The part of the woman's mouth that was holding the cigarette was half open, caught in a smile of pleasure. Her fingers rested lightly on the machine.
"Here it is," Mike said and waved his hand around the room. "This is the whole thing.".
"Where are the men with cigars and the rolls of bribe money?" Georgia asked.
"Later, that comes later," Mike said smiling. "This is the only systematic part of politics. After this stage it's all guesswork."
They walked over to the machine. The woman watched them carefully through the cigarette smoke. With a snap the last card vanished into a pocket and at once the machine started to race frantically. The woman pressed a button and the machine was quiet.
"Henri, this is Georgia Blenner," Mike said. "Henri's an expert on IBM machines."
"Hi. Wanna know 'bout the machine, eh?" she asked. She put out a thin calloused hand, stained with nicotine, and shook hands. "I'm really expert on the 101. You know, the electronic statistical machine. I can run this O K., but I'm really best on the 101. That's really tough ."
"Miss Blenner doesn't know anything about the machines," Mike said. "She's not looking for a job."
Henri's face cleared. A soft covert look of hostility vanished and Georgia did not know it had been there until it disappeared.
"Sure, honey. I can tell you all about it. I can run 'em all," Henri said brightly. She lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the other and threw the butt on the floor. "Christ, I went to that IBM school for a year almost. More 'Think' signs around than you could shake a stick at. They wanted me to hang around and instruct, but I wanted to get out of New York. After I learned the sorter, the ESM and the collator verifying machines, I took off for L.A. Where you can grow gardenias in your back yard. Hah."
"Did the last run of cards come in?" Mike asked.
"Just in. Fresh from the offices of Pacific Polling, Incorporated. Or Pac Pol Ink as I call 'em," Henri said.
She took the cover from a box on the table. It was full of rectangular cards. She ran her fingers down the cards with an expert casual motion. They gave off a sharp trilling sound.
"All right. Run them through for the First Question," Mike said.
"Mike, you'd better explain it to me first," Georgia said.
"Sure, sure," Mike said. "I intended to. First, just forget about the Democratic and Republican Parties. This doesn't have anything to do with them. This is just a little operation by Cromwell and Freesmith. All we're trying to do here is see what makes the California voter tick. Later we'll worry about the parties."
Mike walked over to the table and sorted through some documents. Henri leaned forward.
"This is a crazy operation, honey," she said. "I never saw anything like it. Sometimes I think they're nuts."
Georgia smiled at Henri.
"You start with this," Mike said, handing Georgia a blue document. "It's the census abstract plus a lot of other information. Tells you how the population breaks down: how many street cleaners, Negroes, veterans, trade union members, truck drivers, fry cooks, Protestants, Jews, Catholics, foreign born, Okies, doctors and teachers there are. Also how much money they make, the size of their houses, the kind of car they drive, the degree of education, lodges they join and a lot more."
"Then you get your sample," Henri broke in.
"That's right," Mike said. "This abstract describes the Great Beast, the public. Everything we know about it is there. It's what they've been trying to do for centuries; describe the beast. Hobbes' Leviathan, Locke's people, Rousseau's general will; they all took a crack at it and missed. Partly they missed because the Great Beast is changing all the time. Now if we were really scientific we'd go out and snap a picture of the Great Beast, but we can't. Ifs too expensive and by the time you got to his tail his muzzle would be changed already. So we make up a Little Beast; an animal that's just like the Great Beast, but smaller, diminished. You take what you hope is a good slice of the Great Beast; you include Jews, protestants, Catholics, poor men, rich men, city dwellers, farmers, plumbers and carpenters. Then you go to Pacific Polling and tell them to go out and find out what the Little Beast looks like."
"They're good," Henri said with admiration. "If your sample includes three Negro, Protestant, non-trade union, pork-chop-eating preachers they'll find "em . . . or anything you want."
"And in a calm and neutral voice they ask them any question you want," Mike said. "Then they punch the answers into the IBM cards and bring them back here and we run them through the machine. We pay them three dollars for each card. Our sample is made up of three thousand people." He picked up the box of cards and slapped them on the table. "There they are; a Little Beast of three thousand people that's just like the Great Beast . . . we hope."
"Can I see one of the cards?" Georgia said.
Mike handed her a card. It was rectangular and its face was covered with closely printed, black rows of numbers. Some of the numbers had been punched out, leaving tiny slots in the cards. There were no words on the cards.
"Read it for her, Henri," Mike said.
Henri took the card and held it toward the window. She narrowed her eyes and glanced at the pattern of slots.
"Subject is: White. Male. Thirty-four years old. Catholic. Married. Three children. Clerk. Less than four thousand and more than thirty-five hundred a year. No television. In debt."
She handed the card to Georgia. Georgia turned it over.
"Doesn't it have his name?" she asked.
