Advise and Consent (12 page)

“You ought to know,” Senator Munson said quickly, a shot in the dark, but he could see it had gone home, for Senator Knox started a little, then broke into a laugh.

“I should,” he admitted.

“I hope you didn’t sign anything,” Senator Danta said dryly.

“It was all verbal,” Orrin Knox said with a grin. “He wanted something in blood, but I wouldn’t give it to him.”

“Well, that’s good,” Bob Munson said. “I guess there’s still hope for our side, then.”

“Some,” Orrin Knox said seriously. “But I don’t like it. If I support him it’s going to be as an intellectual exercise and not because my heart is in it.”

“Oh, well, if that’s your only scruple,” Bob Munson said comfortably, “you’ll have lots of company there.”

“Why,” Senator Knox demanded in an exasperated tone, “
why
did he have to appoint someone who—”

“I know,” Senator Munson said cheerfully. “It’s a question to which we will never know the answer, I’m sure. Anyway, I take it you’re in a position of benevolent neutrality at the moment.”

Senator Knox snorted.

“A rather flowery way to put it,” he said. Senator Danta smiled.

“Not neutral and not benevolent, eh, Orrin?” he said, and Senator Knox laughed.

“I wouldn’t say that, either,” he said.

“Well, what
I
would say,” Crystal Danta broke in firmly, “is that that’s enough business for now. I want to talk about me and Hal. We went shopping before lunch.”

“I suppose you spent all his money,” his father said.

“A good part of it,” Crystal said cheerfully. “He might as well get used to it. We got some pretty things, though.”

“I’m sure of it,” Orrin Knox said with a smile.

“Well, we did. You’ll see.”

“There’s Brig,” Stanley Danta told Bob Munson. His daughter sighed.

“You see?” she said. “I try to brighten the day for Senators of the United States, and they go right back to business in spite of me.”

“It’s tough,” her father agreed. “Ask him over, Bob.”

The first shift was changing in the dining room, and people like determinedly homespun George R. Bowen of Iowa and squat, portly, toad-shaped Walter S. Turnbull of Louisiana, and their constituents, were beginning to replace Donald Merrick and Benjamin Mason, and their constituents. Senator Anderson, standing in the doorway, was obviously looking for a friendly face and company. Bob Munson raised a hand and waved and the Senator from Utah came over promptly in his pleasant, easy way to greet them all as they made room for him at the table.

“Crys,” he said, “I’m delighted to see you. Everything all set for the big day?”

“Well, not quite,” she said with a laugh. “After all, it’s still three weeks off, and an awful lot can be done in three weeks, you know.”

“Women,” Brigham Anderson said. “How they do love to fuss. How’s Hal bearing up?”

“At the moment,” Crystal Danta said, “he acts as though he likes it. I imagine he may get skittish before the day arrives, though.”

“I imagine,” Senator Anderson said. Then he turned to the Majority Leader. “Well, Robert,” he said, with just the slightest trace of challenge in his voice, “what vital information have you got to impart this afternoon?”

Bob Munson smiled.

“I’m more interested in what you have to impart,” he said.

“Not a thing,” Brig said pleasantly, hailing a waiter and ordering soup, coffee, and a piece of pie, “not a thing. The sovereign state of Utah is in good shape, and so is its senior Senator. I can’t speak for its junior today.”

Orrin Knox gave an abrupt laugh.

“He was in here a little while ago,” he said, “looking as pickle-faced as usual.”

“He compensates for my frivolity,” Brigham Anderson said with his quick grin. “Stanley, are we going to get that atomic-power bill through next week?”

“Ask the Majority Leader,” Senator Danta said. “I’m agreeable.”

“I guess we can get to it soon,” Senator Munson said.

“I suppose you’ll want to get the decks cleared as soon as possible,” Senator Anderson said. “I hear this Leffingwell business is going to be a rush job.”

“What do you mean, a rush job?” Bob Munson said indignantly. “I’m not rushing anybody. Where did you hear that?”

“I ran into Tom August a while ago,” Brig said. “I got the impression the word was out to ram it through on the double. Next Monday was what I gathered from his obscure murmurings, which seems like a real zippy schedule if you can do it, Bob.”

Senator Munson looked pained.

“Tom always messes everything up,” he said candidly. “Of course I think the President would like it to move, but I doubt if it can be done by next Monday. Certainly it can’t if Tom goes around blabbing his plans to everybody.”

