Heinlein, Robert A – Expanded Universe

explain things he’s back on his heels and ready for the knockout. I was a

fifty-fifty squeeze at best; this tips the balance.”

She was staring at the picture, bug-eyed, knuckles pressed to her mouth.

“Jack- Oh, dear! I’ve gone and done it again.”

“Done what?”

“Got you into this mess. I told Sam Jorgens all about our first talk,

including how you had to camp out in a trailer. I-”

I brushed it aside. “No matter. They would have stumbled on it anyhow. See

here-we’re going to take you on. We might even elect you.”

“But I don’t want the job, Jack. I want you to have

it.

“Too late, Frances. But we want to beat that spare tire, McNye. The machine

is still using you, to beat me in the primary by splitting the non-machine vote;

then they’ll settle your hash. I’ve got a gimmick for that. But first-you call

yourself an independent. Well, you aren’t now.”

“What do you mean? I won’t be anything else.”

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“They gave women the vote! Look, darling, a candidate can be unbossed, but

not independent. Independence is an adolescent notion. To merit support you

have to commit yourself-and there goes your independence.

“But I- Oh, politics is a rotten business!”

“You make me tired! Politics is just as clean-or as dirty-as the people who

practice it. The people who say it’s dirty are too lazy to do their part in it.” She

dropped her face into her hands. I took her by the shoulders, and shook her. “Now

you listen to me. I’m going over our program, point by point. If you agree with it

and commit yourself, you’re our candidate. Right?”

“Yes, Jack.” It was just a whisper.

We ran through it. There was no trouble, it was sane and sensible, likely to

appeal to anyone with no ax to grind. The points she did not understand we let lay

over. She liked especially my housing bills and began to perk up and sound like a

candidate.

“Okay,” I said finally. “Here’s the gimmick. I’ll get my name off the ballot

so that the race will be over in the primary. It’s too late to do it myself, but

they’ve played into my hands. It’ll be a court order, for ineligibility through

non-residence.”

Dr. Potter looked up sharply. “Come again, son? I thought you said your

legal position was secure.”

I grinned. “It is-if I fight. But I won’t. Here’s the gag-we bring a

citizen’s suit through a couple of dummies. The court orders me to show cause. I

default. Court has no option but to order my name stricken from the ballot. One,

two, three.”

Tom cheered. I bowed. “Now Dr. Potter is your new campaign chairman. You go

on as before, going where you are sent and speaking your piece. Oh, yes-I’m going to

give you some homework on other issues than housing. As for Tom and me-we’re the

special effects department. Just forget us.”

Three days later I was off the ballot. Tom handled it so that it looked like

McNye and Tully. Mrs. Holmes had the delicate job of convincing our precinct workers

that Frances was our new white hope. Dr. Potter and Dick Blair got Frances

endorsed by the Civic League-the League would endorse a giant panda against a Tully

man. And Dick Blair worked up a veterans’ division.

Leaving Tom and me free for fun and games.

First we got a glamor pic of Frances, one that made her look like Liberty

Enlightening the World, with great sorrowful eyes and a noble forehead, and had it

blown up for billboards-6-sheets; 24-sheets look like too much dough.

We got a “good” picture of McNye, too-good for us. Like this-you send two

photographers to a meeting where your man is to speak. One hits him with a flash

bulb; the second does also, right away, before the victim can recover from his

reflex. Then you throw the first pic away. We got a picture which showed McNye as

pop-eyed, open-mouthed, and idiotic-a Kallikak studying to be a Jukes. It was so

good we had to tone it down. Then I went up state and got some printing done, very