"We don't care what his name is," Mike said. "We just hope that all the other white, male, Catholic, three-kidded, married clerks react the way he does. Oh, not exactly, but within a per cent or two."
"What was the First Question?" Georgia asked.
"The interviewer handed the subject a card with six names on it and asked, 'If these six men were running . for governor of California which one would you like to see win?'" Mike said. "Here's a copy of the card."
He handed her a heavy white card with six names on it. They were:
Earl Warren Wingate Daigh James Roosevelt Richard Cutler John Cromwell Hiram Johnson
"But Hiram Johnson's dead," Georgia said. "He died years ago."
"That's right," Mike said. "I threw him in just to see how many people would vote for a dead man."
Georgia looked at Mike and she felt a twinge of anxiety, too slight and passing to notice.
"Who did the white, Catholic, married trade unionist pick?" she asked.
"I can tell you without looking," Mike said. "He picked James Roosevelt. Take a hundred low-income Catholics and show them a list like that and they'll pick the name with the strongest Democratic Party associations. So Roosevelt's son, Jimmy, is who they pick."
"Well, check it anyway," Georgia said and there was irritation in her voice. "Maybe this clerk had a mind of his own."
Mike handed the card to Henri. She glanced at it.
"He picked Roosevelt," Henri said. She grinned.
"All right, Henri," Mike said. "Start to run them through. Give me the percentages when you figure them."
She nodded. She put the cards from the box into the hopper and pressed the button. The machine began to purr. She looked down at it with pleasure, moved her fingertips lightly over the quivering surface. Then she touched the lever and the cards began to flick through the machine.
Mike turned and walked over to the window with Georgia. Outside it was bright and clear. Across the air well of the building they could see into a dentist's office. A well-dressed woman, soft and expensive, was lowering herself into the dentist's chair. They could see the dentist's back, his thin neck sticking up out of the white smock, his hands clean and pink.
"This sort of thing isn't very important right now," Mike said. "We won't be able to use it until after the pre-primary Democratic convention."
"What's that?"
"Well, they have cross-filing in this state. A Democrat can file in the Republican primary and vice versa. So both parties have a pre-primary conven
tion to select the man they want for governor. About five hundred Democrats will go to the convention and make the choice. After that is when the information on the cards gets important."
Henri handed him a card. He showed it to Georgia.
"This is the percentage of voters that picked each of the six people on the card," he said.
Warren 35% Daigh 22% Roosevelt 18% Cutler 15% Cromwell 4% Johnson 2%
Georgia looked at the card and then up at Mike. She felt a quick, sharp sense of relief and then anger.
"Why, Mike, Cromwell doesn't have a chance," she said. "Only four per cent of the people picked Cromwell."
Father and Morrie think Cromwell has a chance, she thought. And he doesn't. Not a prayer.
"That's right, honey," Henri said. "That's what I told 'em after the first raw tab. He's backing a bum horse. Christ, his man is just a little better than the dead man."
"It could be worse," Mike said. "Much worse."
He grinned and at once the irritation and anger faded in Georgia; she felt wary, cautious.
"Sure it could be worse," Henri said. "Your man could be dead."
She laughed so hard that her eyes watered. Georgia watched Mike. He was bored.
"All right, Henri, run off the results of the Second and Third Questions," Mike said.
Henri turned back to the machine; rearranged the cards.
Mike put the card down on the window sill. He drew a line through three names.
"The voters aren't going to get to vote for all six people," he said. "Johnson's out: he's dead. Warren's out: Supreme Court. Roosevelt is out: he's running for Congress."
The card now read:
Daigh 22% Cutler 15% Cromwell 4%
"But Mike, only four per cent of the voters are for Cromwell," Georgia said softly; not confidently, but cautiously, waiting.
"Sure. That's right. But Daigh's a Republican. He'll get the Republican nomination in the primary for sure. Cutler and Cromwell will be going for the Democratic nomination. But only one of them will be on the primary ballot . . . the one who gets selected by the five hundred delegates at the pre-primary convention of the Democrats," Mike said.
He spoke as if there were something she should understand. Georgia shook her head.
"Mike, the Democrats won't pick Cromwell at the pre-primary," she said. "They'll pick Cutler. He's got more support, a better chance in the general election."
"Look, Georgia, there are only five hundred people at the Democratic pre-primary convention. They'll go for Cromwell. And when they go for him he'll be the only Democrat in the primary."
"But why, Mike? Why would they go for Cromwell?"
"Because there are only five hundred of them and a group of people that small is pretty easy to influence," Mike said. His voice fell away, was more cautious. "The pre-primary convention will be in Fresno in March. Why don't you come up and see what happens?"
"I will," Georgia said. "Look, Mike, I'm not trying to be dumb, but even if Cromwell does get the Democratic endorsement how will he beat Daigh? My God, Daigh's a big man in this state. I've even heard of him. And nobody knows Cromwell. Look at your own statistics. He's just a little more popular than a man who's been dead for years."
