Heinlein, Robert A – Expanded Universe

plus-or-minus 9%.

I looked around. “Shall we cut our losses, or go on gallantly to defeat?”

“We aren’t licked yet,” Tom pointed out.

“No, but we’re going to be. All we offer is the assumption that I’m better

qualified than the little girl with the big eyes-a notion in which Joe Public is

colossally uninterested. How about it, Mrs. Holmes? Can you make it up in the

precincts?”

She faced me. “Jack, to be frank, it’s all uphill. I’m working the old

faithfuls too hard and I can’t seem to stir out any new blood.”

“We need excitement,” Tom complained. “Let’s throw some mud.”

“At what?” I asked. “Want to accuse her of passing notes in school, or shall

we say she sneaked out after taps when she was a WAC? She’s got no record.”

“Well, tackle her on housing. You’ve let her hog the best issue.”

I shook my head. “If I knew the answers, I wouldn’t be living in a trailer.

I won’t make phony promises. I’ve drawn up three bills, one to support the Federal

Act, one to revise the building code, and one for a bond election for housing

projects-that last one is a hot potato. None of them are much good. This housing

shortage will be with us for years.”

Page 107

Tom said, “Jack, you shouldn’t run for office. You don’t have the fine, free

optimism that makes a good public figure.”

I grunted. “That’s what I told you birds. I’m the manager type. A candidate

who manages himself gets a split personality.”

Mrs. Holmes knit her brows. “Jack-you know more about housing than she does.

Let’s hold a rally and debate it.”

“Okay with me-I just work here. I once threatened to make her debate

everything from streetcars to taxes. How about it, Torn?”

“Anything to make some noise.”

I phoned at once. “Is this the Stooge with the Light Brown Hair?”

“That must be Jack Ross. Hello, Nasty. How’s the baby-kissing?”

“Sticky. Remember I promised to debate the issues with you? How about 8 p.m.

Wednesday the 15th?”

She said, “Hold the line-” I could hear a muffled rumble, then she said,

“Jack? You tend to your campaign; I’ll tend to mine.”

“Better accept, kid. We’ll challenge you publicly. Is Miss Nelson afraid to

face the issues, quote and unquote.”

“Goodbye, Jack.”

“Uncle Sam won’t let you, will he?” The phone clicked in my ear.

We went ahead anyway. I sold some war bonds and ordered a special edition of

the Civic League News, with a Ross-for-Councilman front page, as a throwaway to

announce the rally-prizes, entertainment, movies, and a super-colossal, gigantic

debate between Ross in this corner and Nelson in that. We piled the bundles of

papers in Mrs. Holmes’ garage late Sunday night. Mrs. Holmes phoned about

seven-thirty the next morning-“Jack,” she yipped, “come over right away!”

“On my way. What’s wrong?”

“Everything. Wait till you get here.” When I did, she led me out to her

garage; someone had broken in and had slit open our precious bundles-then had poured

dirty motor oil on them.

Tom showed up while we were looking at the mess. “Pixies everywhere,” he

observed. “I’ll call the Commercial Press.”

“Don’t bother,” I said bitterly. “We can’t pay for another run.” But he went

in anyhow. The kids who were to do the distributing started to show up; we paid them

and sent them home. Tom came out. “Too late,” he announced. “We would have to start

from scratch- no time and too expensive.”

I nodded and went in the house. I had a call to make myself. “Hello,” I

snapped, “is this Miss Nelson, the Independent Candidate?”

“This is Frances Nelson. Is this Jack Ross?”

“Yes. You were expecting me to call, I see.”

“No, I knew your sweet voice. To what do I owe the honor?”

“I’d like to show you how well your boys have been campaigning.

“Just a moment- I’ve an appointment at ten; I can spare the time until then.

What do you mean; how my boys have been campaigning?”

“You’ll find out.” I hung up.

I refused to talk until she had seen the sabotage. She stared. “It’s a

filthy, nasty trick, Jack-but why show it to me?”