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By the second week of the New Year, the new Cabinet had been picked. Contrary to the rumors before the election, the senator’s brother had not been selected for any post whatever, but the men who were picked for Cabinet posts were certainly of high caliber. The United States Senate had confirmed them all before Inauguration Day.

That day was clear and cold in Washington. After the seemingly endless ceremonies and ceremonials, after the Inaugural Ball, and the Inaugural Supper, and the Inaugural Et Cetera, President James Cannon went to bed, complaining of a “slight headache”.

“Frankly,” he told Vice President Matthew Fisher, “it is a real head-splitter.” He took four aspirin and went to bed.

He said he felt “a little better” the next day.

* * * * *

The fifth of February.

Ten forty-eight in the evening.

The White House, Washington, D.C.

Dr. Frank Hewlitt Cannon stood in a darkened bedroom in Blair House, across the street from the Executive Mansion, nervously looking out the window, at the big white house across the way. He was not nervous for himself, although he had plenty of reason to be. He was clad in pajamas, as his brother had ordered, and had even taken the extra precaution of rumpling up his hair.

He looked at his watch, and then looked back at the White House.

How long? he thought. How long?

He looked at his wrist again. The sweep hand only moved when he looked at it, apparently. He dropped his hands and clasped them behind his back. How long before he would know?

My kid brother, he thought. I could always outthink him and outfight him. But he’s got something I haven’t got. He’s stuck to his guns and fought hard all these years. I couldn’t do what he’s doing tonight, and I know it. You’re a better man than I am, kid.

Across Pennsylvania Avenue, Senator James Cannon was doing some heavy consideration, too. He sat on the edge of his bed and looked at the small tubular device in his hand.

Will Frank be safe? That’s the only weak point in the plan.

Frank was safe. He had to be. Frank hadn’t been over from Blair House in three days. They hadn’t even seen each other in three days. The Secret Service men–

He threw a glance toward the door that led from his bedroom to the hall.

The Secret Service agents would know that Frank couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with it. The only possible connection would be the hypogun itself. He looked at the little gadget. Hell, he thought; now or never.

He got up and strode purposefully into the bathroom. He smiled crookedly at his own reflection in the mirror. It was damnably difficult for a President to outwit his own bodyguard.

Get on with it!

He swallowed the capsule Frank had given him. Then, placing the muzzle against the precise spots Frank had shown him, James Cannon pulled the trigger. Once … twice … thrice …

Against each nerve center in his left side. Fine.

Now that it was done, all fear–all trepidation–left Senator James Cannon. Now there was no way to go but ahead.

First, the hypogun that had blown the drug into his body. Two minutes to get rid of that, for that was the only thing that could tie Frank in to the plan.

They had already agreed that there was no way to get rid of it. It couldn’t be destroyed or thrown away. There was only one way that it could be taken from the White House …

Cannon left his fingerprints on it, dropped it into the wastebasket, and covered it with tissue paper. Then he left the bathroom and walked toward the hall door. Beyond it, he knew, were the guarding Secret Service men.

And already his left side was beginning to feel odd.

He walked to the door and opened it. He had a scowl on his face.