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“No!” He didn’t let the governor time to speak; he went on: “Matthew Fisher set it up perfectly. He exonerated Bossard enough to allow the ex-mayor to continue in private life without any question. But–there remained just enough question to keep him out of public office for the rest of his life. Was that wrong, Harry? Was it?”

Spanding looked blankly at the senator for a moment, then his expression slowly changed to one of grudging admiration. “Well … if you put it that way … yeah. I mean, no; it wasn’t wrong. It was the only way to play it.” He dropped his cigarette into a nearby ash tray. “O.K., Jim; you win. I’ll back Fisher all the way.”

“Thanks, Harry,” Cannon said. “Now, if we–“

Congressman Matson came back into the room, saying, “I got ’em, Jim. Five or ten minutes, they’ll be here. Which one of ’em is it going to be?”

“Matt Fisher, if we can come to an agreement,” Cannon said, watching Matson’s face closely.

Matson chewed at his cigar for a moment, then nodded. “He’ll do. Not much political personality, but, hell, he’s only running for Veep. We can get him through.” He took the cigar out of his mouth. “How do you want to run it?”

“I’ll talk to Fisher in my bedroom. You and Harry hold the others in here with the usual chitchat. Tell ’em I’m thinking over the choice of my running mate, but don’t tell ’em I’ve made up my mind yet. If Matt Fisher doesn’t want it, we can tell the others that Matt and I were simply talking over the possibilities. I don’t want anyone to think he’s second choice. Got it?”

Matson nodded. “Whatever you say, Jim.”

* * * * *

That year, late August was a real blisterer along the eastern coast of the United States. The great megalopolis that sprawled from Boston to Baltimore in utter scorn of state boundaries sweltered in the kind of atmosphere that is usually only found in the pressing rooms of large tailor shops. Consolidated Edison, New York’s Own Power Company, was churning out multimegawatts that served to air condition nearly every enclosed place on the island of Manhattan–which served only to make the open streets even hotter. The power plants in the Bronx, west Brooklyn, and east Queens were busily converting hydrogen into helium and energy, and the energy was being used to convert humid air at ninety-six Fahrenheit into dry air at seventy-one Fahrenheit. The subways were crowded with people who had no intention of going anywhere in particular; they just wanted to retreat from the hot streets to the air-conditioned bowels of the city.

But the heat that can be measured by thermometers was not the kind that was causing two groups of men in two hotels, only a few blocks apart on the East Side of New York’s Midtown, to break out in sweat, both figurative and literal.

One group was ensconced in the Presidential Suite of the New Waldorf–the President and Vice President of the United States, both running for re-election, and other high members of the incumbent party.

The other group, consisting of Candidates Cannon and Fisher, and the high members of their party, were occupying the only slightly less pretentious Bridal Suite of a hotel within easy walking distance of the Waldorf.

Senator James Cannon read through the news release that Horvin had handed him, then looked up at the PR man. “This is right off the wire. How long before it’s made public?”

Horvin glanced at his watch. “Less than half an hour. There’s an NBC news program at five-thirty. Maybe before, if one of the radio stations think it’s important enough for a bulletin break.”

“That means that it will have been common knowledge for four hours by the time we go on the air for the debate,” said Cannon.