(See Cover) In the vast, air-conditioned, limestone building covering five acres of Washington, D.C. which Harold Ickes built for his Interior Department in 1936, there is a sixth-floor suite lovingly planned by Ickes for Ickes. Two private elevators lead to the Ickes suite; two Alaskan totem poles flank the entry hall, 55 feet long. Beyond come stenographic offices and then the Secretary's private office: walnut-floored, oak-paneled and immense (960 sq. ft., as much as a five-room house). Near by are the private aide's office, private dining room, private conference room (which Ickes sometimes used as his bedroom) and private bathroom (where Ickes used to wipe his feet happily on a bath mat emblazoned with the Republican elephant). In Ickes' enormous room, at Ickes' great, gleaming desk, there now sits a successor who cares nothing for mussolinian magnificence: Douglas McKay, 61, veteran Chevrolet dealer —"the old car peddler," he calls himself—from Salem, Ore.
This election year, Doug McKay is engaged in a basic political struggle with the shade of Harold Ickes and his heirs. The issue: federal management of resources v. the Eisenhower slogan of partnership between Government and business. In the West, this conflict is much sharper than in the rest of the U.S. The West grew up under the Federal Government's wing. McKay's opponents are betting that it wants to stay there. Eisenhower, McKay & Co. think they see signs that the West, even on such issues as who develops water power, is ready to emerge from Washington's sheltering protection. Control of Congress (six seats in the Senate, about a score in the House) may depend on which of these views is correct. Doug McKay is politician enough to know this, but the unaccustomed weight on his shoulders doesn't worry him much.
"Country Boy." When McKay was governor of Oregon—his biggest job before coming to Washington with Ike—two of the toughest decisions he faced were whether to proclaim daylight time (thus annoying farmers) and whether to ban hunting when forests were tinder-dry (thus annoying Oregon's legions of deerslayers). In Washington McKay's horizons have enlarged considerably, without affecting the size of his hat. As Interior Secretary, he is the nation's biggest landlord, greatest giver of light and water, master of forest and range, controller of minerals and oil, boss of 56,000 people and a $519 million budget.
"It's fantastic, me having this job," McKay told the crowds on a trip home to Oregon last year. "I'm just a country boy, just a punk governor from a little state." His appointment as Secretary of the Interior, he said, reminded him of the small boy who entered his pet pooch in a pedigreed dog show; when told he was sure to lose, the boy replied, "That's all right—I didn't expect him to win. I just wanted to enter him so he could meet a lot of nice dogs."