I don’t know who ran the government. The senior career men, probably. There would be a stack of papers on my desk each morning, I would sign Bonforte’s sloppy signature to them, and Penny would take them away. I never had time to read them. The very size of the Imperial machinery dismayed me. Once when we had to attend a meeting outside the offices, Penny had led me on what she called a short cut through the Archives—miles on miles of endless files, each one chockablock with microfilm and all of them with moving belts scooting past them so that a clerk would not take all day to fetch one file.
But Penny told me that she had taken me through only one wing of it. The file of the files, she said, occupied a cavern the size of the Grand Assembly Hall. It made me glad that government was not a career with me, but merely a passing hobby, so to speak.
Seeing people was an unavoidable chore, largely useless since Rog, or Bonforte through Rog, made the decisions. My real job was to make campaign speeches. A discreet rumor had been spread that my doctor had been afraid that my heart had been strained by the “virus infection” and had advised me to stay in the low gravity of the Moon throughout the campaign. I did not dare risk taking the impersonation on a tour of Earth, much less make a trip to Venus; the Farleyfile system would break down if I attempted to mix with crowds, not to mention the unknown hazards of the Actionist goon squads—what I would babble with a minim dose of neodexocaine in the forebrain none of us liked to think about, me least of all.
Quiroga was hitting all continents on Earth, making his stereo appearances as personal appearances on platforms in front of crowds. But it did not worry Rog Clifton. He shrugged and said, “Let him. There was no new votes to be picked up by personal appearances at political rallies. All it does is wear out the speaker. Those rallies are attended only by the faithful.”
I hoped that he knew what he was talking about. The campaign was short, only six weeks from Quiroga’s resignation to the day he had set for the election before resigning, and I was speaking almost every day, either on a grand network with time shared precisely with the Humanity Party, or speeches canned and sent by shuttle for later release to particular audiences. We had a set routine; a draft would come to me, perhaps from Bill although I never saw him, and then I would rework it. Rog would take the revised draft away; usually it would come back approved—and once in a while there would be corrections made in Bonforte’s handwriting, now so sloppy as to be almost illegible.
I never ad-libbed at all on those parts he corrected, though I often did on the rest—when you get rolling there is often a better, more alive way to say a thing. I began to notice the nature of his corrections; they were almost always eliminations of qualifiers—make it blunter, let ‘em like it or lump it!
After a while there were fewer corrections. I was getting with it.
I still never saw him. I felt that I could not “wear his head” if I looked at him on his sickbed. But I was not the only one of his intimate family who was not seeing him; Capek had chucked Penny out—for her own good. I did not know it at the time. I did know that Penny had become irritable, absent-minded, and moody after we reached New Batavia. She got circles under her eyes like a raccoon—all of which I could not miss, but I attributed it to the pressure of the campaign combined with worry about Bonforte’s health. I was only partly right. Capek spotted it and took action, put her under light hypnosis and asked her questions—then he flatly forbade her to see Bonforte again until I was done and finished and shipped away.
The poor girl was going almost out of her mind from visiting the sickroom of the man she hopelessly loved—then going straight in to work closely with a man who looked and talked and sounded just like him, but in good health. She was probably beginning to hate me.
Good old Doc Capek got at the root of her trouble, gave her helpful and soothing post-hypnotic suggestions, and kept her out of the sick room after that. Naturally I was not told about it at the time; it wasn’t any of my business. But Penny perked up and again was her lovable, incredibly efficient self.
It made a lot of difference to me. Let’s admit it; at least twice I would have walked out on the whole incredible rat race if it had not been for Penny.
There was one sort of meeting I had to attend, that of the campaign executive committee. Since the Expansionist Party was a minority party, being merely the largest fraction of a coalition of several parties held together by the leadership and personality of John Joseph Bonforte, I had to stand in for him and peddle soothing syrup to those prima donnas. I was briefed for it with painstaking care, and Rog sat beside me and could hint the proper direction if I faltered. But it could not be delegated.
