He paused, then added as he struck his open hand upon the desk: “I will have every available man at the White House.”
“For witnesses?” asked Delamater coldly.
The big man stared at his operative; the lines of his face were sagging.
“Do you believe—really—he can strike him down—at his desk—from a distance?”
“I know it.” Delamater’s fingers played for a moment with three bits of metal in his pocket. Unconsciously he voiced his thoughts: “Does the President have nails in his shoes, I wonder?”
“What—what’s that?” the Chief demanded.
But Delamater made no reply. He was picturing the President. He would be seated at his desk, waiting, waiting … and the bells would be ringing and whistles blowing from distant shops when the bolt would strike…. It would flash from his feet … through the thick rug … through the rug…. It would have to ground.
He paid no heed to his Chief’s repeated question. He was seeing, not the rug in the Presidential office, but below it—underneath it—a heavy pad of rubber.
“If he can be insulated—” he said aloud, and stared unseeingly at his eagerly listening superiors—“even the telephone cut—no possible connection with the ground—”
“For God’s sake, Del, if you’ve got an idea—any hope at all! I’m—I’m up against it, Del.”