"O.K. Forget about the pre-primary. Assume that Cromwell wins the Democratic nomination and Daigh wins the Republican nomination. Then they run off in the November election. All right?" He stepped over to the table and picked up the box of cards which Henri had just finished running through the machine again. He put the box on the window sill and opened it. "Now here's your Little Beast; a diminished tiny copy of the Great Beast. Just the same except there's only three thousand of him here instead of five million . . . but just the same. Makes the same noises, barks the same, scared of the same thing, same markings, same gait."
Mike ran his fingers over the cards. and Georgia noticed, with surprise, that his fingers were trembling. Somehow she was embarrassed. She looked across at the dentist's office. The chair and its chromium and steel appliances glittered in the sun; water bubbled from a spigot. The dentist stood with a hypodermic in his hand, a drop of liquid hung at the sharp point of the needle, with his left hand he made a placating, distracting gesture. The woman looked sideways and instantly his right hand darted forward, disappeared in the woman's mouth. The woman's shoes jerked suddenly and her arms went rigid. The dentist pulled the empty hypodermic from her mouth.
"Go on, Mike," Georgia said.
"A funny thing happens after the primary . . . after the Republican and Democratic candidates have been chosen," Mike said. His voice was only a shade tense. "Just put 'Republican' after a man's name and he'll get forty-five per cent of the votes. I don't know why, but it happens." Mike lifted out a little less than half of the cards and placed them on the window sill. "And the same with the Democrat. He'll get forty-five per cent of the votes just because he's the Democrat. It doesn't matter if they're crooks, cuckolds, veterans, young, old or a damned thing. Just put the label on and each of them will get forty-five per cent of the vote."
Mike took out almost all of the remaining cards. There was only a thin stack of cards left. The rest were on the sill
"Why does it happen that way, Mike?" Georgia said.
The dentist stepped away from the woman and a burr in his hand glistened with bright red blood.
"I don't know," Mike said. "I really don't. But they do. It's like an instinct; something that tells them to split up; to divide evenly. Jesus, it's uncanny. The Great Beast splits up into two beasts; almost exactly the same size. It always happens."
Georgia looked away from the dentist's window, down at the cards in the box.
"So these cards, the ten per cent left over, they're the ones that really decide the election," Georgia said. "That's it, isn't it, Mike? You just forget about the rest . . . the ninety per cent who are going to vote Democrat or Republican and you concentrate on the ten per cent. That's right, isn't it? They're the ones you try to attract to your candidate?"
"Not attract," Mike said. He grinned. "That's not the way it works. The ten per cent that's undecided is scared. So you scare them into voting for your man. See, that's what nobody knew before. They didn't know why the undecided voter was undecided. But I found out. He's undecided because he's scared."
"And that's what the Second and Third Questions are about?" Georgia asked. "That's it, isn't it?"
"That's right. That's absolutely right," Mike said. He went back to the table and picked up some papers that Henri had just finished.
"Here's the Second Question," Mike said. He threw the paper on the sill. "Usually the polls just ask who's going to win. But I asked a couple of extra questions."
"What's the Second Question?"
"The Second Question is: 'In general, what sort of things do you worry about?' That's all."
"What did people say?" Georgia asked.
Georgia hesitated. She felt a nag of irritation. She looked out the window again. The woman was sitting up. She opened her mouth and a spill of red liquid gushed from her lips. She smiled wanly at the dentist. His left hand was again reassuring. The right hand fumbled with a new burr; a bright sharp piece of steel.
"I don't know. Communism or the atom bomb or war . . . something like that," she said. "Maybe they're not worried about anything."
"Everybody worries about something," Mike said. "And if they're approached by a neatly dressed interviewer who says their answer will be confidential they blurt it out. Like you. Tell me what you worry about most." He pointed his finger at her. "Go ahead. Don't think. Just say it."
Georgia looked at his finger, at the neat white crescent of his fmgernail, the strong bony undulations. She looked over at the machine. It rested quietly.
"I won't tell you."
"All right," Mike said and laughed. "But you had an answer. That's the important thing. Everybody does. And their answers fall into four classes. The first class is what I call 'Economic Worries.' That's for guys who are worrying about payments on th
e television set or unemployment or the cost of living. The second class is 'International Worries'; like fear of a war, a catastrophe with Russia, reciprocal trade, Red China . . . that sort of thing. The third is 'National Worries.' That's for people worrying about the national debt, Communists in government, politics, that kind of answer. The fourth is 'Personal Worries.'" He grinned and shook his head. "That's for the guy who is worrying about being impotent or his kid getting polio or if the boss likes him or if his clothes look like a hick's. That's the kind of thing you were worrying about. Right?"
"Yes," she said. She did not even feel curiosity. "It was a personal worry."
The dentist took the drill from the woman's mouth and already it was a bright dab of blood.