Expanded Universe

by Robert A. Heinlein

  "But you're wrong! You're wrong! I'm not backed by the machine."

  "So? Who runs your campaign? Who pays your bills?"

  She shook her head. "A committee takes care of those things. My job is to show up at meetings and speak."

  "Where did the committee come from? Did the stork bring it?"

  "Don't be ridiculous. It's the Third District Home-Owners' League. They endorsed me and set up a campaign committee for me."

  I'm no judge of character, but she was telling the truth, as she saw it. "Ever hear of a dummy organization, kid? Your only connection with this Home-Owners' League is Sam Jorgens . . . isn't it?"

  "Why, no—that is— Yes, I suppose so."

  "And I told you Jorgens was a tame dog for Boss Tully."

  "Yes, but I checked on that, Jack. Uncle Sam explained the whole thing. Tully used to support him, but they broke because Uncle Sam wouldn't take the machine's orders. It's not his fault that the machine used to back him."

  "And you believed him."

  "No, I made him prove it. You said to check with the newspapers—Uncle Sam had me talk with the editor of the Herald." Tom snorted.

  "He means," I told her, "that the Herald is part of the machine. I meant talk to reporters. Most of them are honest and all of them know the score. But I can't see how you could be so green. I know you've been away, but didn't you read the papers before the War?"

  It developed that, what with school and the War, she hadn't been around town much since she was fifteen. Mrs. Holmes broke in, "Why, she's not eligible, Jack! She doesn't have the residence requirements."

  I shook my head. "As a lawyer, I assure you she does. Those things don't break residence—particularly as she enlisted here. How about making us all some coffee, Mrs. Holmes?"

  Mrs. Holmes bristled; I could see that she did not want to fraternize with the enemy, but I took her arm and led her into the house, whispering as I went. "Don't be hard on the kid, Molly. You and I made mistakes while we were learning the ropes. Remember Smythe?"

  Smythe was as fine a stuffed shirt as ever took a bribe—we had given him our hearts' blood. Mrs. Holmes looked sheepish and relaxed. We chatted about the heat and presidential possibilities, then Frances said, "I'm conceding nothing, Jack—but I'm going to pay for those papers."

  "Skip it," I said. "I'd rather bang Tully's heads together. But see here—you've got an hour yet; I want to show you something."

  "Want me along, Jack?" Tom suggested, looking at Frances.

  "If you like. Thanks for the coffee, Mrs. Holmes—I'll be back to clean up the mess." We drove to Dr. Potter's office and got the photostats we had on Jorgens out of his safe. We didn't say anything; I just arranged the exhibits in logical order. Frances didn't talk either, but her face got whiter and whiter. At last she said, "Will you take me home now, Mr. Ross?"

  We bumped along for the next three weeks, chasing votes all day, licking stamps and stenciling auto-bumper signs late at night and never getting enough sleep. Presently we noticed a curious fact—McNye was coming up. First it was billboards and throw-aways, next was publicity—and then we began to get reports from the field of precinct work for McNye.

  We couldn't have been more puzzled if the Republican Party had nominated Norman Thomas. We made another spot check. Mrs. Holmes and Dr. Potter and I went over the results. Ross and Nelson, neck and neck—a loss for Nelson; McNye a strong third and coming up fast. "What do you think, Mrs. Holmes?"

  "The same you do. Tully has dumped Nelson and bought up McNye."

  Potter agreed. "It'll be you and McNye in the runoff. Nelson is coasting on early support from the machine. She'll fizzle."

  Tom had come in while we were talking. "I'm not sure," he said. "Tully needs a win in the primary, or, if that fails, a run-off between the girl and McNye. We've got an organization, she hasn't."

  "Tully can't count on me running third. In fact, I'll beat out Frances for second place at the very worst."

  Tom looked quizzical. "Seen tonight's Herald, Jack?"

  "No. Have they discovered I'm a secret drinker?"

  "Worse than that." He chucked us the paper. "CLAIM ROSS INELIGIBLE COUNCILMANIC RACE" it read; there was a 3-col cut of my trailer, with me in the door. The story pointed out that a city father must have lived two years in the city and six months in his district. The trailer camp was outside the city limits.

  Dr. Potter looked worried. "Can they disqualify you, Jack?"

