American embassy in Berlin by anti-Nazi Wehrmacht officers. Pug knew the man well, but his intelligence function was acomplete surprise. Franklin Roosevelt said, "Think it's genuine?" "Well, sir, that photostat of the first page does look like the German military documents I've seen. The headings are right, the look of the typece, the paragraphing, and so forth." What about the content?" "Well, if that's genuine, Mr. President, it's one incredible intelligence break." The President smiled, with fatigued tolerance for a minor person's naivete. "If is the longest two-letter word in the language." Hopkins said hoarsely, 'Do the contents seem authentic to you?" 'I can't say, sir. I don't know Russian geography that well, to begin with." 'Our Army people find it plausible," Hopkins said. 'y would anybody fake a staggering document like that, Captain? A complete operation order for the invasion of the Soviet union, in such massive detail?" Pug thought it over, and spoke carefully. "Well, sir, for one thing they might be hoping to prod the Soviet union to mobilize, and so kick off a two-front war. In that case the army might depose or kill Hitler. Then again, it could be a plant by German intelligence, to see how much we pass on to the Russians. The possibilities are many." 'That's the trouble," said the President, yawning. "Our ambassador in Russia has begged us not to transmit this thing. He says Moscow is flooded with such stuff. The Russians assume it all emanates from British intelligence to start trouble between Stalin and Hitler, so as to get the Germans off England's back." The President coughed heavily for almost a minute. He sat back in his chair, catching his breath, looking out at streetlamps of a small town sliding past. He suddenly appeared very bored. Harry Hopkins leaned forward, balancing the drink in both hands. "There's a question about giving this document to the Russian ambassador here in Washington, Pug. Any comment?" Pug hesitated; a political problem like this was not in his reach. President Roosevelt said, with a trace of annoyance, "Come on, Pug." "I'm for doing it." 'Why?" said Hopkins. "What's there to lose, sir? If this thing turns out to be the McCoy, we'll have scored a big point with the Russkis. If it's a phony, well, so what? They can't be any more suspicious of us than they are." The weary tension of Harry Hopkins's face dissolved in a warm, gentle smile. "I think that's a remarkably astute answer," he said, "since it's what I said myself." He took the document from Pug and zipped it into the briefcase. "I'm more than ready to eat that sturgeon and eggs," said Franklin Roosevelt, "if it's cooked.""Let me go and check, Mr. President." Hopkins jumped to his feet. Tossing on the narrow bunk, Pug sweated and froze in the compartment for an hour or so, fiddling with the heat controls in vain. He settled down to freeze, since he slept better in cold air. The slow, even motion of the train began to lull him. Rap, rap. 'Suh? The President like to speak to you. You want a robe, suh? The President say not to bother dressing. just come to his room." "Thanks, I have one." Pug passed shivering from his cold compartment to the President's bedroom, which was far too hot. The famous big-chinned face of Franklin Roosevelt, with the pince-nez glasses and jaunty cigarette holder, looked very strange a slumped large body in blue pajamas and coffeestained gray sweater. The President'st(on) hin hair was rumpled, his eyes bleary. He looked like so many old men look in bed: defenseless, shabby, and sad, his personality and dignity stripped from him. There was a smell of medicine in the room. The picture disturbed Victor Henry because the President appeared so vulnerable, unwell, and unimportant; and also because he was only seven, or eight years older than Pug, yet seemed decrepit. The blue blanket was piled with papers. He was making pencil notes on a sheaf in his hand. "Pug, did I break in on your beauty rest?" "Not at all, sir." "Sit down for a moment, old top." The President removed his glasses with a pinch of two fingers, and vigorously massaged his eyes. On the bedside table several medicine bottles tinkled as the train clacked over a bumpy rail. "Lord, how my eyes itch," he said. "Do yours? Nothing seems to help. And it's always worse when I get these sinus attacks." He clipped papers and dropped them on the blanket. "Something I'promised myself to do-if I find the time, Pug-is to write out memorandumof(ve) thethingsthatcometomeinjusto(ever) ne day. Any day at random, any twenty-(a) fgur-hour period. You'd be amazed." He slapped at the papers. "It would be a valuable sidelight on history, wouldn't it? For instance. just take tonight's laundry that I've been doing. Vichy France seems about to sign a full all............