Less than two weeks before election day we were due for a meeting at which the safe districts would be parceled out. The organization always had thirty to forty districts which could be used to make someone eligible for cabinet office, or to provide for a political secretary (a person like Penny was much more valuable if he or she was fully qualified, able to move and speak on the floor of the Assembly, had the right to be present at closed caucuses, and so forth), or for other party reasons. Bonforte himself represented a “safe” district; it relieved him from the necessity of precinct campaigning. Clifton had another. Dak would have had one if he had needed it, but he actually commanded the support of his guild brethren. Rog even hinted to me once that if I wanted to come back in my proper person, I could say the word and my name would go on the next list.
Some of the spots were always saved for party wheel horses willing to resign at a moment’s notice and thereby provide the Party with a place through a by-election if it proved necessary to qualify a man for cabinet office, or something.
But the whole thing had somewhat the flavor of patronage and, the coalition being what it was, it was necessary for Bonforte to straighten out conflicting claims and submit a list to the campaign executive committee. It was a last-minute job, to be done just before the ballots were prepared, to allow for late changes.
When Rog and Dak came in I was working on a speech and had told Penny to hold off anything but five-alarm fires. Quiroga had made a wild statement in Sydney, Australia, the night before, of such a nature that we could expose the lie and make him squirm. I was trying my hand at a speech in answer, without waiting for a draft to be handed me; I had high hopes of getting my own version approved.
When they came in I said, “Listen to this,” and read them the key paragraph. “How do you like it?”
“That ought to nail his hide to the door,” agreed Rog. “Here’s the ‘safe’ list, Chief. Want to look it over? We’re due there in twenty minutes.”
“Oh, that damned meeting. I don’t see why I should look at the list. Anything you want to tell me about it?” Nevertheless, I took the list and glanced down it. I knew them all from their Farleyfiles and a few of them from contact; I knew already why each one had to be taken care of.
Then I struck the name: Corpsman, William J.
I fought down what I felt was justifiable annoyance and said quietly, “I see Bill is on the list, Rob.”
“Oh, yes. I wanted to tell you about that. You see, Chief, as we all know, there has been a certain amount of bad blood between you and Bill. Now I’m not blaming you; it’s been Bill’s fault. But there are always two sides. What you may not have realized is that Bill has been carrying around a tremendous inferiority feeling; it gives him a chip on the shoulder. This will fix it up.”
“So?”
“Yes. It is what he has always wanted. You see, the rest of us all have official status, we’re members of the G.A., I mean. I’m talking about those who work closely around, uh, you. Bill feels it. I’ve heard him say, after the third drink, that he was just a hired man. He’s bitter about it. You don’t mind, do you? The Party can afford it and it’s an easy price to pay for elimination of friction at headquarters.”
I had myself under full control by now. “It’s none of my business. Why should I mind, if that is what Mr. Bonforte wants?”
I caught just a f
licker of a glance from Dak to Clifton. I added, “That is what Mr. B. wants? Isn’t it, Rog?”
Dak said harshly, “Tell him, Rog.”
Rog said slowly, “Dak and I whipped this up ourselves. We think it is for the best.”
“Then Mr. Bonforte did not approve it? You asked him, surely?”
“No, we didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Chief, this is not the sort of thing to bother him with. He’s a tired, old, sick man. I have not been worrying him with anything less than major policy decisions—which this isn’t. It is a district we command no matter who stands for it.”
“Then why ask my opinion about it at all?”
“Well, we felt you should know—and know why. We think you ought to approve it.”
“Me? You’re asking me for a decision as if I were Mr. Bonforte. I’m not.” I tapped the desk in his nervous gesture. “Either this decision is at his level, and you should ask him—or it’s not, and you should never have asked me.”
Rog chewed his cigar, then said, “All right, I’m not asking you.”