  "They won't take it to court," I told him. "I'm legal as baseball. Residence isn't geographical location; it's a matter of intent—your home is where you intend to return when you're away. I'm registered at the flat I had before the War, but I turned it over to my partner when I went to Washington. My junk is still in it, but he's got a wife and twins. Hence the trailer, a temporary exigency of no legal effect."

  "Hmmm . . . how about the political effect?"

  "That's another matter."

  "You betcha it is," agreed Tom. "How about it, Mrs. Holmes?"

  She looked worried. "Tom is right. It's tailor-made for a word-of-mouth campaign combined with unfavorable publicity. Why vote for a man who doesn't even live in your district?—that sort of thing."

  I nodded. "Well, it's too late to back out, but, let's face it, folks—We've wasted our nickel."

  For once they did not argue. Instead Potter said, "What sort of person is Miss Nelson? Could we possibly back her in the finals?"

  "She's a good kid," I assured him. "She got taken in and hated to admit it, but she's better than McNye."

  "I'll say she is," agreed Tom.

  "She's a lady," stated Mrs. Holmes.

  "But," I objected, "we can't elect her in the finals. We can't pin anything on McNye and she's too green to stand up to what the machine can do to her in a long campaign. Tully knows what he's doing."

  "I'm afraid you're right," Potter agreed.

  "Jack," said Tom, "I take it you think we're licked now."

  "Ask Mrs. Holmes."

  Mrs. Holmes said, "I hate to say so, and I'm not quitting, but it would take a miracle to put Jack on the final ballot."

  "Okay," said Tom, "let's quit being boy scouts and have some fun the rest of the campaign. I don't like the way Boss Tully campaigns. We've played fair; what we've gotten in return is shenanigans."

  "What do you want to do?"

  He explained. Presently I nodded and said, "I'm all for it—and a wrinkle of my own. It'll be fun, and it just might work."

  "Well, call her up then!"

  I got Frances Nelson on the phone. "Jack Ross, Frances. Haven't seen you around much, sweetheart. How's the campaign?"

  She sounded tired. "Oh, that— What campaign, Jack?"

  "Did you withdraw? I haven't seen any announcement."

  "It wasn't necessary. I had a show-down with Jorgens and after that my campaign just disappeared. The committee vanished away. Look, Jack, I'd like to see you—to apologize."

  "Forget it, I want to see you, too. I'll pick you up."

  We laid it on the line. "I'm dropping out of the race, Frances. We want to throw our organizational support to you—provided."

  She stared. "But you can't, Jack. I'm going to vote for you."

  "Huh? Never mind, you won't get a chance to." I showed her the Herald story. "It's a phony, but it licks me anyhow. I should have played up my homeless condition but, like a dope, I let them do it. It's too late now—when a candidate has to 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."

  "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 privately.

  We waited until the last few days, then got busy. First we put snipe sheets on our own billboards, right across Frances' beautiful puss so that those eyes looked appealingly at you over the paster. "VOTE FOR McNYE" they read. Two nights later it was quarter cards, this time with his lovely picture: VOTE FOR McNYE—A WOMAN'S PLACE IS IN THE HOME. We stuck them up on private property, too.

  Tom and I drove around the next day admiring our handiwork, "It's beautiful," Tom said dreamily. "Jack, do you suppose there is any way we could get the Communist Party to endorse McNye?"

  "I don't see how," I admitted, "but if it doesn't cost too much I've still got a couple of war bonds."

  He shook his head. "It can't work, but it's a lovely thought."

  We saved our double whammy for the day before election. It was expensive—but wait. We hired some skid-row characters on Saturday, through connections Tom has, and specified that they must show up with two-day beards on Monday. We fed each one a sandwich loaded with garlic, gave him literature and instructions—ring the doorbell, blow his breath in the victim's face, and hand her a handbill, saying abruptly, "Here's how you vote, lady!" The handbill said, "VOTE FOR McNYE" and had his special picture. It had the rest of Tully's slate too, and some choice quotes of McNye's best double talk. Around the edge it said "100% American—100% American."

  We pushed the stumblebums through an average of four precincts apiece, concentrating on the better neighborhoods.

  That night there was an old-fashioned torchlight parade—Mrs. Holmes' show, and the wind-up of the proper campaign. It started off with an elephant and donkey (Heaven knows where she borrowed the elephant!) The elephant carried signs: I'M FOR FRANCES; the donkey, SO AM I. There was a kid's band, flambeaux carried by our weary volunteers, and a platoon of WAC and WAVE veterans marching ahead of the car that carried Frances. She looked scared and lovely.

