He seemed content. He seemed to know who he was. And he seemed to radiate such purity of soul that Kennedy could not bear to look at him and finally took his leave.

The decision about Christian Klee was even more painful to Francis Kennedy.

It had been an unexpected surprise for Christian. Kennedy asked him into the Yellow Room for a private meeting.

But Francis Kennedy opened the meeting quietly by saying, "Christian, I've been closer to you than anybody outside my family. I think we know each other better than anyone else knows us. So you will understand that I have to ask for your resignation to be effective after the inauguration, at a time when I decide to accept it."

Klee looked at that handsome face with its gentle smile. He could not believe that Kennedy was firing him without any explanation. He said quietly, "I know I've cut a few comers here and there. But my ultimate aim was always to keep you from harm."

"You let the nuclear device go off. You could have prevented it."

Christian Klee very coldly considered the situation before him. He would never feel his old affection for Kennedy again. He would never believe in his own humanity, the rightness of what he had done. And suddenly he knew that he could never bear that burden. That Francis Kennedy must share responsibility for what had been done. Even privately.

Klee stared directly into the pale blue eyes he knew so well and searched for mercy there.

"Francis, you wanted me to do what I did. We both knew it was the only thing that could save you-I knew you could not make such a decision. It would have destroyed you, you were so weakened, Francis. Francis, don't condemn me, don't judge me. They would have removed you from power and you could never have borne that. You were very close to despair and I was the only one who could see it. They would have left your daughter unavenged. They would have let Yabril go free, they would have left America disgraced." Klee paused, surprised to see that Francis Kennedy was looking at him so impassively.

Kennedy said, "So you think I was after vengeance."

"Not on Yabril," Klee said. "Maybe on Fate."

"You can stay until after the inauguration," Kennedy said. "You've earned that. But you are a danger spot, a target. I have to make you disappear so I can sweep up the mess."

He paused for a moment. "You were wrong thinking I wanted you to do what you did, Chris. You were wrong to think that I was acting out of a desire for vengeance."

Christian Klee felt a vague dissociation from his world, an anguish he could not even define. He said, "Francis, I know you, I understand you. We were always like brothers. I always felt that, that we really were brothers. And I saved you as a brother should. I made the decision, I took the guilt. I can let the world condemn me, but not you."

He paused for a moment. "You need me, Francis. Even more now, on the course of action you're taking. Let me stay. "

Francis Kennedy sighed. Then he said, "I don't question your loyalty, Christian. But after the inauguration you'll hive to go. We will never discuss this again."

"I did it to save you," Christian said.

"And you did," Kennedy said.

Christian thought about that day in early December, four years ago, when

Francis Kennedy, the President-elect of the United States had waited for him outside the monastery in Vermont. Kennedy had disappeared for a week.

Newspapers and his political opponents had speculated that he had been under psychiatric care, that he had broken down, that he was having a secret love affair. But only two people-the abbot of the monastery and Christian Klee-knew the truth: that Francis Kennedy had retreated to deeply and completely mourn the death of his wife.

It was a week after his election that Christian had driven Kennedy to the Catholic monastery just outside White River Junction in Vermont. They were greeted by the abbot, who was the only one who knew Kennedy's identity.

The resident monks lived apart from the world, cut off from all media and even the town itself. These monks communicated only with God and the earth on which they grew their livelihood. They had all taken a vow of silence and did not speak except in prayer or yelps of pain when they were ill or had injured themselves in some domestic accident.

Only the abbot had a television set and access to newspapers. The TV news programs were a constant source of amusement to him. He particularly fancied the concept of the anchor man on the nightly broadcasts and often ironically, thought of himself as one of the anchor men of God. He used this idea to remind himself of the necessity for humility.

When the car drove up, the abbot was waiting for them at the monastery gate, flanked by two monks in ragged brown robes and sandaled feet.

Christian took Kennedy's bag from the trunk and watched the abbot shake hands with the President-elect. The abbot seemed more like an innkeeper than a holy man. He had a jolly grin to welcome them, and when he was introduced to Christian he said jocularly, "Why don't you stay? A week of silence wouldn't do you any harm. I've seen you on television and you must be tired of talking."

Christian smiled his thanks but did not reply. He was looking at Francis Kennedy as they shook hands. The handsome face was very composed, the handshake was not emotional-Kennedy was not a demonstrative man. He seemed not to be grieving the death of his wife. He had more the preoccupied look of a man forced to go into the hospital for a minor operation.

"Let's hope we can keep this secret," Christian had said. "People don't like these religious retreats. They might think you've gone nuts."

Francis Kennedy's face twisted into a little smile. A controlled but natural courtesy. "They won't find out," he said. "And I know you'll cover. Pick me up in a week. That should be enough time."

Christian wondered what would happen to Francis in those days. He felt close to tears. He took hold of Francis by the shoulders and said, "Do you want me to stay with you?" Kennedy had shaken his head and walked through the gates of the monastery. On that day Christian thought he had seemed OK.

The day after Christmas was so clear and bright, so cleansed by cold that it seemed as if the whole world were enclosed in glass, the sky a mirror, the earth brown steel. And when Christian drove up to the monastery gate,

Francis Kennedy was alone, waiting for him without any luggage, his hands stretched over his head, his body taut and straining upward. He seemed to be exulting in his freedom.

When Christian got out of the car to greet him, Kennedy gave him a quick embrace and a shout of joyous welcome. He seemed to have been rejuvenated by his stay in the monastery. He smiled at Christian, and it was one of his rare brilliant smiles that had enchanted multitudes. The smile that reassured the world that happiness could be won, that man was good, that the world would go on forever to better and better things. It was a smile that made you love him because of its delight in his seeing you. Christian had felt such relief at seeing that smile.

Francis would be OK. He would be as strong as he had always been. He would be the hope of the world, the strong guardian of his country and fellowman. Now they would do great deeds together.

And then with that same brilliant smile Kennedy took Christian by the arm, looked into his eyes, and said, simply and yet with amusement, as if it didn't really mean anything, as if he were reporting some minor detail of information, "God didn't help."

And in the cold scrubbed world of a winter morning, Christian saw that finally something had been broken in Kennedy. That he would never be the same man again. That part of his mind had been chopped away. He would be almost the same, but now there was a tiny lump of falseness that had never before existed. He saw that Kennedy himself did not know this and that nobody else would know. And that he, Christian, only knew because he was the one who was here at this point in time, to see the brilliant smile and hear the joking words "God didn't help."