o
your theory, the prosecutor knows he's innocent, then he should
exonerate the innocent man! If not, he should do his best to convict!"

"He should?" snapped Cannon. "He _should_? Harry, you're letting your
idealism run away with you! If Bossard were guilty, he should have been
convicted--sure! But if he were innocent, should he be exonerated?
Should he be allowed to run again for office? Should the people be
allowed to think that he was lily-white? Should they be allowed to
re-elect a nitwit who'd do the same thing again because he was too
stupid to see that he was being used?

"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 us