The rest of us talked; we kept in touch. We talked about buying more airtime; we talked about what we had on the air. We talked about restructuring the campaign, stripping away the deadwood after New Hampshire, if there was an after--New Hampshire. We talked about replacing Arlen with Daisy; we needed a change of pace. Late Saturday, Susan called: "Call everyone. We'll meet at five P. M. tomorrow at the Mansion." "How's the governor?" "Better. Not great. Henry, we've got to figure out a way to get back on top of this thing." And so, the following evening, we moved all the fruitless, frustrating conversations we'd been having to the governor's mansion. He sat in a wing chair in the study, in striped pajamas and a light blue terrycloth robe. He was still coughing; his eyes were glassy and red- rimmed; his skin was blotchy. He had some of his voice back, though. "We just have to work," he said, pounding his fist on a wing. "We have to work, work, work." "Thing is," Richard said. "We gotta figure out how to seem less .
