The Mammoth Book of 20th Century SF II by David G. Hartwell Page A

breath. Like Reddington, he straightened his shoulders.
    The Secret Service picked them up halfway across town. That they knew where he was, who he was, amazed him and worried Reddington. They went through the gates of the White House and drove up
before the door. It was opened for him as he put out his hand, he stepped back in a reflex action, from the sudden blinding flares of the photographers’ flashbulbs. Reddington behind him took
him firmly by the arm. Larkin went with him gratefully, unable to see, unable to hear anything but the roar of the crowd from behind the gates and the shouted questions of the reporters.
    Inside the great front doors it was suddenly peaceful again, very quiet and pleasantly dark. He took off his hat instinctively. Luckily he had been here before, he recognized the lovely hall and
felt not awed but at home. He was introduced quickly to several people whose names made no impression on him. A woman smiled. He made an effort to smile back. Reddington took him by the arm again
and led him away. There were people all around him, but they were quiet and hung back. He saw the respect on their faces. It sobered him, quickened his mind.
    “The President’s in the Lincoln Room,” Reddington whispered. “He wants to see you. How do you feel?”
    “All right.”
    “Listen.”
    “Yes.”
    “You’ll be fine. You’re doing beautifully. Keep just that look on your face.”
    “I’m not trying to keep it there.”
    “You aren’t?” Reddington looked at him. “Good. Very good.” He paused and looked again at Larkin. Then he smiled.
    “It’s done it. I thought it would but I wasn’t sure. But it does it every time. A man comes in here, no matter what he was before, no matter what he is when he goes out, but he
feels it. Don’t you feel it?”
    “Yes. It’s like – ”
    “What?”
    “It’s like . . . when you’re in here . . . you’re responsible .”
    Reddington said nothing. But Larkin felt a warm pressure on his arm.
    They paused at the door of the Lincoln Room. Two Secret Service men, standing by the door, opened it respectfully. They went on in, leaving the others outside.
    Larkin looked across the room to the great, immortal bed. He felt suddenly very small, very tender. He crossed the soft carpet and looked down at the old man.
    “Hi,” the old man said. Larkin was startled, but he looked down at the broad weakly smiling face, saw the famous white hair and the still-twinkling eyes, and found himself smiling in
return.
    “Mr. President,” Larkin said.
    “I hear your name is Larkin.” The old man’s voice was surprisingly strong, but as he spoke now Larkin could see that the left side of his face was paralyzed. “Good name
for a president. Indicates a certain sense of humor. Need a sense of humor. Reddington, how’d it go?”
    “Good as can be expected, sir.” He glanced briefly at Larkin. “The President knows. Wouldn’t have done it without his okay. Now that I think of it, it was probably he who
put the Secret Service on us.”
    “You’re doggone right,” the old man said. “They may bother the by-jingo out of you, but those boys are necessary. And also, if I hadn’t let them know we knew Larkin
was material – ” He stopped abruptly and closed his eyes, took a deep breath. After a moment he said: “Mr. Larkin?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “I have one or two comments. You mind?”
    “Of course not, sir.”
    “I couldn’t solve it. I just . . . didn’t have time. There were so many other things to do.” He stopped and again closed his eyes. “But it will be up to you, son.
The presidency . . . must be preserved. What they’ll start telling you now is that there’s only one way out, let SAM handle it. Reddington, too,” the old man opened his eyes and
gazed sadly at Reddington, “he’ll tell you the same thing, but don’t you believe it.
    “Sure, SAM knows all the answers. Ask him a question on anything, on levels of parity tax rates, on