“I’m not talking about money and I’m not talking about the national party, Senator. And you know it. I’m asking if I’m going to have your endorsement and Ross Trumble’s endorsement and every other Arizona Republican’s endorsement if I turn out to be the Republican candidate for the United States Senate this November. And I’m not just talking about lip-service endorsements, I’m talking about active support and campaigning.”

“Well, of course I can’t speak for everybody.” Guest’s head swiveled. “What about it, Ross?”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Trumble said. The secretive eyes blinked. “If I’m still around you’ll have my support. If you win the primary.”

If I’m still around. Forrester watched him with closer focus.

Guest said quickly, “Are you all right, Ross?” So the same thought had struck him too: Trumble was talking like a man whose doctor had just told him he had six months to live.

“I’m fine. I gave up smoking last month and it’s made me irritable, that’s all. Or maybe it’s the diet pills. I’m trying to take off fifty pounds before the campaign—voters don’t like fat politicians much any more. You’ve got to consider the television image.” The prim mouth settled into a twisted smile. “What do you suppose would’ve happened if Charles Steinmetz had had to go through a television interview to get a job at G.E.?”

“You’re sure there’s nothing wrong?”

“I’ve never been in better health.”

Guest leaned back in the leather chair and tucked his square jaw in. “All right, Alan. You’ve got our assurances. My personal word on it, you’ll have my support and Ross’s if you win the primary. Of course the primary itself is another story. We’ll fight like tigers and I suspect we’ll beat the shit out of you.” Then the grin flashed again. “Of course a politician’s word is worthless; you ought to know that.”

“Not yours. This isn’t a campaign promise, Senator, it’s your word to me as a friend.”

“Yes. And I’ll honor it if the circumstances arise. Frankly I don’t think they will. If I were a bookie I wouldn’t even bother laying off bets on you.”

“Then you’d stand to lose your shirt,” Forrester said amiably.

Guest shook his head with weary avuncular goodwill. “Ever watch a dog come yapping out into the street and go chasing after a fast-moving car? Do something for me, son—stop and think about what would happen if the dog ever managed to catch the car.”

When Forrester walked down to his car he found Ross Trumble beside him.

“I’ve got to talk to you. Not here—not now. Can I call you?”

“Of course. Any time.”

“I’m not sure exactly when we can meet. As soon as I—anyhow I’ll call you. Thanks, it’s—important.”

Forrester couldn’t remember having seen the man so nervous. “What’s wrong, Ross?”

Trumble’s head jerked back and forth in negation—almost a spasm. “Later. I’ll call you later.”

“I still want a look inside that attaché case.”

“Maybe that too.”

Trumble turned abruptly and waddled to his car. Forrester watched him drive away down the hill.

When he jackknifed himself into the low bucket seat and looked back at the house Woody Guest was in the doorway’s shadow, his white hair like a beacon. Guest waved lazily and Forrester answered in kind before he drove down the curving asphalt drive in the thin haze of dust left hanging in Ross Trumble’s wake.

The interior of the old Mercedes had been designed to approximate a millionaire’s conception of the cockpit of a pursuit airplane. They had discontinued the model a decade ago and not replaced it with a newer design. Parts were getting hard to come by, but Forrester was determined to keep it until it became a vintage antique. It carried him blithely along Interstate 10 with hardly a ripple at seventy-five miles an hour. He had picked up a sandwich and a can of lemon-lime soda in Casa Grande and he ate in the car, sprinkling his shirt with crumbs and grinning because he hadn’t done this in years.

It was a hundred and twenty miles to Tucson and on the road he reviewed the conference and felt satisfied if not elated. He had the insight to realize that on this particular day he wouldn’t have been crushed even by a flat turndown by Woody Guest and Trumble. Shards of hard sunlight reflected off the long hood of the Mercedes and he squinted along the highway through his sunglasses; he nudged the heavy car up to an effortless eighty-five and checked the mirror for patrol cars. He was in a hurry because Ronnie was at the other end of the road.

Last night he had watched her sleeping face and felt a slight edge of guilt, as if he were eavesdropping. Her eyes had opened with a mischievous smile; the night was full with her pleasure and she had snuggled close like a warm furry inquisitive pet and refused to let him out of bed until he was almost late for the drive to Phoenix—no time to stop by the hotel, he had shaved with her Lady Electric razor and brushed his teeth and kissed her deeply and gone on the road breakfastless.

Six hours ago. Now he pulled off the freeway and got sucked into the flow of traffic across the bridge into the old Spanish center of Tucson, parked and walked toward the courthouse. The flag whipped in the desert wind and an empty beer can clattered across the terrazzo; it was probably eighty degrees officially, more on this sun-blasted concrete. He took the courtyard steps two at a time and went into his office smiling. Ronnie wasn’t there.

Les Suffield was asprawl on the couch reading the morning paper. He had a look at Forrester’s face and said, “Let me guess. You just won the Irish Sweepstakes.”

“Not quite. Where’s Ronnie?”

“What the hell kind of greeting is that for your long-lost executive assistant that you haven’t even seen in a whole week? Where’s Ronnie? What about me?” Suffield sat up grinning. “Jaime was right, then. You been bit.”

“All right, since you obviously want me to ask. What are you doing down here?”

“Uncle of mine took sick. He’s in St. Mary’s, nothing serious—gall bladder. Gave me an excuse to fly out. I thought I’d better talk to you.”

“That sounds ominous,” Forrester said. He went behind his desk and pulled the chair out and sat down.

“As for Ronnie, I told her she could take the afternoon off. I’m holding the fort, standing by to repel boarders and whatnot. She said to tell you she’s gone out to the ranch and you’re expected there for dinner.” Suffield’s eyes were round with innocent mockery and his wide mouth grinned. “The way she said it sounded downright proprietary.”

There was a stack of correspondence on the desk bound up in a heavy rubber band. Forrester glanced at it and Suffield said, “Your first bundle of hate mail. I thumbed through it. Mostly unsigned, of course. When they get that blasphemous they don’t like to put their names on it.”

“To hell with them then.” Forrester swept the stack into the wastebasket.

“Sure. But maybe you ought to keep count. Give you a rough tally of sentiment.”

“So far the mail’s been running eight to one.”

“For you?”

“Yes.”

“How about that?” Suffield said. “There have been a few columnists’ blind items in the Washington papers over the past week. I don’t know if you saw them.”

“No. Blind items? What about?”

“You know the kind of thing. Not mentioning names but thick with insinuation. Young Republican white knight gets tarnished armor, will be dumped by party machine for insubordination. You know the drift. A lot of people including the Secretary of Defense and several Senators have agreed to appear on panel TV news shows to shoot your position full of holes. I might remind you at least thirty-two Congressmen own interests in television stations and most of them by some odd coincidence are pretty far over to the right.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”