Inauguration

Science Fiction Quarterly - Feb 1957

(1957) *

Margaret St. Clair illustrated by Emsh

Anyone could know the truth about the President —except the President!

-

DR. ELKINS’ said, “I’ll have to tell him something.” He passed his hand over his eyes wearily. “He’s been complaining of dysphoria , lassitude, painful mental and physical fatigue. They always say the same thing; even the words are almost the same. I ought to know —I’ve been physician-in-chief to three presidents.”

“It’s the hardest office in the world,” the younger man—his name was Reubens, and his speciality , un like Elkins’, was neurology—comment e d. “They always wear out before the end of the four years.”

“It’s hard on me too,” Elkins said. “What kind of medical ethics is it —what kind of any ethics—to lie to a patient? I’d give a lot if I could tell him the truth; but, of course, I have no choice.”

“No. He mustn’t find out; he couldn’t do his job if he knew.”

“I’m always surprised that they don’t realize,” Elkins said, carrying on his train of thought. “He doesn’t even realize what he’s looking for. We know, but we ca n’t give it to him.”

“That’s only temporary.”

“Eh? Oh—of course , you’re right; but I feel pretty sorry for him.”

“It can’t be helped,” Reubens said; “it’s the law. Ever since 1970, when the non-partisan act was passed …”

“—-I wish to God I didn’t have to examine him this afternoon.”

The patient sat up on the examining table. He was a spare, small-boned man, only a little above medium height, in late middle age. The wrin kles around his eyes seemed to have been made by laughter orginally . “Did you find anything wrong?” he asked.

“Ummmmm ... Not very much, Mr. President.”

The patient sighed. “Medical sci ence has advanced so much,” he ob served; “and yet, neither you nor the other doctors can seem to do anything to help me.” Hi s eyes were not so much reproachful as puzzled.

“I wouldn’t say that, sir,” Dr. El kins retorted. “I found a—I guess a layman would call it a small tumor —that I’m going to remove. You ought to feel better after it’s gone. But you ought to remember, Mr. Pr esident, that for nearly four years now you’ve been holding down the hardest job in the world.” He began popping instru ments into an autoclave.

“I know that; I can s till perform my duties, though it’s a terrible strain. But I’ve lost something, some huma n contact. Perhaps I should have mar ried, but I never seemed to have the time for it.”

“Our presidents never do,” Elkins answered, chuckling. “Yes, it might have helped. There’s no woman you’re interested in now?”

“No, none. I told you there was a lack of affect.”

“Hum. Well, you only have to hold on until the 20th of January, when your successor takes office.”

“I know; I’m thankful for the twen ty-fourth amendment. Otherwise, I’m afraid some of my party cohorts migh t have wanted me to run again.”

-

THE NURSE had come in. She helped Dr. Elkins roll up his sleeves and start his surgical scrub bing; she got the tray of instruments from the autoclave, started sterilizing the region over the president’s chest muscles. Unde r Dr. Elkins’ direction, she put a gauze mask over the presi dent’s nose and saturated it with anaes thetic .

“Inhale,” the doctor told the presi dent. He laid a strip of gauze over his patient’s eyes; his other hand had gone around to the back of the presi dent’s head.

“Inhale,” he said once more. “Deep er.” Deeper. His hand moved. “Until you feel dizzy. That’s fine. Yes.”

“Things are getting black,” Presi dent Mclvor remarked; “it’s not un pleasant.”

“Fine; that’s the way we want things. Inhale again.” His hand made a plucking motion at the back of his patient’s head. “There.”

“You ought to feel better now,” El kins told the president half an hour later. “Your chest may be a little sore for a day or two, but you don’t have to slow down on your usual activi ties. Mind you don’t go fooling with the bandage; I’ll change the dressing to morrow myself.”

The president got up from the op erating table and began putting on his clothes. “I don’t feel at all sick or dizzy,” he observed.

“No, you wouldn’t. I mean, we h ave good anaesthetics these days.

“Remember what I said about the bandage.”

“All right—Ouch!”

“What’s the matter?” Elkins asked, leaning forward.

“Stepped on something.” The presi dent turned the sole of his bare foot upward and examined it. “How did that get there?” he asked.

“Probably came from the auto clave,” Elkins answered. He reached over, pulled the bit of steel from the foot, and dropped it into the waste basket. “As I was saying, don’t tamper with the bandage.”

“O. K.”

-

THE OPERATION on the presi dent’s chest was performed early in December. For a time, his feelings of depression and weariness lifted; but as the month progressed, and the pres sure of his official duties increased, depression and weariness returned with crushing force. He had never felt so tired before.

Elkins met his complaints with nods and wise silences. Other physi cians were called in; he was sent to the hospital for a series of tests. In the end, the verdict w as what Elkins had been saying all along; that Mc Ivor’s symptoms, for a man in this position, were only natural. Nothing could be done.

There was a policy-making cabinet meeting on December 24th. As the others were leaving, Mclvor said to At wood (Dept. o f Defense, his oldest friend), “Hal, I’m going to have to resign.”

Atwood’s jaw dropped. “You mean —from the presidency?” He sounded very surprised.

“Yes; I don’t think I can keep go ing any longer, Hal . Elkins and the other doctors c an’t do anything.”

“Bu t—it’s only a few days longer. If you resigned now, the vice would have to take over, and you know what he is. Can’t stick it out, for the coun try’s sake?”

“I’m not sure it’s for the country’s good to have me continue in office; I can’t remember things.”

For a moment Atwood was very still. “What things?” he asked.

“My past—my boyhood; going to school; my friendship with you; the campaign—all the things that used to be so clear, the things that used to matter. I can’t remember anything clearly that happened before I became president. Things are leaving me; I’m losing my self .”