“No!”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean ‘No!’ You did ask me; therefore there is doubt in your mind. So if you expect me to present that name to the committee—as if I were Bonforte—then go in and ask him.”
They both sat and said nothing. Finally Dak sighed and said, “Tell the rest, Rog. Or I will.”
I waited. Clifton took his cigar out of his mouth and said, “Chief, Mr. Bonforte had a stroke four days ago. He’s in no shape to be disturbed.”
I held still, and recited to myself all of ‘the cloudcapp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,’ and so forth. When I was back in shape I said, “How is his mind?”
“His mind seems clear enough, but he is terribly tired. That week as a prisoner was more of an ordeal than we realized. The stroke left him in a coma for twenty-four hours. He’s out of it now, but the left side of his face is paralyzed and his entire left side is partly out of service.”
“Uh, what does Dr. Capek say?”
“He thinks that as the clot clears up, you’ll never be able to tell the difference. But he’ll have to take it easier than he used to. But, Chief, right now he is ill. We’ll just have to carry on through the balance of the campaign without him.”
I felt a ghost of the lost feeling I had had when my father died. I had never seen Bonforte, I had had nothing from him but a few scrawled corrections on typescript. But I leaned on him all the way. The fact that he was in that room next door had made the whole thing possible.
I took a long breath, let it out, and said, “Okay, Rog. We’ll have to.”
“Yes, Chief.” He stood up. “We’ve got to get over to that meeting. How about that?” He nodded toward the safe-districts list.
“Oh.” I tried to think. Maybe it was possible that Bonforte would reward Bill with the privilege of calling himself “the Honorable,” just to keep him happy. He wasn’t small about such things; he did not bind the mouths of the kine who tread the grain. In one of his essays on politics he had said, “I am not an intellectual man. If I have any special talent, it lies in picking men of ability and letting them work.”
“How long has Bill been with him?” I asked suddenly.
“Eh? About four years. A little over.”
Bonforte evidently had liked his work. “That’s past one general election, isn’t it? Why didn’t he make him an Assemblyman then?”
“Why, I don’t know. The matter never came up.”
“When was Penny put in?”
“About three years ago. A by-election.”
“There’s your answer, Rog.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Bonforte could have made Bill a Grand Assemblyman at any time. He didn’t choose to. Change that nomination to a ‘resigner.’ Then if Mr. Bonforte wants Bill to have it, he can arrange a by-election for him later—when he’s feeling himself.”
Clifton showed no expression. He simply picked up the list and said, “Very well, Chief.”
Later that same day Bill quit. I suppose Rog had to tell him that his arm-twisting had not worked. But when Rog told me about it I felt sick, realizing that my stiff-necked attitude had us all in acute danger. I told him so. He shook his head.
“But he knows it all! It was his scheme from the start. Look at the load of dirt he can haul over to the Humanity camp.”
“Forget it, Chief. Bill may be a louse—I’ve no use for a man who will quit in the middle of a campaign; you just don’t do that, ever. But he is not a rat. In his profession you don’t spill a client’s secrets, even if you fall out with him.”
“I hope you are right.”
“You’ll see. Don’t worry about it. Just get on with the job.”
As the next few days passed I came to the conclusion that Rog knew Bill better than I did. We heard nothing from him or about him and the campaign went ahead as usual, getting rougher all the time, but with not a peep to show that our giant hoax was compromised. I began to feel better and buckled down to making the best Bonforte speeches I could manage—sometimes with Rog’s help; sometimes just with his okay. Mr. Bonforte was steadily improving again, but Capek had him on absolute quiet.
Rog had to go to Earth during the last week; there are types of fence-mending that simply can’t be done by remote control. After all, votes come from the precincts and the field managers count for more than the speechmakers. But speeches still had to be made and press conferences given; I carried on, with Dak and Penny at my elbow—of course I was much more closely with it now; most questions I could answer without stopping to think.
