All, including the president who sat in front of the amplifone that had been placed on the coffee table, wore varying styles of night attire beneath the yellow, toweling “Crooked-K Ranch” dressing gowns. All thoughts of a return to bed had been discounted, and now it was far too late in the morning to do so in any case. And the fact that they were still in their night clothes, when the clock on the wall showed the hour as ten-thirty Eastern Standard Time, occurred to none of them. “Crooked-K Ranch” was the name the president had bestowed upon his mountain retreat. The place was not a ranch. There were horses, but these were not for rounding up non-existent longhorns; they were for pleasure purposes only. The main house of the Crooked-K boasted 12 bedrooms, each en-suite; 2 rambling lounges - one containing locally-crafted oak furniture, the other, in which the three men now were, ultra-modern from carpet to ceiling; two kitchens with almost innumerable utility rooms adjoining; an indoor swimming pool and sauna bath; a small gymnasium and a huge patio.
