And Now, for the Next Movie...

The unfinished story that Woodward and Bernstein told in All the President's Men is about to be continued. Next month Simon & Schuster will publish their second collaborative effort, The Final Days, an account of the ending of Richard Nixon's presidency. The two reporters received a $300,000 advance for the work, which is a May Book-of-the-Month Club selection.

According to reports from those familiar with the book, The Final Days is an extraordinarily detailed portrait of the collapse of the former President. Woodward and Bernstein state that Nixon took to drinking in the afternoon in his little hideaway in the Executive Office Building. His appointments became fewer and his office hours more erratic as his control of Government slipped away. There were days when he did not come over from the mansion until noon. Once, almost at the end, he was heard saying "Goodbye" to the portraits of his predecessors on the White House walls. He cried as Secretary of State Henry Kissinger held his arm and assured him that his great deeds in foreign affairs would survive the upheaval. Close to the end, he broke down and asked Kissinger to join him on his knees in the little office just off the Oval. "You are not a very orthodox Jew and I am not an orthodox Quaker, but we need to pray," said the despairing President. Kissinger prayed, although he often sneered at Nixon behind his back and sometimes concealed his loathing only with difficulty when they were together. Privately, Kissinger referred to Nixon as "our meatball President."

Nixon's family was deeply alarmed by his visible deterioration. David Eisenhower was afraid that his father-in-law might go mad. He knew how tense and brittle the President was, and feared that his reason could not survive the harsh and total withdrawal of the public's favor.

The drinking became a big problem in July 1974. For years, Nixon's aides had known that he had a very low tolerance for alcohol. Yet he began to drink heavily as he sat for hours, usually in the afternoon, in that little office he liked so much across East Executive Avenue--sometimes alone, sometimes with the comforting presence of Press Secretary Ron Ziegler. He grew even moodier than usual, even more withdrawn and indecisive. As his schedule grew more and more erratic, General Alexander

Haig, the White House chief of staff, instructed Presidential Aide Steve Bull to stop recording the precise times of Nixon's movements. The yacht Sequoia became Nixon's favorite refuge as his prospects blackened; his enemies could be left behind as he headed down the Potomac. Perhaps that is why the President was so enraged when he found the hated newsmen and photographers waiting at the Anacostia River dock when he drove up and when he sailed back in. "Get the goddam press out of here," he would say. He wondered out loud to David Eisenhower whether the Navy could not give him another berth for his boat. David sought to calm him. He told him the way to avoid the press was to stay a long time on the river, and Nixon followed the advice.

Ziegler was one of the few close advisers and confidants left to Nixon in his agony. But when the press secretary came to the boss, he was usually bearing bad tidings: the press was demanding to know this or that, impeachment seemed more imminent at the Capitol. "Get out! Get out!" Nixon was heard screaming at his chief spokesman one day. But the next day they sat to gether as though nothing had occurred.

Ziegler's credibility was one of the first casualties of Watergate. In the Administration's last month, White House staffers began plotting to ease him out and bring someone else in.

The most desirable possible replacement was Hugh Morrow, the longtime press aide of New York Governor Nelson Rockefeller. Haig made a pitch to Morrow to become White House "Communications Director," with Cabinet status.

Nixon's pal Bebe Rebozo even sent a private jet to New York to pick up Mor row and fly him to Key Biscayne for a discussion with Haig and others. The idea was to ease Ziegler into a position at the U.S. Information Agency. Like so many other desperate plans that were considered in the dying days of Nixon's presidency, it came to nothing.

Just before the resignation, the President called in his court photographer, Ollie Atkins, to make a last set of photographs of the family. Everyone was there-- the First Couple, the daughters, David Eisenhower, Eddie Cox. "I'm always glad to see you, Ollie, but not this time," Pat Nixon said sadly as the President brought in the photographer. Atkins had to keep shooting a long time before he got a picture in which tears did not show on any of the faces.

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