The Last President: A Novel of an Alternative America by Michael Kurland, S. W. Barton Page B

couldn’t talk.” He took a tall glass, filled it halfway with scotch, and then stuck in two ice cubes and two inches of Seven-Up. “Had a hard day,” he said, “entertaining constituents. Least, they damn well better have been entertained.”
    Obie was Representative Obediah Porfritt (R., Neb.), a hardworking, intelligent, capable representative of the citizens of central Nebraska. He put as much time as he could into personal contact with his Nebraskan constituents, as he knew himself to be a boring public speaker who came across badly on television. His great fear was that someday the Democrats would find some farmer with charisma to run against him in his district.
    “What sort of entertainment do constituents go in for these days?” Adams asked.
    “Not much in the way of song or dance,” Obie told him. “They actually came to see the President, congratulate him on his reelection, let him know they support him, in case he was wondering. I only escorted them to the Oval Office.”
    “Did they come away with pens?” Adams asked.
    “Tie pins and cufflinks. And a group photograph and autographed presidential photos. How can a poor congressman compete with the presidential seal?” Obie slumped down into an armchair and stared into his scotch. “Do you have any idea of how much the government spends a year on cufflinks? I hear he wanted to put his picture in the middle of them, right in the center of the presidential seal, but Vandermeer wouldn’t let him.”
    “Obie!” Adams said in mock horror. “And you a Republican. Do you mean that the fair citizens of Nebraska weren’t interested in talking to you at all?”
    “Oh, sure,” Obie said. “I sat them down and told them an amusing story about my plan for getting the Army Corps of Engineers to inspect the Middle Loup River with an eye toward inserting a dam. That got their interest. Very amusing.”
    “They were amused?”
    “They were delighted. I was amused.” Obie took a long gulp of whiskey. “Over Wilbur Mills’ dead body do I get a dam on the Middle Loup.”
    “You mean you can’t deliver?”
    “Sure I can deliver. All I told them was that the Corps would inspect. And inspect they will. The Corps loves to inspect. No problem there.”
    “Ah.”
    Colonel Francis Baker entered the study and skimmed his hat onto the couch. “I’m early,” he said, “but I may make up for that by leaving early. Fair warning.” He took a wide glass, plumped two ice cubes in it, and surrounded them with bourbon. A tall man with silver-white hair who looked trim and youthful in his uniform, Colonel Baker had begun his Army career by being drafted during the Korean War. To his surprise he liked the Army; it was dirty, muddy and dangerous, its regulations were mostly stupid, and entirely too many officers were incompetent, but for the first time in his life he felt that he was doing something worth doing. Something that mattered. And he did it well.
    He had gone to OCS after Korea and slowly worked his way up the chain of command. Now, back from a field command in Vietnam, he was holding down a staff job in the Pentagon and waiting for his first star.
    Adams nodded at him. “Sit down, Colonel,” he said. “Leaving early should be no problem. If you’ve lost enough, I’m sure nobody would object.”
    Colonel Baker snorted. “That’s a precedent I don’t think I’ll set.” He was known as an ultraconservative player, who seldom lost.
    Ian Faulkes and Grier Laporte were the next to arrive. Ian, a Londoner who had been living in the United States for the past six years, was employed by the MacPherson News Syndicate to report and comment to the British on their American cousins. A slender, handsome man in his early forties, he dressed with the faultless arrogance found only in upper-class Englishmen.
    Grier, a fifty-year-old Texan with a pot belly, had a wide handlebar mustache and was bald as a marshmallow. His suit looked as though he had borrowed it from