Pennsylvania Avenue was wet with autumn showers; the tires of the big, shiny sedan sang until it slowed for the turn into the White House drive. As the big machine stopped, with the air of quiet pomp that only official cars achieve, the wind bent trees out across the wide, wet lawns. The burly man in the back seat—Admiral James Otto Richardson, Commander in Chief of the U.S. Fleet—did not appear to notice. He had arrived punctually at 1 o'clock; he got out quickly, and walked into the executive mansion, looking straight ahead.
He was led down the hall, ushered...
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