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FIFTY-FOUR

Resigning wasn't just a matter of writing a statement, signing some forms, and saying "I quit" before cameras in the Oval Office, but Haugen didn't make a production of it, either. He simply told the nation that "the old man" had been waiting to "sleep late, lie in the sun, and fish a lot." And since the recovery had really picked up steam, and people were making things go right, and he had a vice president who could not only do the job—Cromwell could have too—but who was happy to do it, it was time for him to leave.

It didn't involve a turnover of government, with extensive briefing of the new president. Valenzuela had been part of the government, and had been acting as president for more than two weeks. And like Haugen, he inherited a functioning, in-place executive office staff that was dedicated and efficient. Only John Zale and Stephen Flynn left when Arne Haugen did, and neither had been part of the regular executive staff.

It was a breezy morning in mid-March when Arne and Lois Haugen, private citizens, disembarked from the shuttle copter at Andrews Air Force Base and walked thirty yards to the Rockwell T-39. Arne suspected it was the same executive jet that had brought him to the capital less than six months before. That had been at night in a rain storm; now white clouds sailed briskly across day-blue sky, the air seeming to chill whenever one of them cut off the sun.

The government was flying the Haugens home to Duluth, with the six Secret Service agents assigned to them. (Stephen Flynn had left for Albany the day before to visit his parents.) The Haugens' departure had not been announced, and the press was not there. They'd said their goodbyes to the White House domestic staff, and to Milstead, and to Martinelli who, wet-eyed, had hugged her ex-boss—gently, for he still wore a cast and had pins in his left shoulder blade.

President Valenzuela could not see them off. He'd left the evening before on Air Force One, to meet in Vancouver with Prime Ministers Byrnes and Beliveau of Great Britain and Canada. Vice President Marianne Weisner and Jumper Cromwell were the Haugens' farewell committee.

The Air Force personnel were courteous and respectful, as always, and when the Haugens had boarded, Arne shook hands with all of them. Then, after the prefiight routine was completed, the small jet took off. The city passed beneath, both Arne and Lois watching as it gave way to a patchwork of developments, woods and fields. Shortly the landscape became dominated by long low mountain ridges extending southwest to northeast, covered mostly with winter-bare forest. Somewhere down in that general region, Arne knew, was Camp David; he and Lois never had gotten there.

He looked across at her. She seemed pensive too; obviously they had adjustments to make. He decided to start his as of right then, with a reading binge, and from his travel bag took a paperback novel: Once More Into the Wishing Well. The cover showed a banded, jovian planet, and a ship that had just launched a spherical probe. Undoubtedly manned. Liisa had brought the book with her when she'd arrived to help her mother organize their move.

Anderson. How long has the old master been writing? Forty-five years at a guess, Haugen told himself as he settled back to read. After all those years, all those books, his muse is still healthy, still keeps up its varied flow.

His last thought before immersing his attention in the novel was to wonder if he had a muse? He'd soon find out. Or perhaps the term didn't apply to reciting memoirs onto tape.

Muse or whatever, he wouldn't ask any long-term production of it.

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Framed