There was the usual twice-weekly press conference in the offices the day Rog was due back. I had been hoping that he would be back in time for it, but there was no reason I could not take it alone. Penny walked in ahead of me, carrying her gear; I heard her gasp.
I saw then that Bill was at the far end of the table.
But I looked around the room as usual and said, “Good morning, gentlemen.”
“Good morning, Mr. Minister!” most of them answered.
I added, “Good morning, Bill. Didn’t know you were here. Whom are you representing?”
They gave him dead silence to reply. Every one of them knew that Bill had quit us—or had been fired. He grinned at me, and answered, “Good morning, Mister Bonforte. I’m with the Krein Syndicate.”
I knew it was coming then; I tried not to give him the satisfaction of letting it show. “A fine outfit. I hope they are paying you what you are worth. Now to business—The written questions first. You have them, Penny?”
I went rapidly through the written questions, giving out answers I had already had time to think over, then sat back as usual and said, “We have time to bat it around a bit, gentlemen. Any other questions?”
There were several. I was forced to answer “No comment” only once—an answer Bonforte preferred to an ambiguous one. Finally I glanced at my watch and said, “That will be all this morning, gentlemen,” and started to stand up.
“Smythe!” Bill shouted.
I kept right on getting to my feet, did not look toward him.
“I mean you, Mr. Phony Bonforte-Smythe!” he went on angrily, raising his voice still more.
This time I did look at him, with astonishment—just the amount appropriate, I think, to an important official subjected to rudeness under unlikely conditions. Bill was pointing at me and his face was red. “You imposter! You small-time actor! You fraud!”
The London Times man on my right said quietly, “Do you want me to call the guard, sir?”
I said, “No. He’s harmless.”
Bill laughed. “So I’m harmless, huh? You’ll find out.”
“I really think I should, sir,” the Times man insisted.
“No.” I then said sharply, “That’s enough, Bill. You had better leave quietly.”
“Don’t you wish I would?” He started spewing forth the basic sto
ry, talking rapidly. He made no mention of the kidnapping and did not mention his own part in the hoax, but implied that he had left us rather than be mixed up in any such swindle. The impersonation was attributed, correctly as far as it went, to illness on the part of Bonforte—with a strong hint that we might have doped him.
I listened patiently. Most of the reporters simply listened at first, with that stunned expression of outsiders exposed unwillingly to a vicious family argument. Then some of them started scribbling or dictating into minicorders.
When he stopped I said, “Are you through, Bill?”
“That’s enough, isn’t it?”
“More than enough. I’m sorry, Bill. That’s all, gentlemen. I must get back to work.”
“Just a moment, Mr. Minister!” someone called out. “Do you want to issue a denial?” Someone else added, “Are you going to sue?”
I answered the latter question first. “No, I shan’t sue. One doesn’t sue a sick man.”
“Sick, am I?” shouted Bill.
“Quiet down, Bill. As for issuing a denial, I hardly think it is called for. However, I see that some of you have been taking notes. While I doubt if any of your publishers would run this story, if they do, this anecdote may add something to it. Did you ever hear of the professor who spent forty years of his life proving that the Odyssey was not written by Homer—but by another Greek of the same name?”
It got a polite laugh. I smiled and started to turn away again. Bill came rushing around the table and grabbed at my arm. “You can’t laugh it off!” The Times man—Mr. Ackroyd, it was—pulled him away from me.
I said, ‘Thank you, sir.” Then to Corpsman I added, “What do you want me to do, Bill? I’ve tried to avoid having you arrested.”
“Call the guards if you like, you phony! We’ll see who stays in jail longest! Wait until they take your fingerprints!”
I sighed and made the understatement of my life. “This is ceasing to be a joke. Gentlemen, I think I had better put an end to this. Penny my dear, will you please have someone send in fingerprinting equipment?” I knew I was sunk—but, damn it, if you are caught by the Birkenhead Drill, the least you owe yourself is to stand at attention while the ship goes down. Even a villain should make a good exit.