dismay on some faces, dogged acceptance on others. His foot tapped a disjointed rhythm behind the desk, in an unseen but habitual accompaniment to the thoughts on his mind. There was Coles, whose resignation would be accepted with little regret: a man who didn’t know the meaning of the word loyalty. Bender, in the corner, would be left to sweat it out for an extra week and ponder the significance of Ober’s words.
“Those of you who have been loyal to the President,” Ober said, “have nothing to fear. But loyalty must come first, even before our jobs. If it was in the President’s best interest for me to quit my job, I’d resign tomorrow.”
Teaseman stood up now, at Ober’s nod. “I’ve prepared a model resignation form we can all follow,” the stout man from Press Relations said. “Of course, for your job description and accomplishments in office you’re, heh heh, on your own.” He sat back down.
“Any questions?” Ober asked.
“Whose bright idea was this?” That was Barry Coles, puffing on his unlighted pipe.
Ober drew his tight lips apart in a smile. “We may all give suggestions and ideas to the President,” he said, “but the decisions are his alone.” And I’m going to enjoy putting it to you, you insubordinate son of a bitch!
Sten Craig, Ober’s aide, raised his hand, and Ober nodded to him. “What are the legal implications of this, jobwise?” Craig asked. “Like, what happens to seniority and benefits if you put in your resignation?”
A perfect question, perfectly timed. That should get their minds off the moral aspects of this thing. Hit ’em in the job if you want to get their attention. Ober had been proud of the question from the moment he thought it up two hours earlier. “The resignation will not affect job benefits,” he said. “Unless, of course, it’s accepted. And I’m sure none of us in here have to worry about that.”
The thin smile came on his face again. “Let’s have them in to the Oval Office by Monday morning, okay, fellows?”
* * * *
It was early Thursday afternoon when Kit got back to his office in the Executive Office Building, having spent the morning at a CIA briefing.
Barry Coles had the next office. A thin, ascetic Columbia economics professor who had been brought into the administration as a token Eastern intellectual, he spent most of his time puffing on his pipe, reading airmail editions of British magazines, and preparing position papers that disappeared, unread, into the files.
Now he was methodically packing up the belongings in his desk. “I hate to part with the electric stapler,” he said, waving the device at Kit as he paused in the door. “I feel as though it’s grown to be a part of me, and I part of it.”
“You could claim it followed you home,” Kit said. “What happened, you finally quit?”
“I hand in my papers with the rest of the herd,” Coles said, “fully expecting to be—I think the expression is culled.’”
“What papers?”
“You don’t know? Where’ve you been this morning? We’ve all been requested to hand in our resignations. Part of the President’s ‘New Broom—Clean Sweep’ program. They will not, of course, be accepted. Except in a few cases—like mine.”
“You think this is all one of Charlie Ober’s machinations?”
“It has all his earmarks, doesn’t it? Little sneaky move that looks good till you get up close to it. You want to see my resignation?” He pulled a paper off his desk.
Sure.
“Here. They gave us a form to follow, but it was a puling, mealymouthed sort of resignation, not the direct ballsy resignation that the public has a right to expect from their servants.” He handed it to Kit, who read it with amused interest.
From: Barry Coles, Ph.D.
Adviser on Economic Affairs,
Foreign Department of International Trade
The Executive Office Building
To: President, the United States
Subject: Resignation
I resign.
Sincerely yours,
Barry Coles, Ph.D.
Accomplishments while in office:
Papers produced: 37
Papers acted on by executive branch: None
Papers read by executive branch: None
Score: 0 for 37
“I think I’ll follow the standard form,” Kit said, handing the documents back. “One gets the feeling you haven’t been completely happy here.”
“It’s been invaluable for me,” Barry told him. “But I can’t say I see what they’ve gotten out of it.”
“What was its value to you?”
“It’s impossible to really know about government until you are one,” Barry said. “Even ignored as I am in this little office, I’m closer to the center of power than I will ever be again. There’s a certain exhilaration in being on the inside. Don’t you ever feel it?”
Kit shook his head. “Not me. I’m nothing but a highly paid messenger boy. It was much more exciting over at the Agency before I accepted the President’s shilling.”
“You mean the Department of Agriculture, don’t you?” Coles asked, smiling.
“Sure do,” Kit said. “You know, there’s nothing stranger looking in this government than a document with a cover sheet stamped ‘Department of Agriculture—Top Secret.’ Are you going to be happy back at Columbia? Where all you can do is teach about government instead of being one?”
“Home, as a wise man once said, is where they have to take you in. At Columbia I’ve got tenure. Here, all I’ve got is heartache. I understand that in previous administrations the Presidents used to listen to the people they hired to give them advice. They wouldn’t often do anything about it, but at least they listened.”
“It does seem as though many of us are here more for show than substance.”
“Why are you here?” Barry asked.
“I ask myself,” Kit said. “They offered me the job because I did them a favor, but why I took it…I suppose was something of the feeling of getting closer to the center of power. And a feeling that it might be good for my career. When I go back to the Agency, I may skip a few grades.”
“Well, be careful of this president,” Barry Coles said. “You have no control over his actions, but the same brush can give you a good coat of tar. If these advisers of his take him too far down the wrong path, don’t get dragged along.”
“You’ve been soured,” Kit told him.
“I,” Coles said, “am naturally sour. What I’ve been is sobered. Come look me up in New York.”
“You have my word.”
The phone in Kit’s office buzzed, so Kit gave Coles a quick handshake and dashed over to pick it up.
“Mr. Young?” the operator’s nasal voice asked.
“That’s right.”
“There’s a Mr. Schuster down here to see you. Shall I send him up?”
“Mr. Schuster?”
“That’s right. He’s with the Washington Post.”
“Oh.” What the hell could the Post want with him? “Sure, send him up.” He couldn’t talk about his job—not that there was anything to talk about—but refusing to see the Post man would give the appearance of having something to hide. Not telling him anything would merely make Kit seem like