“He tells me there’ll be a special committee meeting tomorrow morning,” Senator Anderson said. “Will you be in town, Orrin?”

Senator Knox frowned.

“I hadn’t planned to be,” he said. “I was going to Illinois for the weekend. But I guess I’ll cancel that.”

“I too,” Brigham Anderson said. “I have to make a speech in New York tomorrow night and was planning to get up to the big city early. But I guess I’ll catch a late plane, now.”

“We thought it would be a good idea to get started on it,” Bob Munson said defensively, “because chances are it will be somewhat lengthy.”

“Somewhat,” Brig said. “Have you talked to Seab?”

“Everybody has talked to Seab,” Senator Munson said sourly. “He’s going to perform on schedule.”

“Then it will be more than somewhat,” Senator Anderson said. “I hear you have plans for me too, Bob.”

“Oh, hell,” Senator Munson said disgustedly. “Can’t Tom keep anything secret?”

“You know he can’t,” Orrin Knox said flatly. “He’s the biggest fool in the Senate.”

“Oh, don’t be harsh,” Stanley Danta said charitably. “He means well in his own odd way.”

“I suppose,” Orrin conceded, “but it’s mighty odd, sometimes.”

“I’m not sure I want to chair any subcommittee, Bob,” Brigham Anderson said quietly. “In a way, I have a prejudice as strong as Seab’s.”

“That’s one reason we want you to do it,” Senator Munson said. “If you’re in charge everybody will know it hasn’t been stacked in his favor, and at the same time they’ll know he’s getting an absolutely fair and considerate hearing.”

“That is true,” Orrin Knox told him. “You have a wonderful reputation for fairness, Brig.”

“Aw, shucks, Senators,” Brigham Anderson said mockingly. “You make me feel all over funny. I still don’t see why I have to get stuck with it, though.”

“For just the reasons we’ve said,” Bob Munson remarked. “It’s practically inevitable.”

Senator Anderson looked at him thoughtfully, and across his handsomely candid young face there came the intent, worried expression his colleagues knew so well in moments of stress.

“I have lots of qualms, Bob,” he said soberly. “Not only national qualms, but personal qualms. Maybe it’s a premonition, or something, but I feel I shouldn’t get mixed up too directly in this.”

“Somebody has to do the Senate’s dirty jobs, Brig,” Stanley Danta said quietly. “If there weren’t a group of us who were willing, they’d never get done, would they?”

The senior Senator from Utah gave the senior Senator from Connecticut a quick smile and his worried expression eased.

“You’re such a nice person, Stanley,” he said. “You really are. Such a gentleman and such a fine one. How can I withstand pressure like that?”

“We’ll all feel better about it, Brigham,” Orrin Knox said.

“That does it,” said Brig with a grin. “I’m lost. Crys, did you ever see such a snow job?”

“You’re up against three old hands,” Crystal told him, “and you haven’t got a chance. I knew you were lost the minute you came in the doorway.”

“You should have warned me,” Brigham Anderson said.

“Oh, it’s fun to watch,” Crystal assured him. “I’ve been brought up on that sort of thing, remember. I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

“Poor Hal,” Senator Anderson said with a sigh. “A heartless woman awaits him.”

“Very,” Crystal Danta said softly with a smile. “Oh, so very.”

Suddenly through the Senate side of the Capitol the two rings of the bell for a quorum began their insistent, repeated call, and Bob Munson looked at Stanley Danta in surprise.

“What do you suppose—?” He asked, and just then the slight, brisk figure of Dave Grant, secretary to the Majority, appeared at the door and came to the table with a harried look on his usually impassive face.

“Paul Hendershot is up,” he told Bob Munson. “He’s asked for a quorum and he says he’s going to make a speech about Bob Leffingwell. You’d better get up there.”

“So had we all,” said Orrin Knox. “You go ahead, Bob. I’ll get the check.”

“Thanks, Orrin,” Senator Munson said. “Sorry to rush, Crys, but you know how it is.”

“I was born in a ballot box,” Crystal Danta smiled. “I know.”

