must tell me how you managed not to show a trace of it!" "That's easy! I managed by telling myself, the whole afternoon and so far this evening, that I'd soon be asleep!"
"Zen!" Faith cried, pleased and not mocking.
"Yogi," the Chinese girl chuckled. "But it doesn't work endlessly. If you'll forgive me--?"
When she'd gone, the two people on the terrace were quiet for so long that each began to wonder, in the deepening dusk, if the other had dozed off. But just before Faith rose to make a close inspection, Ben, seeing the preliminary movement, said, lazily,
"What's that giant rockslide that looks fresh-blasted, down below Sachem's Watch? You quarry limestone here?"
"Papa's Panic Palace," Faith answered--sharply, he thought. "Hasn't he told you about it, by now?"
"Panic Palace?" he repeated. "No." He sounded puzzled and then, not. "You mean--?"
Faith nodded and he saw that clearly, because just as her bright head moved, she turned on lights which, though wan and indirect, momentarily almost hurt his dark-accustomed eyes. "He'll take you on the grand tour tomorrow, that's for sure. However, I'd rather talk about almost anything else in the world than that! It's so dull, and so interminable. I'd even rather talk about Antarctica. "
He grinned. "Okay. Let's."
From Antarctica their conversation fled the world over, but rested mainly upon themselves and their agreements and differences on more subjects than either would have guessed they could or would summon in an hour or two of random talk at twilight, subjects that ranged from sleeping "raw" (they both did, they found) to junk jewelry (neither one liked it, as a rule), and from French cigarettes (another point of mutual distaste) to horseback riding (she did; he didn't).
When the phone summoned her, he sat alone watching the stars overhead, and trying to find the planet, but failing, as it had already descended into the murk that rode above this heavily-populated and largely-industrialized portion of New England.
Faith reappeared finally, but did not resume her lounging seat. "It was Kit. He won his bet. He's going home and says he'll show up in the morning. Want to know something?"
"What?"
"I'm pretty sure Kit made that bet and took that long swim on purpose." She saw he failed to comprehend. "I mean, so you and I could have this evening together. He's nice, a lot of ways. See?"
"Yes. Guess I do. I'll remember that degree of niceness. And I appreciate it, too!"
She smiled gently. "I hope. But the appreciation hour's over. I'm going in. Letters to write--then, bed."
She came nearer. He had risen and he had the sudden thought that she expected, or hoped, he'd kiss her good night. Like a pretty tot offering herself, hesitantly, to a new-met but approved-of uncle. Maybe. He held out his long arm, its long-fingered hand.
When she'd gone, he thought a stroll in the gardens would be appropriate.
Thought that until, stepping from the air-conditioned outdoor area of the terrace, he rediscovered the heat of the dark. Ninety-five degrees, he guessed; and like hitting a good line of an opposing football team. It virtually halted him, nearly threw him back for a loss. So he went to his room . . . and, at last, to sleep.
CHAPTER 3
At 4: 15 A.M. on that hot end-of-July Friday a phone rang in the bedroom of the President of the United States. He woke instantly. Lights went on automatically with the phone's jangle. The President saw--indeed, already knew from the sound--it was not the red phone. The dreadful one. The phone that was the last thing he looked at every night, and the first subject of his nightly prayer, a reverent entreaty that the red instrument would never ring. This was the less-loud but still-portentous green phone.
"The President"--he had to clear his throat--"speaking."
"Ralph Hager, here." His Secretary of State--and, as the President knew, the phone he held would also be connected with others: his Chief of Staff, the Missile Center
"Zen!" Faith cried, pleased and not mocking.
"Yogi," the Chinese girl chuckled. "But it doesn't work endlessly. If you'll forgive me--?"
When she'd gone, the two people on the terrace were quiet for so long that each began to wonder, in the deepening dusk, if the other had dozed off. But just before Faith rose to make a close inspection, Ben, seeing the preliminary movement, said, lazily,
"What's that giant rockslide that looks fresh-blasted, down below Sachem's Watch? You quarry limestone here?"
"Papa's Panic Palace," Faith answered--sharply, he thought. "Hasn't he told you about it, by now?"
"Panic Palace?" he repeated. "No." He sounded puzzled and then, not. "You mean--?"
Faith nodded and he saw that clearly, because just as her bright head moved, she turned on lights which, though wan and indirect, momentarily almost hurt his dark-accustomed eyes. "He'll take you on the grand tour tomorrow, that's for sure. However, I'd rather talk about almost anything else in the world than that! It's so dull, and so interminable. I'd even rather talk about Antarctica. "
He grinned. "Okay. Let's."
From Antarctica their conversation fled the world over, but rested mainly upon themselves and their agreements and differences on more subjects than either would have guessed they could or would summon in an hour or two of random talk at twilight, subjects that ranged from sleeping "raw" (they both did, they found) to junk jewelry (neither one liked it, as a rule), and from French cigarettes (another point of mutual distaste) to horseback riding (she did; he didn't).
When the phone summoned her, he sat alone watching the stars overhead, and trying to find the planet, but failing, as it had already descended into the murk that rode above this heavily-populated and largely-industrialized portion of New England.
Faith reappeared finally, but did not resume her lounging seat. "It was Kit. He won his bet. He's going home and says he'll show up in the morning. Want to know something?"
"What?"
"I'm pretty sure Kit made that bet and took that long swim on purpose." She saw he failed to comprehend. "I mean, so you and I could have this evening together. He's nice, a lot of ways. See?"
"Yes. Guess I do. I'll remember that degree of niceness. And I appreciate it, too!"
She smiled gently. "I hope. But the appreciation hour's over. I'm going in. Letters to write--then, bed."
She came nearer. He had risen and he had the sudden thought that she expected, or hoped, he'd kiss her good night. Like a pretty tot offering herself, hesitantly, to a new-met but approved-of uncle. Maybe. He held out his long arm, its long-fingered hand.
When she'd gone, he thought a stroll in the gardens would be appropriate.
Thought that until, stepping from the air-conditioned outdoor area of the terrace, he rediscovered the heat of the dark. Ninety-five degrees, he guessed; and like hitting a good line of an opposing football team. It virtually halted him, nearly threw him back for a loss. So he went to his room . . . and, at last, to sleep.
CHAPTER 3
At 4: 15 A.M. on that hot end-of-July Friday a phone rang in the bedroom of the President of the United States. He woke instantly. Lights went on automatically with the phone's jangle. The President saw--indeed, already knew from the sound--it was not the red phone. The dreadful one. The phone that was the last thing he looked at every night, and the first subject of his nightly prayer, a reverent entreaty that the red instrument would never ring. This was the less-loud but still-portentous green phone.
"The President"--he had to clear his throat--"speaking."
"Ralph Hager, here." His Secretary of State--and, as the President knew, the phone he held would also be connected with others: his Chief of Staff, the Missile Center
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