away from my side, away
from the eyes that grew in size as I got closer to the table rim,
toward the vacant chairs I saw slightly pulled away and ready for
occupants. I stumbled over nothing and a reassuring hand touched mine.
I felt callow, self-conscious, awkward. I never thought I'd be so glad
to see Old Man Smith.

He stood alongside me as I sank gratefully into my ready chair.
"Gentlemen," he announced quietly, "Mr. Peter A. Miller."

I half-bowed automatically, the proper thing to do, and the Old Man
gave me his moral support by sitting next to me. He leaned over to
say, "I won't introduce you formally. Point out who you want to know
and I'll tell you who he is."

"Okay," I muttered, and felt in my pockets for cigarettes. I had to do
something with my hands. I blew a cloud into the air and felt better.
Settled back into the chair, I sent my glance around the table. Did I
know anyone there?

* * * * *

At my right, the Old Man. His suit was wrinkled and his eyes were
red-rimmed and tired. The large paper pad in front of him was covered
with crisscross lines. On his right, a quite old man, bald and
beetle-browed. His collar was open and wrinkled, his vest twisted
under the lapel of his coat. I leaned toward Smith, and indicated his
companion with my eyes.

"Morgan, Undersecretary of State," he said softly.

Morgan heard his name spoken, and shot a questioning glance my way. He
realized what had been said and the beetlebrows slid upwards in a
movement meant to be conciliatory. He bobbed his head with a cursory
jerk and went back to staring across the table. I followed his glance.

The object of his affections seemed to be--yes, it was. Five-Star
General Oliver P. Legree, not so affectionately called Simon by the
men who served under him. I had been one of them. Trim and rigid and
oh, so military he was, the very figure of a modern five-star general.
His poker-stiff back thrust the tiers of ribbons to a sparkling
glitter under the tinkling glare of the massive chandelier overhead.
His face--well, it's been in enough rotogravures worldwide. The cigar
was there, the big black cigar he never lit and never lost. His
trademark was that cigar; his trademark was that and his jutting jaw
that to everyone but his compatriots spelled determination and grit.
To his staff and his men--me--it meant an ill-fitting lower plate.

That prognathous jaw was tilted, aimed at Morgan, and Morgan k