"But we're the White House press corps," another moaned.
"You have my sympathy," Ayers said.
In all the commotion, neither the press nor the uniformed Secret Service guards noticed one of the most famous haircuts in Washington crawl out of the back of a TV microwave van on sprawled arms and legs and clump below eye level through the metal detector.
He got halfway across the North Lawn before he was picked up by the Secret Service surveillance cameras and the alert was sounded.
By that time he had splashed into the fountain in the center of the lawn.
That was where the director of the Secret Service found him when he came pounding out of the North Portico, a detail of agents at his heels.
"He's in the fountain, sir," Jack Murtha said.
"How did he get through the gate?" the director complained.
"We think he crawled on his hands and knees while the press had the uniforms distracted."
"We can't have a security breach like this! Big Mac will have my ass flame broiled."
When they reached the marble lip of the White House fountain, they saw no sign of anyone.
"Who's got a damn flashlight?" the director demanded.
A flashlight was handed over.
The director beamed light all through the pool. He caught a flash of something lurking under the cold water. It was mottled green and brown.
"What the hell is that?" he breathed.
Then a head rose from the water, and two green eyes looked directly at the director of the Secret Service from under a thick thatch of wet white fur.
The green eyes were so cold and inhuman the director almost dropped his light. "What in God's name is that?" he said hoarsely.
Another flash came into play.
"That hair sure looks familiar," Jack Murtha muttered.
"Look at those eyes. Like a snake's. They don't even blink in the light."
"You! Come out of there with your hands up," Murtha commanded.
The baleful green eyes continued to regard the cluster of agents with cold menace. Bubbles began to appear in the area of his submerged mouth.
Then slowly and deliberately the head lifted into view.
"Holy Hell!" Murtha blurted. "That's Gila!"
"What?"
"Congressman Gila Gingold, minority whip in the House of Representatives."
"My God! It is him. But what the hell is he doing here?"
The question hung in the air less than five seconds. Without warning, the figure in the pool gathered itself and came splashing out of the pool on clumsy arms and legs, head held high like a turtle, jaws snapping angrily.
Delta Elites snapped in line.
"Hold your fire!" the director cried. "You can't shoot him. He's a member of Congress and the opposition party to boot. Think of the stink."
Hastily the Secret Service beat a retreat to the North Portico, heads turning often.
It was a frightening sight. Gila Gingold, dressed in jungle fatigues, slithered along the winter brown lawn on his belly. He charged up to the North Portico, where the director promptly slammed the door in his pugnacious face.
Gila Gingold flopped around the doorway, threshing like a bull snake and snapping his jaws angrily. He growled once but didn't say a word otherwise.
"What the hell is wrong with him?" the director wondered aloud in a horrified voice.
"You know what a pit bull he is where Big Mac is concerned."
"Looks like he wigged out completely-"
"We'd better inform the Man," the director said.
"How? We're on radio silence."
"I'll do it personally," said the director.
He withdrew into the White House proper.
"You know," Jack Murtha said to his fellow agents as the House minority whip paced on all fours back and forth before the entrance to the executive mansion, "he kinda reminds me of something."
"Yeah, I know what you mean," said another. "But I can't put my finger on it."
After five minutes the camouflaged figure slithered back to the fountain and slipped from sight.
THE PRESIDENT of the United States was in the family quarters waiting for the First Lady when the director of the Secret Service walked in unannounced.
"Why Mr. Smith Goes to Washington?" she was asking the President. "Is there a secret message in the sound track?"
"If I knew, I'd tell you."
The director cleared his throat. "I'm sorry to barge in like this, Mr. President. But we have a little problem on the North Lawn."
"If it's little, you deal with it," the First Lady snapped.
"Well, perhaps 'little' isn't the correct word."