"Then quick, get out of the room, all of you! Join the Secondaries."
"But John, it'll leave you fingered! If nine of us leave, they'll know that the remaining one is—"
"Get on your masks and get out! I'm going to take mine off."
"But John—!"
"Move, Subversive!"
"You don't need to curse," the Stand-in muttered. The nine men, out of the camera's field, donned golden helmets identical to Smith's, whistled six notes to the audio-combination, then slipped out the thick steel door as it clicked and came open.
The Red was jeering at him quietly. "Afraid to take off your mask, President? The rabble? Or your self-appointed Stand-ins? Which frightens you, President—"
John Smith plucked at a latch under his chin, and the golden headdress came apart down the sides. He lifted it off and laid it casually aside, revealing a hard, blocky face, slightly in need of a shave, with cool blue eyes and blond brows. His hair was graying slightly at the temples, with a fortyish hairline.