Atwood’s face cleared. “You’re un der a great strain, Mac. But I can as sure you that your decisions and ac tions, in official matters, were never better than they’ve been during the l ast month. I watched the way you han dled the servo-mechanisms enabling act. There never was a more painful, bristly, difficult issue. The way you dealt with it was nothing short of masterful. Impartial, statesmanlike. No man alive could have done as well.”

“Oh. But I—Oh.”

“It’s only a few days more—less than a month. Elkins thinks you can do it, doesn’t he?”

“Yes. But …”

“You’ve got to.” Atwood leaned for ward earnestly, his eyes entreating. “Won’t you stick it out, Mac? Just a little while longer! For th e country’s sake.”

“... All right.”

-

HE STOOD it, somehow. In a de pression so profound that it was almost palpable, he went through his official round, vetoed, recommended, consulted with the senators of his par ty, made decisions and speeches. The day s were an ordeal of increasing bit terness; he marked them off on his calendar like a man counting time in prison. And then it was the night of January 19th.

Mclvor was alone in his study. Ha had been alone most of the day—though, of course, there were t he two secret service men on guard outside the study door. His hands rested idly on the desk in front of him. It seemed to him that it was the first time in four years his hands hadn’t held something —a pen, a book, a report, a document. They were empty no w.

What was going to become of him? He had been looking forward so ea gerly to tonight, the end of his ordeal, that he hadn’t tried to look beyond it. But what would life be like tomorrow? What could happen to an ex-president?

The secret service man outsid e the door gave a soft cough.—He could, Mclvor thought, go back to the little town where he had been born (he couldn’t remember its name, exactly, but it was in Kansas … or Nebraska … he could easily find out) and go on living there the rest of his life .

Going back to the town where he had been born was what one would expect an ex-president to do. It seemed to him that he had heard that Willis —the man who had been president four terms before his own—was still living, a very old man, in a small Ohio town . He couldn’t remember what had hap pened to the men who had held office in between Willis’ term and his own, though. Perhaps they were still living in obscure country places, wearing out the time between now and their death by practicing a little Jaw.

He had practiced law himself once, he was almost sure. Before he had been president.

He rubbed his hands over his eyes. He was very tired—so tired that move ment was painful—but he couldn’t sit quietly at his desk any longer. He got up and began to pace ar ound his study. The big, handsome room had been the place where most of his waking hours for the last four years had been spent. And yet, at this moment, it seemed to him he had never beer, in it at all.

Up and down he walked, over the pile of the soft, de ep carpet. Once more the secret service man on guard coughed discreetly. It occurred to ex-President Mclvor that what he want ed, in simplest terms, was not to have to go on living. But to kill oneself was strictly forbidden ,. It was a good thing that this was so; he would not have gone on living, otherwise.

There was no sound of footsteps outside, only the guard’s soft, repeated cough. But the study door opened with out any warning and two men came in.

-

EX-PRESIDENT Mclvor turned to ward them, faintly surprised. He was not alarmed—it was only that in the four years of his office no one had ever walked in the study unannounced.

It was Elkins and another man —one Mclvor did not recognize. The stranger was carrying what looked like a rolled-up cloth stretc her, and there was a bag of mechanics’ tools in Elkins’ hands. They were both dressed in dark, heavy cloth.

Mclvor looked at them for a mo ment without understanding. Then his face cleared; he realized who they were, and what they had come for. He realized why, after his operation, there had been a steel nut on the operating room floor.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said with formal politeness. “I am glad to see you. Will it take long?” He had begun to smile.

“Not so long, sir,” Elkins answered. He spoke with deep respect.

“I am glad of that. I have been in much distress … but you know that.”

“Yes, Mr. President.” Elkins cleared his throat. He seemed to have no more words.

“Shall I sit down in the chair?” Mclvor asked, still sm iling.

“Yes, please,” Elkins answered gratefully. “With your back to us, sir; it will be easier that way.”

Mclvor seated himself in the desk chair. The green-shaded lamp made a quiet pool of light on the dark mahog any surface of the desk. He leaned forward a little, so as to expose his neck.

There was a clink of tools behind him. He said, “I suppose the reason you didn’t tell me was that my know ing would have impaired my ability to handle the job?”

“Yes, Mr. Presid ent.” It was the stranger who spoke. He had a very deep voice. “You would never have carried on, if you had known. The whole country knew it, of course, ex cept you; that’s the law. Ever since the non-partisan act was passed, in 1970, all the presidential candidates, and all our presidents, have .. have been like you.”

-

McIVOR NODDED. “Because we’re more impartial, I suppose. My pre-presidential memories were synthetic?”

“Yes. As time passed and new cir cuits were formed, they tended to fade out.”

There was a click. “How do you feel now, sir?” Elkins asked. “Are you in less distress? Paul and I have shut off your visual apparatus.”

“Yes, less distress,” Mclvor an swered. “There’s a layer of gauze between me and—what I’ve been suf fering.”

There was another clink from the bag of tools. Elkins said, “Now we’ve eliminated the sense of touch, and balance; you’re sure you’re more comfortable?”

“Yes. This is more gauze. And agreeably thick.”

“I’m glad of that, sir. The next will take a little l onger. We don’t want to cause you any pain; what we are going to do is to eliminate hearing ,, movement, and mental activity.”

“You’re very kind,” Mclvor an swered. “That’s the last of all, isn’t it? After that I’ll be—dead?”

“Your machinery will be stopped .” Elkins answered; “you could call it that, sir.”

“You are very kind,” the ex-Presi dent repeated. “Please be quick.”

It took them nearly three-quarters of an hour more to dismantle him com pletely. He was an extremely intricate mechanism. Then the two mechanics put the pieces of the ex-President of the United States in the cloth stretch er and carried them respectfully down the White House service stairs.

The End

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Inauguration