There was the change in the kaleidoscope of his memory from yellow to muted and mixed colors. There was the impression of himself, with Eaton and Talley on either side of him, in the Cabinet Room-he had been unable to bring himself to return to T. C.’s Oval Office-greeting and reassuring the countless heads of nations who had participated in the cortege and attended the burial. He remembered meeting the Prime Minister of Great Britain, the President of France, the Deputy Premier of Russia, the Chancellor of Germany, the King of Belgium, the Premier of Japan, and half a hundred more coming, chatting, going, in those bewildering hours. There was the impression, even less bright, more settling, of himself in the Fish Room the day before yesterday, engaged in the lively but brief discussion with The Judge, so forthright, so encouraging, then the more formal discussions with the other ex-Presidents, the short exchanges with senators and representatives whom he had known, with the Party heads, with the members of T. C.’s advisory team. There was the impression of himself, in Tim Flannery’s press office yesterday behind closed doors, being informed of the ugly riots that had broken out like bursting boils, riots between whites and blacks, unorganized but savage, in Tennessee, in Louisiana, in Texas, in California, in Missouri, in Michigan. And the impression of Tim’s reading aloud the first public opinion poll on President Douglass Dilman-in favor of him: 24%; against him: 61%; undecided: 15%-and the remembrance of his secret dismay at this harsh factual appraisal of him, so at variance with the optimistic guess and hopes of the moderate New York newspaper editorial that had heartened him the week before. And then the impression of Tim, and others, afterward, helping him hastily draft the statement requesting national unity and support, promising adherence to the principles T. C. advocated, reminding Americans that the eyes of the world and of history were upon them.

“Mr. President-”

It was Beggs addressing him, and quickly he collapsed the kaleidoscope of memory and hid it in his mind, and he looked up.

“-here we are at the White House.”

The limousine had, indeed, drawn to a halt before the South Portico. A group of men, three of their number brandishing large cameras, were gathered between the curved driveway and the canopy. Beggs leaned forward to open the rear door, but a uniformed White House policeman had already opened it. Before stepping out, Dilman looked off to his left. The view, that would now belong to him for a year and five months, as it had belonged to Jefferson and Jackson and Lincoln and F. D. R., momentarily lulled his apprehension. There was a sylvan, pastoral quality about the sloping expanse of green lawn, flecked here and there with autumn’s rust, and between President Cleveland’s Japanese maples a circular fountain threw off its steady clean spray. Behind the birch and elm trees in the distance he could make out the high iron fence that enclosed the President’s private park and protected it from the traffic on South Executive Avenue. Beyond the fence he could see the majestic white marble obelisk of the Washington Monument pointed to the cloudy sky. The greatness demanded of the Mansion’s occupant pierced his peaceful mood, and apprehension suffused him again.

Beggs and the policeman were outside the car in attendance. Dilman pushed himself from the deep upholstered seat, ignoring their offered assistance, and stepped out onto the driveway. Only one of the clustered dozen waiting, Tim Flannery, was familiar to him.

Flannery darted forward to grasp his hand. “Welcome home, Mr. President,” he said.

“This isn’t much pleasure to me, Tim,” Dilman said, “considering the circumstances.”

“No,” Flannery agreed. Then he was all business. “Mr. President, I’ve allowed three from the press pool to grab a few pictures of you.” He turned, waving. “Go ahead, boys.”

As the limousine rolled away, leaving Dilman stiffly posed against the backdrop of the south lawn and the Washington Monument, the photographers hustled toward him, crouching, clicking. Dilman nodded, unable to smile, and then he moved toward the canopy. The photographers went crabwise alongside him, shooting more pictures, as the onlookers, White House police, Secret Service agents, gardeners and yardmen parted to give him passage.

He was halfway under the canopy when a medium-sized Negro with tight curly white-cotton hair that matched his white bow tie, with jet-black solemn face that matched his immaculate dark suit, stepped forward.

“Mr. President,” he said, “I am Beecher, the late President’s valet.”

Dilman stopped and extended his hand. Hesitantly the valet shook it.

“I’m glad to see you again, Beecher. I remember you from the Congressional receptions I attended here.” He paused, and then added, “I don’t know what your plans are, but I’d be pleased if you stayed on, that is, if you’d like to work for me.”

For the first time a smile wrinkled the valet’s bland face. “Thank you, Mr. President. I would like nothing better.” He indicated the south entrance. “Many of the White House staff are in the Diplomatic Reception Room, waiting to welcome you. After you’ve met them, I’ll escort you to your apartment on the second floor.”

“Very well,” said Dilman.

The valet leaped ahead to open the door, and Dilman went through it into the Diplomatic Reception Room. Inside the door, he hesitated. At least one hundred persons lined the vast and stately circular room with its eighteenth-century furnishings. There were women in domestic white or blue uniforms, many wearing aprons, and several dressed in crisp daytime secretarial suits or blouses and skirts. There were men in overalls, in fatigues, in dark suits with black ties. They were everywhere, aligned against the ornately framed oils of many First Ladies-he recognized the likenesses of Dolley Madison and Jacqueline Kennedy-and they waited along the cupboards of gold-edged plates, amid the scattering of yellow-upholstered furniture, against the scenic wallpaper depicting Niagara Falls and New York Bay.

“This is part of the White House day staff,” the valet whispered to Dilman.

All eyes were upon Dilman, curious eyes, speculating eyes. Slowly Dilman crossed the oval carpet, until he had progressed to the middle of the Reception Room.

He cleared his throat. “I do not have time to meet you individually right now and shake your hands, but I am touched by this turnout. I would like you to do this for me-I don’t think it will take very long-but I’d like each of you, starting from the door, to raise your hand and give me your name and job title. I would appreciate that.”

He turned to his left, toward those nearest the entrance and before the glassed cupboard, and as each one lifted a hand, some tentatively, some high and assured, each announced his name and position in the White House. While the roll call went around the room, Dilman murmured an acknowledgment of each one’s identity. He was astonished by the diversity of personnel. He had read or heard that there were 132 rooms in this house to be looked after, and that thirty-eight policemen guarded its many passageways, entrances, exits, and that four thousand persons possessed full-time or semipermanent security passes to service the Executive Mansion from within or without.

Yet Dilman had never expected anything as overwhelming as this. The men and women identifying themselves included police, chefs, kitchen help, chambermaids, butlers, carpenters, air-conditioning specialists, launderers, electricians, maintenance engineers, house painters, floor boys, telegraphers. Some were more important than others, Dilman knew, but he gave them no warmer recognition. Among the important ones were the housekeeper, Mrs. Crail, and the members of the Social Bureau from the East Wing, T. C. and Hesper’s social secretary, Miss Laurel, with her twelve assistants that included two secretaries.