Read Online Saving the Queen by William F. Buckley - Free Book Online

themselves standing more or less at attention, which the President evidently noticed, because he paused, leaned over to Black, and whispered, “At ease.” Black smiled, and the aides who overheard the President chuckled. The Empress, meanwhile, spotted her former roommate, broke away from the President to embrace her. The Shah’s expression, behind, was inscrutable, though Black, viewing it coolly, decided Michelle had better bear the Shah a son very quickly. He guessed that royal spontaneity in Sinrah was not a specialty of the house.
    The receiving line was an anticlimax. The Empress had only time to ask Sally for news of Priscilla Lane, their third roommate; and Truman merely said, “Good evening, son.”
    They sat at a table for eight. He was between the wife of the American ambassador to Egypt and the wife of the president of General Motors. Sally, opposite, had Mr. General Motors and the Ambassador.
    Both ladies asked the usual questions and Black reestablished, for the thousandth time, that one had only to say one was an engineer to catalyze that haze-in-the-eye behind which all attention wanders. But this time, buoyant from wine and excitement, he decided to press on, and reengaged Mrs. Motors during the main course.
    â€œI’m a Republican,” he said, “but I think Truman will go down in history for Operation Down Under—that’s what I’ve been working on since I graduated.”
    He tried to sound a little pompous and was a little frightened at the ease with which he succeeded.
    â€œOperation Down Under?” She looked up, struggling to refocus. “What’s that?”
    Black looked around him, as if by instinct, and leaned closer.
    â€œThat, Mrs. Wilson, is secret information.” He paused, having brought his fork to his mouth. Then he stopped, lowered the fork, and said:
    â€œBut I suppose it can’t be a secret from you and your husband. Nothing is, I guess.” He allowed a moment’s pause, and was gratified that she had moved her head closer to his, to catch his words.
    â€œOperation Down Under,” said Blackford in a semi-whisper, “is the mechanism that sinks the whole of central Washington underground, under an atomic-proof carapace.”
    â€œWhen are they going to do that?” Mrs. Wilson looked startled.
    â€œThey have done it, Mrs. Wilson. The biggest project since the Manhattan Project. It was completed a month ago. I’m only in on the maintenance. All the President has to do is push one button and most of the city of Washington sinks down five hundred feet, and a concrete dome envelops us. In fact”—Black was carried away—“the button is over there right behind the President.” Blackford, with Mrs. Wilson arching her neck in parallel, craning his neck, stood up slightly, then sank back.
    â€œNo. You can’t see it from here. It’s behind the curtain. Remember, that’s secret information. ”
    The toasts were effusive, as Black expected, though the Shah seemed nervous—he had had limited experience with chief executives like Truman—but there were no discordant notes, and the President invited everyone to the East Room for a “little entertainment.” As they got up, Blackford saw Mrs. Wilson dive for her husband and point toward the curtain behind the dais. Her husband listened, spoke a single word, looked in disgust over at Black, shook his head, and escorted his wife to safety. Black dove for Sally and they walked out, animatedly exchanging monologues about their experiences during dinner. In the Green Room the guests were given coffee and liqueurs. Black spotted the new president of Yale, Whitney Griswold. He approached him.
    â€œBlackford Oakes, Yale 1951. How is our alma mater?”
    Griswold, unattached at the moment, was genial, and asked what Black was doing.
    â€œWell, among other things, I’ve just read Buckley’s God and Man at Yale.