"The President kept this flat rented largely at my insistence," she said, replacing the glass pot on its knitted pad. She handed him the cup of coffee and sat in the chair catercorner from him, her nyloned knees pushing up against the table leg as she faced him. "Few people know it's here. He thinks we might be able to keep the secret another month or two. After that, it's less my private hideaway, but it's still here. I hope you appreciate how much this secret means to me."

Butler had gotten off the phone and now stood by the window, facing the doorway. Hicks thought he resembled a bulldog, and Mrs. Crockerman a moderately plump poodle.

"My husband has told me about his preoccupations, naturally," she said. "I can't say I understand everything that's happening, or . . . that I agree with all of his conclusions. I've read the reports, most of them, and I've read the paper you prepared for him. He is not listening to you, you know."

Hicks said nothing, watching her over the rim of his cup. The coffee was very good.

"My husband is peculiar that way. He keeps advisors on long after they've served their purpose or have his ear. He tries to maintain an appearance of fairness and keeping an open mind, having those about him who disagree. But he doesn't listen very often. He is not listening to you."

"I realize that," Hicks said. "I've been moved out of the White House. To a hotel."

"So my secretary informs me. You're still on call should the President need you?"

Hicks nodded.

"This election has been sheer hell for him, even though he hasn't been campaigning hard. Their 'strategy.' Let Beryl Cooper hang herself. He's sensitive, and he doesn't like not campaigning. He's still not used to being top dog."

"My sympathies," Hicks said, wondering what she was getting at.

"I wanted to warn you. He's spending a lot of time with a man whose presence at the White House, especially during the campaign, upsets many of us. Have you ever heard of Oliver Ormandy?"

Hicks shook his head.

"He's well known in American religious circles. He's fairly intelligent, as such men go. He's kept his face out of politics and out of the news the past few years. All the other fools"—she practically spat out the word—"have turned themselves into clowns before the media's cyclops eye, but not Oliver Ormandy. He first met my husband during the campaign, at a dinner held at Robert James University. Do you know of that place?"

"Is that where they asked for permission to arm their security guards with machine pistols?"

"Yes."

"Ormandy's in charge of that?"

"No. He leaves that to one of the bellowing clowns. He glad-hands politicians in the background. Ormandy is quite sincere, you know. More coffee?"

Hicks extended his cup and she poured more.