The minute he stepped on the floor Bob Munson could sense that major events were under way, for as always when the Senate was about to get into a hot debate there was an electric tension in the air. Senator Hendershot was standing impassively at his desk, a slight scowl on his face, while the clerk droned again through the roll; around the chamber there was a kind of instinctive tightening-up and battening-down-the-hatches. Members were putting their papers aside and settling back, the pageboys were darting about again, bringing glasses of water to those who thought they might be impelled to speak; above in the public galleries the tourists were leaning forward eagerly, the press gallery was rapidly filling up. There was a general eddying-about all over the chamber, and this time the clerk was not having any trouble getting a quorum. Well over fifty Senators had come in already, Harley Hudson was back in the Chair, and the stage was set. Bob Munson just had time to reach his seat, say a hurried thank you to Senator Trummell and smile at Warren Strickland across the way when the Clerk concluded triumphantly:

“Mr. Wannamaker! Mr. Welch! Mr. Whiteside! Mr. Wilson!”

And the Vice President, after a hurried consultation with the Clerk, made it official.

“Sixty-eight Senators having answered to their names,” he announced, “a quorum is present.”

Senator Munson jumped up. “Mr. President!” he said, just as Paul Hendershot said the same. Paul looked distinctly annoyed, and Senator Munson hastened to reassure him.

“Mr. President,” he said, “I just wanted to ask the distinguished Senator from Indiana how long he intends to speak, because for the benefit of other Senators, I desire to seek a unanimous-consent agreement on the pending Federal Reserve bill as soon as he concludes. Was the Senator planning to speak for fifteen minutes or so?”

At this there was a quick murmur of laughter and far over on the other side John Winthrop of Massachusetts snorted and remarked with audible sarcasm, “Nice try, Bobby!”

“I have no idea at all how long I intend to speak,” Paul Hendershot said dryly, looking about the chamber in his peering, storklike way, “but I think I can assure the distinguished Majority Leader that it is apt to be slightly more than fifteen minutes. In fact,” he added with one of his sudden bursts of indignation, “since the Senator asks, maybe it will be fifteen hours!”

“Attaboy, Paul,” said Cecil Hathaway sotto voce, somewhere in the back. “You tell him, kid.” Bob Munson smiled pleasantly.

“While I am sure we would all find fifteen hours of the Senator from Indiana edifying,” he said, “he is normally so incisive, so cogent, and so expeditious that I still anticipate that fifteen minutes will be more like it. I was only asking the Senator.”

“That’s the trouble!” Paul Hendershot snapped, unappeased. “That’s the way this whole shabby business is being handled. Rush, rush, rush, from the very first moment. I think—in fact, I am prepared to say it for a fact, that there is a deliberate, underhanded attempt to railroad this nomination through the Senate.”

At this Bob Munson flushed angrily, and he was glad to see that Stanley Danta, Orrin Knox, and Lafe Smith were all on their feet, and that across the aisle Warren Strickland was rising deliberately to his.

“Now, see here!” he said with a touch of real anger in his voice. “I have not been party, nor has anyone I know, including the President, been party to any attempt to railroad through any nomination. I resent the remarks of the Senator from Indiana, Mr. President. I regard them as a deliberate, underhanded insult to me personally. I take them as a personal affront.”

“That may be,” Senator Hendershot said angrily, “that may be. I am sorry if the Senator takes my remarks personally. If he takes them personally, I apologize. But someone somewhere in some secret seat of power in some place in this government is trying to railroad this nomination through. It is not the distinguished Majority Leader. It is not the distinguished President of the United States. It is, perhaps, no one known to God or man. But someone is doing it, and the Senator knows it.”

“Mr. President,” Warren Strickland said quietly, forestalling a retort from Senator Munson, “Mr. President, it seems to me that just possibly, at this beginning of what promises to be a long and controversial episode, that Senators might refrain, at least at this stage of the game, from personal imputations and allegations. Not only is it against the rules of the Senate, but it is against the rules of common sense. We have to live with each other, and remarks such as those of the Senator from Indiana do not contribute to our living together in harmony. I regret that the distinguished Senator from Indiana has seen fit to indulge in such language so early in the debate over the nomination, and I am sure that upon reflection he will wish to modify his language in future. Courtesy and common sense would seem to make such a course advisable.”

“I know what I think,” Paul Hendershot said in a milder tone, “but if I have offended anyone, as I said, I apologize. Now, Mr. President,” he went on, as the others resumed their seats, the tension lessened a little, and the Senate and galleries settled down again to listen, “what is behind this peculiar nomination as it comes up to us from the White House?”

Up at the Chair Senator Munson was in hurried conference with the Vice President.