  Tom and I watched it, then got to work. No sleep that night—

  More pasters. Windshield size this time, 3"x10", with glue on the printed side. I suppose half the cars in town have no garages, housing being what it is. We covered every block in the district before dawn, Tom driving and me on the right with a pail of water, a sponge, and stickers. He would pull alongside a car; I would slap a sticker on the windshield where it would stare the driver in the face—and have to be scraped off. They read: VOTE FOR McNYE—KEEP AMERICA PURE.

  We figured it would help to remind people to vote.

  I voted myself when the polls opened, then fell into bed.

  I pulled myself together in time to get to the party at the headquarters—an empty building we had borrowed for the last month of the campaign. I hadn't given a thought to poll watchers or an honest count—that was Mrs. Holmes' baby—but I didn't want to miss the returns.

  One election party is like another—the same friendly drunks, the same silent huddle around the radio, the same taut feeling. I helped myself to some beer and potato chips and joined the huddle.

  "Anything yet," I asked Mrs. Holmes. "Where's Frances?"

  "Not yet. I made her lie down."

  "Better get her out here. The candidate has to be seen. When people work for a pat on the back, you've got to give 'em the pat."

  But Frances showed up about then, and went through the candidate routine—friendly, gracious, thanking people, etc. I began to think about running her for Congress.

  Tom showed up, bleary-eyed, as the first returns came in. All McNye. Frances heard them and her smile slipped. Dr. Potter went over to her and said, "It's not important—the machine's precincts are usually first to report." She plastered her smile back on.

  McNye piled up a big lead. Then our efforts began to show—Nelson was pulling up. By 10:30 it was neck and neck. After a while it began to look as if we had elected a councilman.

  Around midnight McNye got on the air and conceded.

  * * *

  So I'm a councilman's field secretary now. I sit outside the rail when the council meets; when I scratch my right ear, Councilman Nelson votes "yes"; if I scratch my left ear, she votes "no"—usually.

  Marry her? Me? Tom married her. They're building a house, one bedroom and two bathrooms. When they can get the fixtures, that is.

  ON THE SLOPES OF VESUVIUS

  FOREWORD

  When the U.S.S.R. refused our proposals for controlling the A-bomb, I swore off "World-Saving." No more preaching. No more attempts to explain the mortal peril we were in. No, sir!

  A year and a half later, late '47, I backslid. If it could not be done by straightforward exposition, perhaps it could be dramatized as fiction.

  Again I fell flat on my face.

  Fifteen years later there was a tremendous flap over Soviet medium-range missiles in Cuba. Then they were removed—or so we
were told—and the flap died out. Why? Why both ways? For years we have had Soviet submarines on both coasts; are they armed with slingshots? Or powder puffs?

  This story is more timely today, over thirty years later, than it was when it was written; the danger is enormously greater.

  And again this warning will be ignored. But it won't take much of your time; it's a short-short, a mere 2200 words.

  "Paddy, shake hands with the guy who built the atom bomb," Professor Warner said to the bartender. "He and Einstein rigged it up in their own kitchen one evening."

  "With the help of about four hundred other guys," amended the stranger, raising his voice slightly to cut through the rumble of the subway.

  "Don't quibble over details. Paddy, this is Doctor Mansfield. Jerry, meet Paddy— Say, Paddy, what is your last name?"

  "Francis X. Hughes," answered the barkeep as he wiped his hand and stuck it out. "I'm pleased to meet any friend of Professor Warner."

  "I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Hughes."

  "Call me Paddy, they all do. You really are one of the scientists who built the atom bomb?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  "May the Lord forgive you. Are you at N.Y.U., too?"

  "No, I'm out at the new Brookhaven Laboratory."

  "Oh, yes."

  "You've been there?"

  Hughes shook his head. "About the only place I go is home to Brooklyn. But I read the papers."

  "Paddy's in a well-padded rut," explained Warner. "Paddy, what are you going to do when they blow up New York? It'll break up your routine."

  He set their drinks before them and poured himself a short beer. "If that's all I've got to worry about I guess I'll die of old age and still in my rut, Professor."

  Warner's face lost its cheerful expression for a moment; he stared at his drink as if it had suddenly become bitter. "I wish I had your optimism, Paddy, but I haven't. Sooner or later, we're in for it."