He smiled gently, his tired eyes still closed. He estimated it would take the Press Secretary a good ten minutes to get to the White House. Good. The President had come to a point where he savored every precious moment of solitude.
He let his mind drift—first to the state of the world. It wasn't so bad, really. Not in comparison. After all, a cold war was better than a hot one. And even the cold war was softening up a little. Enough to—the President's smile deepened.
Enough to quit.
That was his big secret. He hadn't told them yet. In deference to political strategy, responsibility to the party, and that sort of thing, he'd held his peace. But his decision had been made. He would not run again. A man, he told himself, is entitled to a few blessed years as his own master; a time when he ceases to be a slave of duty. Why just think! To grab the clubs and shoot eighteen without having to make "arrangements"! To go out and catch a couple of fish without the Secret Service plotting the course, calling the tune, following, grim-faced in his wake.
The President's smile deepened. It was all so darned crazy! You go out to get a little relaxation—to catch a fish. But before you arrive the stream has to be stocked so thick you can almost walk on the beauties because if the President failed to catch a trout in one of their mountain streams, the state involved gets a black eye and might lose a few thousand tourists that year. He wondered idly if they gave the fish a pep talk when they tossed them in.
But that sort of thing would be finished, soon. He was going to quit. He was going to tell them—
"Mr. President."
He jerked erect, blinked, and gave the Press Secretary his famous smile—half-apologetic now. "Sorry. I was napping I guess. Didn't hear you. Sit down—sit down."
The Press Secretary did as instructed and the President was struck by the tight, stricken look on his gray face. "Good Lord, Jim! What happened? You look as though somebody just dropped a bomb on New York City." He could afford to speak lightly because he knew any news of grave import would not come through the Press Secretary.
The latter appeared to have difficulty with his reply. With the President's eye upon him—sharp but friendly—he floundered for a moment, then said, "I might as well give it to you straight, Mr. President. Then we can go on from there."