“Governor Halliday would like to know what this is all about,” she said tightly. Pure efficiency: all nerves and smooth makeup. Probably screwed to a metronome beat. “He is here on a personal matter; there’s no news material in this visit.”

“That depends on his x-rays, doesn’t it?” I said.

Her eyes widened. “Oh.” That’s all she said. Nothing more. She turned and made a quick exit.

“Bright,” I said to Les. “She picks up right away.”

“His whole staff’s bright.”

“Including his advance publicity man?” With the overactive paws, I added silently.

“Yes, including my advance publicity man.”

I turned back toward the door. Walking toward me was James J. Halliday, Governor of Montana, would-be President of these United States: tall, cowboy-lean, tanned, good-looking. He was smiling at me, as if he knew my suspicions and was secretly amused by them. The smile was dazzling. He was a magnetic man.

“Hello, Les,” Halliday said as he strode across the lobby toward us. “Sorry to cause you so much lost sleep.” His voice was strong, rich.

And Les, who had always come on like a lizard, was blooming in the sunshine of that smile. He straightened up and his voice deepened. “Perfectly okay, Governor. I’ll sleep after your inauguration.”

Halliday laughed outright.

He reached out for my hand as Les introduced, “This is Marie Kludjian of—”

“I know,” Halliday said. His grip was firm. “Is Now‘s circulation falling off so badly that you have to invent a cancer case for me?” But he still smiled as he said it.

“Our circulation’s fine,” I said, trying to sound unimpressed. “How’s yours?”

He stayed warm and friendly. “You’re afraid I’m here for a secret examination or treatment, is that it?”

I wasn’t accustomed to frankness from politicians. And he was just radiating warmth. Like the sun. Like a flame.

“You. . . well. . .“I stammered. “You come straight to the point, at least.”

“It saves a lot of time,” he said. “But I’m afraid you’re wasting yours. I’m here to visit Dr. Corio, the new director of the lab. We went to school together back East. And Les has such a busy schedule arranged for me over the next week that this was the only chance I had to see him.”

I nodded, feeling as dumb as a high school groupie.

“Besides,” he went on, “I’m interested in science. I think it’s one of our most important national resources. Too bad the current administration can’t seem to recognize a chromosome from a clavicle.”

“Uh-huh.” My mind seemed to be stuck in neutral. Come on! I scolded myself. Nobody can have that powerful an effect on you! This isn’t a gothic novel.

He waited a polite moment for me to say something else, then cracked, “The preceding was an unpaid political announcement.”

We laughed, all three of us together.

Halliday ushered Les and me inside the lab, and we stayed with him every minute he was there. He introduced me to Dr. Corio—a compactly built intense man of Halliday’s age, with a short, dark beard and worried gray eyes. I spent a yawn-provoking two hours with them, going through a grand tour of the lab’s facilities. There were only five of us: Halliday, Corio, the girl in the green suit, Les and me. All the lab’s offices and workrooms were dark and unoccupied. Corio spent half the time feeling along the walls for light switches.

Through it all something buzzed in my head. Something was out of place. Then it hit me. No staff. No flunkies. Just the appointments secretary and Les. . . and I dragged Les here.

It was a small thing. But it was different. A politician without pomp? I wondered.

By seven in the morning, while Corio lectured to us about the search for carcinoma antitoxins or some such, I decided I had been dead wrong about James J. Halliday.

By seven-thirty I was practically in love with him. He was intelligent. And concerned. He had a way of looking right at you and turning on that dazzling smile. Not phony. Knee-watering. And unattached, I remembered. The most available bachelor in the Presidential sweepstakes.

By eight-thirty I began to realize that he was also as tough as a grizzled mountain man. I was out on my feet, but he was still alert and interested in everything Corio was showing me.

He caught me in mid-yawn, on our way back to the lobby. “Perhaps you’d better ride with us, Marie,” he said. “I’ll have one of Corio’s guards drive your car back to the airport.”

I protested, but feebly. I was tired. And, after all, it’s not every day that a girl gets a lift from a potential President.

Halliday stayed in the lobby for a couple of minutes while Les, the appointment girl and I piled into one of the limousines. Then he came out, jogged to the limo and slid in beside me.

“All set. They’ll get your car back to the airport.”

I nodded. I was too damned sleepy to wonder what had happened to the people who had filled the other two limousines. And all the way back to Minneapolis, Halliday didn’t smile at me once.

Sheila Songard, the managing editor at Now, was given to making flat statements, such as: “You’ll be back in the office in two weeks, Marie. He won’t get past the New Hampshire primary.”

You don’t argue with the boss. I don’t, anyway. Especially not on the phone. But after Halliday grabbed off an impressive 43% of the fractured New Hampshire vote, I sent her a get-well card.

All through those dark, cold days of winter and early spring I stayed with Jim Halliday, got to know him and his staff, watched him grow. The news and media people started to flock in after New Hampshire.

The vitality of the man! Not only did he have sheer animal magnetism in generous globs, he had more energy than a half-dozen flamenco dancers. He was up and active with the sunrise every day and still going strong long after midnight. It wore out most of the older newsmen trying to keep up with him.

When he scored a clear victory in Wisconsin, the Halliday staff had to bring out extra buses and even arrange a separate plane for the media people to travel in, along with The Man’s private 707 jet.

I was privileged to see the inside of his private jetliner. I was the only news reporter allowed aboard during the whole campaign, in fact. He never let news or media people fly with him. Superstition, I thought. Or just a desire to have a place that can be really private—even if he had to go 35,000 feet above the ground to get the privacy. Then I’d start daydreaming about what it would be like to be up that high with him. . .

The day I saw the plane, it was having an engine overhauled at JFK in New York. It was still cold out, early April, and the hangar was even colder inside than the weakly sunlit out-of-doors.

The plane was a flying command post. The Air Force didn’t have more elaborate electronics gear. Bunks for fifteen people. There goes the romantic dream, I thought. No fancy upholstery or decorations. Strictly utilitarian. But row after row of communication stuff: even picturephones, a whole dozen of them.

I had known that Jim was in constant communication with his people all over the country. But picturephones—it was typical of him. He wanted to be there, as close to the action as possible. Ordinary telephones or radios just weren’t good enough for him.

“Are you covering an election campaign or writing love letters?” Sheila’s voice, over the phone, had that bitchy edge to it.

“What’s wrong with the copy I’m sending in?” I yelled back at her.

“It’s too damned laudatory, and you know it,” she shrilled. “You make it sound as if he’s going through West Virginia converting the sinners and curing the lepers.”

“He’s doing better than that,” I said. “And I’m not the only one praising him.”

“I’ve watched his press conferences on TV,” Sheila said. “He’s a cutie, all right. Never at a loss for an answer.”