The living room had been radically rearranged by stylists from the Geraldo show, and now the two men, former president and respected pbs commentator, sat waiting in carefully angled armchairs positioned in front of a wall of books and kachina dolls. Geraldo's sculptured features were passive, his eyes blank. He got the signal to start, sprang vibrantly to life, and addressed the camera: "Rad babies! aids! Mutant rats! Is this the man responsible? We'll be back in just two minutes." The network cut to announcements, and Geraldo turned off again.

A makeup girl appeared next to him, pushed a recalcitrant tuft of mustache into place, and misted it with a tiny can of hairspray.

Always hated this part of politics, thought the former president. Won't say I was born too late, but I'm damned sure I wasn't born a minute too soon — never be able to stand the rigmarole that politicians have to go through now.

The camera was back, and Geraldo revived again: "For better or worse, tactical nukes are now a way of life in troubled parts of the world. These baby bombs, first deployed by our guest today during the Viet Nam war, are easy to use and tough to clean up after. What do you say, Barry, can we lay this mess at your doorstep?"

"Well, as I've said before, Geraldo, I wasn't the only one involved in deciding to use these weapons, but I accept responsibility for the decision, yes."

"I guess we know you stand behind your use of nukes in Viet Nam, but don't you feel a little guilty about the millions of deaths that have resulted from the proliferation of these weapons?"

"As far as that goes, Geraldo, I think you have to look on these things as being the natural result of a free market econom — "

"Thanks, Barry. We'll be back with more, after these messages."

Why did I agree to do this, wondered the former president. Haldeman's got some explaining ahead of him.

A young man in the audience, hair a little long but neatly combed, raises his hand: "Sir, can you tell us, did you ever take LSD in the Sixties? If so, what was it like for you?"

The familiar hollow vowels: "I'm glad you asked me that question." Running a hand over the top of his head. "As a matter of fact, the truth is," — Tricky Dick's voice becomes dramatically husky — "yes, I have taken LSD." A subdued murmur of anticipation from the audience: what a great question!

"Of course, this was before it was declared illegal. I am not a — I've always believed in law and order.

"It began — it was some time back around 1965, after Pat and I had moved back to California. We had some, uh, show business friends, who had, who had experimented with LSD. Pat and I were going through a period of . . . of withdrawal from politics, and our friends thought it might help us, uh, make our peace with our destinies, if we took some of this LSD." He takes a deep breath. "Let me tell you what happened." The camera zooms in on his hands: he's wringing them nervously. "We arranged for this fellow to come to our house, to be our 'guide,' and he gave us two little white pills. This cost about three hundred dollars, which was a lot of money back then, as you might remember. Well, Pat and I just looked at each other. We were nervous, but we'd come this far, and we were determined to see it through.

"So we swallowed them, with the help of a little chocolate milk. Then we sat on the floor and listened to Leonard Bernstein records for a while. Pat took off her shoes, and I first loosened my tie, then took it off entirely."

As he relaxes into the story, Tricky Dick seems to confide in the audience. "Well I tell you, I didn't feel like my usual cocky, confident self there. I was full of restless energy. I fidgeted. I started to feel very uneasy. Then I realized that the problem was that I had no control over what was going to happen to me. I was accustomed to having control over even the smallest things in my life. And you know, my fath — my upbringing was such that I believed that a man had to be in control at all times.

"But as I struggled to remain calm, I realized that I did have a choice: I could relinquish control or continue to fight for it with the drug.

"I decided I would voluntarily give up control, and I made a gesture of giving, giving control over to the drug. At that moment a great peace descended on me, and I felt as though I had passed into another dimension. I cried freely, letting the tears run down my cheeks — and yet, I felt very happy, and I was smiling."

Eventually the reporters left the room and the Governor of New York City lit a cigarette and leaned back against the pillows. It was OK to light one, he told himself, as long as he just held it. He lifted it to his lips. As long as he didn't inhale, he amended. He didn't inhale. He couldn't, really, they had him strapped so tightly around the chest.

"Governor!" It was the day nurse. "What do you think you're doing?"

She was right. "Damn," he said. "Wasn't thinking. Sorry." He handed her the cigarette.

Mollified, the nurse, an attractive blonde woman with grey streaks in her hair, smiled at him. "Your wife's on her way over, Governor."

"'Bout time." He sure didn't feel great just now. They'd pushed it too close, letting the guy get off a shot. Could have shot him in the head, for Chrissake. He didn't want to blink out the way Jack had — too suddenly to put things in order, make proper goodbyes, say the things left unsaid. Though he wouldn't want to hang on for a decade like his father, either, tubes plugged into him at both ends, bringing stuff in at the top and taking it out at the bottom.

He wasn't ready to check out yet at all, thank you very much. At 65, he still had the time and stamina to run for president. He could win, too, and he could do the job.