Free Promise of Joy by Allen Drury

democracy. This had brought them the unrelenting hostility of many in the media, the academic, religious, artistic and professional worlds who did not see the attitudes and trends in the same light they did. But it had not deflected or deterred either of them; nor had it jarred the steady balance or the wry good humor with which Beth, in particular, had responded to the incessant and unrelenting belittlement.
    Orrin, of course, had not suffered those he believed to be fools quite so equably. Possessed of great intelligence, a lively temper and a tongue sometimes too willing to be tart and impatient, he had often responded broadside to his enemies instead of trying to go around them. More often than not, this had worked in the Senate, whose members normally favored the more subtle approach but in his case respected his sheer intelligence and the powerful will that went with it. It was not, however, until Harley Hudson appointed him Secretary of State that he became, as he himself acknowledged, a much more moderate and diplomatic soul. Not too diplomatic, for that wouldn’t have been Orrin: but at least more reasonable, more willing to compromise, a little less certain that he had all the answers to everything.
    Then had come the convention, Harley’s decision to run again, Orrin’s belief that his dream of the White House was finally put to rest forever; Harley’s mysterious death, Orrin’s battle with Ted for the nomination, Orrin’s squeak-in victory and his realization that he had to give in and compromise with Ted and his supporters if he wanted to win. Out of that had come, suddenly, a man mature in a way Orrin had never really been mature before. And then had come horror at the Monument, and out of that—what kind of Orrin?
    The President did not know and his puzzlement must have shown in his face to some degree when he arrived at heavily guarded “Checkpoint Alpha,” because the reporters and television cameramen waiting there rushed forward as far as they were allowed, which wasn’t much, to shout their frantic appeals for enlightenment. What was the nominee going to do?
    “I don’t know,” the President called out sharply, “and if I did, you know I wouldn’t tell you. Why don’t you wait and see, as the Committee and I are going to have to do?”
    “Old bastard!” the Post commented, not too quietly. “He won’t tell us anything.”
    “That’s right,” the President responded with equal cordiality. “Why should I?”
    “The people have a right to know!” the Post shouted indignantly; but the President’s response was a smile of such openly sarcastic amusement that it almost said aloud, “Look who’s talking!” As such it was promptly wiped off the television screens and he was allowed to enter the building without further questioning, followed by mutters quite as savage, if more muted, as any that had been shouted at him in the streets.
    So there it was again, he reflected with an annoyance that again showed briefly in his eyes, that eternal hostility that crippled them all, press and politicians alike: for which, he supposed, he was just as much to blame as they were. Certainly Orrin was, for after an early period of trying to appease critics who were implacably against him on the most fundamental of issues, foreign policy, he had come finally to the conclusion that they could never be appeased, that as long as he pursued what they liked to call a “tough” or “pro-war” policy toward the Communists, they were never going to forgive him, never relent, never be even minimally fair. When he finally decided, permanently, that he must take his stand on what he believed regardless of their opposition, he had guaranteed a state of permanent warfare with the media. Sooner or later all those who supported him were drawn into the same vortex and received the same treatment.
    How would it be, the President wondered for a moment as he went mechanically through the motions of greeting the