The President's Doctor [antikvár]

In the first-class cabin of the 747 jetliner, Carter Fitz-simmons folded the New York Times to place it carefully on the empty seat beside him. It rested on top of the Chicago Tribune, the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, and the Los Angeles Times. Far below him, the Washington Monument came into view in the cabin window. Then cars raced along the sunlit Memorial Parkway. To judge from the newspapers, there was nothing to report but wars, rumors of wars, civil insurrection, anarchy, and terror. The Arabs were threatening another holy war with Israel, Malaysia was embroiled in a merciless civil war, the whole continent of Africa was alive with rebellion and hatred. Each newspaper editorialist knew exactly where to place the blame, but each put it in a different place. NO SMOKING. FASTEN YOUR SEAT BELTS. We spend so much of our time obeying reflexively the lights that command us. Red light means stop, green light means go, blinking yellow lights advise caution. Lights are the true international language. Even in the remote reaches of the dark troubled African continent from which Carter had recently retiuned, this language was understood. Carter could not estimate how accurate the various editorialists were in assessing blame, but there was no doubt they all expected President George Rushton to come up with solutions. It does seem that my old friend George is going to have his hands full. He fastened his seat belt and his long legs nudged into the seat ahead.