Promise of Joy by Allen Drury Page B

walked, very slowly, very hesitantly, very painfully, that he was still a very sick man. But he was here; and after all the detrimental things had been duly noted by the media, and by the members of the welcoming committee who watched his halting approach with worried and in most cases genuinely upset expressions, a grudging note of admiration began to sound in the comments that went forth on the air, and to appear on the faces of those who watched.
    The scene also had its effect in the Playhouse, where two television screens, one on each side of the podium, kept members of the Committee in touch with the outside world. By the time the slow little cavalcade had paused, so that the Knoxes could greet the welcoming committee—even Roger P. Croy, looking somewhat embarrassed, managing a reasonably friendly handshake—a mood of quite genuine warmth had begun to develop; and as they proceeded slowly to the elevators and ascended to the Playhouse, it continued to grow. By the time those in the room heard a stir in the hall, the crack of rifle stocks as the guards came to attention and muffled voices in deferential greetings, the mood was far more welcoming and receptive than anyone would have believed possible a scant fifteen minutes before. Outside, the ominous rumble of the mob continued to surge, a hostile and unrepentant sea. But inside the room where history was to be made Orrin Knox was in far better shape politically than he or his supporters had dared to hope.
    When William Abbott said gravely, “Ladies and gentlemen, the next President of the United States!” and the doors swung open to reveal him standing, pale but erect, between his son and daughter-in-law, they found themselves instinctively on their feet, applauding, smiling, shouting their welcome.
    Only a few remained aloof—some of the media, either personally unfriendly or professionally unimpressed; Patsy Labaiya, looking grim and unforgiving; Vasily Tashikov, on his feet but ostentatiously unapplauding. But these were hardly noticed in the wave of sentimental warmth that accompanied the family as they proceeded slowly down the aisle, slowly up the steps, to shake hands gravely with the President, giving him the quick, quiet smiles of old friendship, and then take their seats in the three chairs prepared for them at his left.
    For a moment, while the cameras dutifully sought out the Munsons, the Maudulaynes, the Barres, Krishna Khaleel, Robert A. Leffingwell, Mr. Justice Davis and many another prominent face, the nominee stared out over the room as though he hardly sensed their presence at all. Gradually they grew silent as the more sensitive among them realized who he must be thinking about; but before the moment could become painful Hal touched his arm, he started, recognition returned, he smiled, more easily now, and acknowledged their greeting. The applause welled up again and drowned out the distant roar, still unabated in its hostility. Finally the applause died down and with it the discontented noises of NAWAC, as everyone began to concentrate, with an almost frightening intensity, on the man who sat, propping himself slightly forward to accommodate his obvious pain, at the left hand of the President.
    “Members of the Committee,” William Abbott repeated gravely, “it is my privilege and pleasure to introduce to you the Honorable Orrin Knox of Illinois, next President of the United States.”
    This time the applause, on the part of many, was more dutiful: but it came. Outside there was an automatic booing in response. Again it all died away and a profound, expectant silence settled gradually on the room, the city, the nation, wherever men and women listened—and there were many, many millions who did—to the nominee for President.
    As always with Orrin, there was that first long, appraising moment during which he looked quietly at his audience, judged his approach, formulated it, prepared to deliver it; except that, this time, it took him a little