[tshiggins]

The man on the bench outside the door of the Oval Office fumed silently. He'd already been through this, once, with this president, and thought he'd worked out clear understanding with the man. His work to defend the United States against her enemies, both external and internal, brooked no interference. Once he'd explained that to Franklin Delano Roosevelt, and provided proof of the sincerity of his belief (in the form of the surveillance transcripts he had about Mrs. Roosevelt's... distaff interests), he felt the two men had reached an accommodation.

Since then, on the rare occasions he'd visited the White House, he'd been ushered in to see President Roosevelt with all courtesy and no delays. If anything, the growing threat of war in Europe, followed by its actual outbreak, had made his work even more vital.

The door opened. Finally.

"Mr. Hoover? The president will see you, now."

J. Edgar Hoover levered himself from the bench with an almost inaudible "hrumph" and walked into the Oval Office. He greeted the spectacled Roosevelt politely enough, and eyed Mr. Friedman. J. Edgar Hoover knew the Jewish gentleman, of course (he knew everyone) and knew Friedman's mathematical passions left little room for the more... physical sort. The man was happily married to a wonderful woman who shared his passions, and she had even proven quite useful to the FBI's pursuit of rumrunners during the '30s.

Now, Friedman avoided looking him in the eye, and Hoover felt the first hint of a chill. What could the SIS have discovered?

"Thank you for coming, on such short notice, Mr. Hoover. Would you like a cup of coffee?"

More chill. The word, "pleasant" never described Roosevelt's demeanor toward the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

"No thank you, mister president. I understand you had a matter of some urgency to discuss?"

Cut to the chase. Get to the point, and then deal with it head-on.

"We do, Mr. Hoover. It has come to our attention that a security risk exists at the highest levels of this government. A risk this nation cannot tolerate, given the troubled times ahead."

"As director of the FBI, I am terribly concerned by this, Mr. President, and will do everything in my power to assist in this matter."

"I expected nothing less, Edgar. May I call you Edgar?"

The chill becomes an icicle, inserted from below.

"Certainly, sir. May I know the nature of this threat?"

"Not a threat, Edgar. At least, not yet. However, it could become one, should it be permitted to continue on its present course. It came as quite a shock, I must say, when Bill, here, delivered the information to me, earlier, today."

"Bill...? Mr. Friedman brought you this."

"Yes he did, Edgar. As you may know (but probably shouldn't), Friedman's people have monitored the radio traffic from our new celestial neighbors. Well, one of them, the United States on the future Earth, contacted the SIS directly, several months ago."

Cold dread.

"Did they? This Negro college professor they have as president informed us of a threat?"

"Not a threat, Edgar. Simply a risk, but one we cannot tolerate."

A long pause.

"What is the nature of this risk, if I may ask?"

"You certainly may, Edgar. Take a look."

Roosevelt slid a thick binder across his desk. With no hesitation, his guest picked it up and flipped open the cover. He stared at the first page, for a long moment.

The president's voice was surprisingly gentle.

"Bill tells me he'll soon be able to receive what he calls 'high-resolution photographs' that validate this information. He's also paper-clipped the most relevant sections. You may read them, if you like."

"I'm... I'm certain that will not be necessary, Mr. President."

"I'll need your resignation, Edgar, effective immediately. Mr. Tolson's, as well. You will both receive your pensions, and a quiet retirement with no fuss and no publicity, but the continued presence of the two of you in your current positions has become... untenable."

The director of the FBI looked up from the binder, lips pressed into a firm line, but his face pale. He no longer needed to see it. He would not soon forget the title page, J. Edgar Hoover: The Man and the Secrets.

"I believe I can speak for Mr. Tolson when I say you shall have them in the morning, Mr. President."

"Thank you, Edgar. That will be sufficient."

The two men watched the FBI director depart, back stiff. The door clicked shut behind him, quietly.

"Are you certain that was the best way to handle this, Mr. President? The files he has...."

"It's a risk, Bill, I know. But the one thing that came through clearly in this biography is that, despite his... foibles, Mr. Hoover loves this country very much. So much, in fact, that he's willing to betray its principles in the name of defending it, and therein lies the rub. I don't think he'll use the files. In fact, I think your contact on the the future Earth is most likely correct. The most damaging ones will be gone, by morning."

"Well, sir, I hope you're right. Mr. Hoover never really struck me as the altruistic or forgiving sort. But, be that as it may, whom do you have in mind as a successor?"

"I've got a couple of ideas, Bill, but I need to kick 'em around, some more, and talk to Harry."

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