Fail-Safe

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Peter Buck walked up to the Pennsylvania entrance of the White House. It was one of the hard, deceptive, crystal days of early spring. The obelisk of the Washington Monument was white and glittering. Tourists hurried rather than shuffled past the White House. Official limousines went by with their windows rolled up and their back-seat occupants thumbing through papers, their chesterfield collars up. The air was marvelously clear and full of sun, but it was cold.

Of ten Buck had the desire to mingle with the crowds, to wander down the Mall, to loiter in the Smithsonian, actually to visit the capitol and sit in the Senate gallery, to visit the Supreme Court on Monday when decisions were rendered, to regain the innocence he had felt years ago when he first came to Washington. With a soft poignancy Buck realized he had become a new victim of an old malady: he saw less of his city than the tourist. But today he was glad to reach the White House sentry box and looked forward to his warm steam-heated office.

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