Heinlein, Robert A – Expanded Universe

and girls will be at all your meetings, asking embarrassing questions.”

She looked at me. “Of all the dirty politics!”

“You’re a candidate, kid; you’re supposed to know the answers.”

She looked upset. “I told Uncle Sam,” she said, half to herself, “that I

didn’t know enough about such things, but he said-”

“Go on, Frances. What did he say?”

She shook her head. “I’ve told you too much already.

“I’ll tell you. You were not to worry your pretty head, because he would be

there to tell you how to vote. That was it, wasn’t it?”

“Well, not in so many words. He said-”

“But it amounted to that. And he brought Meyers around and said Meyers would

show you the ropes. You didn’t want to cause trouble, so you did what Meyers told

you to do. Right?”

“You’ve got the nastiest way of putting things.”

“That’s not all. You honestly think you are independent. But you do what Sam

Jorgens tells you and Sam Jorgens-your sweet old Uncle Sam-won’t change his socks

without Boss Tully’s permission.”

“I don’t believe it!”

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“Check it. Ask some of the newspaper boys. Sniff around.”

“I shall.”

“Good. You’ll learn about the birds and the bees.” I stood up. “I’ve worn

out my welcome. See you at the barricades, comrade.”

I was halfway to the street when she called me back. “Jack!”

“Yes, Frances?” I went back up on the porch. “I’m going to find out what

connection, if any, Tully has with Uncle Sam, but, nevertheless and notwithstanding,

I’m an independent. If I’ve been led around by the nose, I won’t be for long.”

“Good girl!”

“That’s not all. I’m going to give you the fight of your life, whip the

pants off you, and wipe that know-it-all look off your face!”

“Bravo! That’s the spirit, kid. We’ll have fun.”

“Thanks. Well, goodnight.”

“Just a second.” I put an arm around her shoulders. She leaned away from me

warily. “Tell me, darling:

who writes your speeches?”

I got kicked in the shins, then the screen door was between us. “Goodnight,

Mr. Ross!”

“One more thing-your middle name, it can’t be ‘Xavier.’ What does the X

stand for?”

“Xanthippe-want to make something of it?” The door slammed.

I was too busy the following month to worry about Frances Nelson. Ever been

a candidate? It is like getting married and having your appendix out, while going

over Niagara Falls in a barrel. One or more meetings every evening, breakfast clubs

on Saturdays and Sundays, a Kiwanis, Rotary, or Lions, or Chamber of Commerce lunch

to hit at noon, an occasional appearance in court, endless correspondence, phone

calls, conferences, and, to top it off, as many hours of doorbell pushing as I could

force into each day.

It was a grass-roots campaign, the best sort, but strenuous. Mrs. Holmes, by

scraping the barrel, rounded up volunteers to cover three-quarters of the precincts;

the rest were my problem. I couldn’t cover them all, but I could durn well try.

And every day there was the problem of money. Even with a volunteer, unpaid

organization, politics costs money-printing, postage, hall rental, telephone bills,

and there is gasoline and lunch money for people who can’t carry their own expenses.

A dollar here and a dollar there and soon sr.~i are three thousand bucks in the red.

It is hard to tell how a campaign is going; you tend to kid each other. We

made a mid-stream spot checkphone

calls, a reply post-card poll, ayid a doorbell sampling. And Tom and I and

Mrs. Holmes got out and sniffed the air. All one day I bought gasoline here, a cola

there, and a pack of cigarettes somewhere else, talking politics as I did so, and

never offering my name. By the time I met Tom and Mrs. Holmes at her home I felt

that I knew my chances.

We got our estimates together and looked them over. Mine read: “Ross 45%;

Nelson 55%; McNye a trace.” Tom’s was: “fifty-fifty, against us.” Mrs. Holmes had

written, “A dull campaign, a light vote, and a trend against us.” The computed

results of the formal polls read; Ross 43%, Nelson 52%, McNye 5%-probable error