It had taken longer than Dilman had anticipated, a full fifteen minutes, and when the last to introduce himself, the wispy chief calligrapher-who wrote all White House invitations, place cards, seating charts by hand-had finished, Dilman cleared his throat a second time.

“Thank you, each of you. It is a pleasure to meet you,” he said. “Some of you, I know, have become indispensable to the operation of this nation’s first house. Some of you have served Presidents as far back as Herbert Hoover and Franklin Roosevelt, and others of you have been here under Mr. Truman, General Eisenhower, Mr. Kennedy, Mr. Lyndon Johnson, and The Judge. But all of you, I know, old and new, have served T. C. and the First Lady efficiently and loyally. Some of you, missing them, having other plans, may wish to leave for different employment. You may do so, of course, and I will understand your motives. Most of you, I hope, I trust, will stay on, knowing your-your loyalty is to a high office and not to any individual. If you will stay on, this is simply to tell you that I want you and depend upon you. I can’t promise life in this house will be as it has been. No one can replace T. C. But the life of the house itself, the routine, the service to those who come here, must remain unchanged.”

He paused, blinking at the cream-colored carpet, and then he said with the faintest smile, “Perhaps, even, your work will be easier now. You see, except for my son, who is away at college, I am alone, quite alone, a widower, and I have few friends and little interest in social affairs except those which are expected of me. Yes, my personal demands may make it easier, but remember that this White House is not only my house but your house, too, and I want you to continue to take pride in it and in your jobs. I hope you will stay. I hope to know each of you better in a short time. Thank you-thank you very much.”

The valet, Beecher, was at Dilman’s side, and from the crowd of personnel, the Chief of the Secret Service, Hugo Gaynor, and T. C.’s military attaché, Brigadier General Robert Faber, swiftly emerged to join him. There was a light spatter of applause as General Faber, Chief Gaynor, and Beecher led him straight ahead, out of the Reception Room, into the wide ground-floor corridor with its seemingly endless ribbon of red carpet.

“Excellent, Mr. President,” the buoyant military attaché was saying. “I’m certain they will be eager to serve you.” He guided Dilman to the left. As they started up the corridor, Chief Gaynor said, “Over there is where you will come in from your office every day. Next to it is the service entrance for employees and tradespeople.” He pointed ahead. “Miss Crail’s office, she’s the housekeeper, a demon, and next to her, Admiral Oates’s office, he’s the White House physician, and across the way the flower shop-they keep the old house decorated-and those doors open to the main kitchen, all electric and stainless steel. It has a dumbwaiter that runs up to a pantry on the first floor, and to your private pantry or kitchenette on the second floor. Ike put the second-floor pantry in-liked late snacks and raiding the refrigerator.” General Faber and Chief Gaynor threw half salutes at a plainclothes agent and a police guard seated at a table in the corridor, as both leaped to their feet and returned the greeting.

“Here we are,” said Chief Gaynor. He swung off the red carpet, passed under an arch into a small vestibule. “Here is your private elevator, Mr. President. Takes you straight up to your second-floor apartment every day.” He pushed the button, and Dilman watched the floor lights on the wall indicator drop from 3 to 2M to 2 to 1M to 1 to G. The valet opened the elevator door and held it.

“Gaynor and I will leave you here,” said General Faber. “I’m sure you’ll want to oversee what’s going on in privacy. If you need anything up there, Beecher and Miss Crail will be at your beck and call.”

“I appreciate your help,” said Dilman.

He ducked into the miniature elevator, as Beecher closed the double doors and pressed the button for the second floor. While the mobile closet climbed upward, Dilman inspected it. The elevator was carpeted in green. There were three mirrors on its three walls, and two mirrors on the double door before him. For the first time since shaving, hours ago, he could see himself. His kinky hair, despite the tonic, was as stiff as ever. His wide dark face was as Negroid as ever. The improbability of it all hit him with fresh impact. He was black and he was here.

He emerged into another small vestibule, almost bumping into an umbrella holder. The valet had gone to the left, and Dilman followed him.

“This is the second-floor West Hall,” said Beecher.

The hall, too long and too wide to be called a corridor-to Dilman it resembled a gallery-appeared to run almost the width of the White House.

“It goes from east to west,” said the valet, “and divides the second-floor apartments. Every important room opens into this hall. Down that way”-he pointed to the east section-“on the other side, the south side that looks down on the back lawn and Washington Monument, are the main rooms-the Executive study, although the Kennedys, Johnsons, and the late President used it for a living room, also. That is where the Truman Balcony is, sir. Next is the Treaty Room, and then the famous Lincoln Bedroom.”

“What’s down at the end there?” Dilman asked.

“The state bedrooms, Mr. President. The Rose Guest Room, the Lincoln Sitting Room, where there’s a fine television set, the Empire Guest Room, that’s the most of it, sir.”

Dilman stood studying the enormous hall. There were bookcases against one wall, and along the opposite wall were grouped a settee and chairs, beneath early American prints of Indians. At the farthest part of the hall stood a desk, and then a Baldwin piano.

Dilman gestured to his right. “What’s over there?”

“A private suite, Mr. President. You can see, it opens into T. C.’s sitting room, and on either side are the bedrooms that were used by the President, First Lady, and their son. Also, the pantry is there. It all looks down on the Rose Garden. I’d be glad to show you around-”

“Not yet, thanks,” said Dilman. “First, I’d like you to show me where my own things are being unpacked.”

“Oh, in the Queen’s Bedroom-the Rose Guest Room, really-way down at the end of the hall. We figured it wouldn’t be in use immediately, and it was the best place to uncrate everything until you ’could sort it out and become acquainted enough to know where you wished your effects to be placed. I’ll take you there, Mr. President.”

They marched briskly to the end of the hall, then through an entry, past a carpeted bathroom, a sitting room where the sofa and chairs were done in blue slipcovers, and into the Rose Guest Room. Dilman stepped aside as two Army privates carried out the last of the empty crates.

In the bedroom, he found Crystal on her knees upon the white tufted rug, stacking his embarrassingly limited collection of law books, history books, encyclopedias, synthetic leather-bound sets of Booker T. Washington’s writings and Dickens’ novels, and all the garishly jacketed mystery stories he enjoyed. Diane Fuller, her back also to him, was sorting out his papers on a table draped in red velvet.

Without disturbing them, he glanced around the room. It probably had been breathtakingly beautiful yesterday, he guessed, but this morning it was a mess. Except for the Revels handmade Belter chair, his cheap pieces of furniture, drab and scuffed, were eye-sores that littered the magnificent room, so gaily decorated in red and white. Heaps of his belongings, from humidors to ashtrays, from photograph albums to laminated plaques, stood like dozens of unattractive molehills. Piled across the canopied bed, across the rose patterned quilting, was a rag mountain of his clothes, on hangers, encased in plastic garment bags.