At length he sighed, set the photograph down carefully, and said in a perfunctory way, “I wonder if those media bastards understand what it’s really like for a man in my position, how alone it makes you feel sometimes. I wonder if anyone understands that except my predecessors in this office.”

“I think I have an idea, sir,” Justice said.

The President looked across at him again with interest. “Do you really?”

“I think so.”

“Maybe you do, at that,” Augustine said. “You’re so supportive, Christopher. I’ve noticed that before, though I suppose I marked it down to the nature of your job. But it’s more than that, isn’t it.”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean, sir.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-nine.”

“I can remember when I was thirty-nine,” the President said. “I was a lot like you are now. A simple man, a man of the people. But that’s all changed.” He paused speculatively. “Maybe you’d be a better person to sit in this chair than I am.”

Justice blinked. “I, sir?”

“Yes. A young man, self-contained, in tune with the needs of the people. And what a magnificent name for a President-Justice! Have you ever been politically ambitious, Christopher?”

“No sir. I’m qualified to be a police officer, that’s all.”

“And you’re proud of your position, proud to serve your country in this capacity.”

“Yes sir, I am.”

“You’d give your life for me, if it came to that.”

“You know I would, Mr. President.”

“That doesn’t seem just, now does it?” Augustine said. “Why should one common man die for another, eh?”