Romney was, of course, the GOP’s presidential nominee before Trump—and before him was John McCain. Neither man now represents the party. Even the Republicans who are “concerned” by Trump—those running for another term in office, like Susan Collins or Cory Gardner or Ben Sasse; those who have decided to step down, like Lamar Alexander; those who have already stepped down, like Bob Corker or Jeff Flake—are guarded in their criticism. Lindsey Graham, a loyal sidekick to McCain during his years in office but now an even more loyal mascot for Trump, is the Mr. Republican of this age.

The common theme that connects these people is that, one way or another, they have seemed afraid of Donald Trump. I am sure they would deny that if asked directly. But their actions are consistent with their being fearful of what would happen if they don’t do what Trump wants, or tell him what he so desperately wants to hear.

Peter M. Shane: Trump shouldn’t be able to fire Fauci for contradicting him

They may be afraid that he will attack them in a tweetstorm. Afraid that he will support a primary opponent. Afraid that they will be cut off from the social connectedness and the economic benefits of being a long-term part of the Republican team. Afraid … of something. Donald Trump is very obviously not a well-informed person (“A lot of people don’t know this, but Abraham Lincoln was a Republican”). And he would fail most tests of evidence-based logical reasoning. But he has a natural talent for sizing up people, in a Who is the alpha dog? sense. Just as he clearly feels that Russian President Vladimir Putin is the alpha dog, to Trump’s own beta, Trump can sense the submission from everyone around him in GOP politics. They may “privately” have contempt for his judgment and principles. They may call him a “moron” behind his back. But he knows that, if he’s in a snarling match with one of them, the other will be the one to back down.

Anyone behaves differently in the presence of any president. People who say that is not true have not had the experience. But Anthony Fauci has dealt with a lot of presidents before Trump. And as Michael Specter pointed out in a New Yorker profile of him this week:

“Some wise person who used to be in the White House, in the Nixon Administration, told me a very interesting dictum to live by,” he told me in 2016, during a public conversation we had at the fifty-year reunion of his medical-school class. “He said, ‘When you go into the White House, you should be prepared that that is the last time you will ever go in. Because if you go in saying, I’m going to tell somebody something they want to hear, then you’ve shot yourself in the foot.’ Now everybody knows I’m going to tell them exactly what’s the truth.”

When writing about the senators, representatives, and others in the Vichy Republican caucus—those who are already rich, who are from safe electoral districts, who are old enough that they don’t need to worry about their next career step—I have often wondered, What are they saving up for? What’s keeping them from taking a stand? Anthony Fauci is a test case of answering that question in what I consider the “logical” way. Although he looks fit and vital, he is 79 years old. He has held his current job for nearly four decades; he is not looking for another. He has already received the nation’s highest civilian honor, the Presidential Medal of Freedom—from George W. Bush. The only reputational risk he faces at this stage is doing something out of character with the reputation he has built.