never gone Democratic, not even in the great LBJ blitz of 1964. But he expected his competition to come from this man.”
Now the TV showed a man of about sixty-five. He was speaking to a plushy fund-raising dinner. The crowd had that plump, righteous, and slightly constipated look that seems the exclusive province of businessmen who belong to the GOP. The speaker bore a remarkable resemblance to Edward Gurney of Florida, although he did not have Gurney’s slim, tough build.
“This is Harrison Fisher,” Herman said. “The voters of the third district have been sending him to Washington every two years since 1960. He is a powerful figure in the House, sitting on five committees and chairing the House Committee on Parks and Waterways. It had been expected that he would beat young David Bowes handily. But neither Fisher nor Bowes counted on a wild card in the deck. This wild card.”
The picture switched.
“Holy God!” Johnny said.
Beside him, Chatsworth roared laughter and slapped his thighs. “Can you believe that guy?”
No lackadaisical supermarket parking-lot crowd here. No comfy fund raiser in the Granite State Room of the Portsmouth Hilton, either. Greg Stillson was standing on a platform outside in Ridgeway, his home town. Behind him there loomed the statue of a Union soldier with his rifle in his hand and his kepi tilted down over his eyes. The street was blocked off and crowded with wildly cheering people, predominantly young people. Stillson was wearing faded jeans and a two-pocket Army fatigue shirt with the words GIVE PEACE A CHANCE embroidered on one pocket and MOM’S APPLE PIE on the other. There was a hi-impact construction worker’s helmet cocked at an arrogant, rakish angle on his head, and plastered to the front of it was a green American flag ecology sticker. Beside him was a stainless steel cart of some kind. From the twin loudspeakers came the sound of John Denver singing “Thank God I’m a Country Boy.”
“What’s that cart?” Johnny asked.
“You’ll see,” Roger said, still grinning hugely.
Herman said: “The wild card is Gregory Ammas Stillson, forty-three, ex-salesman for the Truth Way Bible Company of America, ex-housepainter, and, in Oklahoma, where he grew up, one-time rainmaker.”
“Rainmaker,” said Johnny, bemused.
“Oh, that’s one of his planks,” Roger said. “If he’s elected, we’ll have rain whenever we need it.”
George Herman went on: “Stillson’s platform is ... well, refreshing.”
John Denver finished singing with a yell that brought answering cheers from the crowd. Then Stillson started talking, his voice booming at peak amplification. His PA system at least was sophisticated; there was hardly any distortion. His voice made Johnny vaguely uneasy. The man had the high, hard, pumping delivery of a revival preacher. You could see a fine spray of spittle from his lips as he talked.
“What are we gonna do in Washington? Why do we want to go to Washington?” Stillson roared. “What’s our platform? Our platform got five boards, my friends n neighbors, five old boards! And what are they? I’ll tell you up front! First board: THROW THE BUMS OUT!”
A tremendous roar of approval ripped out of the crowd. Someone threw double handfuls of confetti into the air and someone else yelled, “Yaaaah-HOO!” Stillson leaned over his podium.
“You wanna know why I’m wearin this helmet, friends n neighbors? I’ll tell you why. I’m wearin it because when you send me up to Washington, I’m gonna go through em like you-know-what through a canebrake! Gonna go through em just like this!”
And before Johnny’s wondering eyes. Stillson put his head down and began to charge up and down the podium stage like a bull, uttering a high, yipping Rebel yell as he did so. Roger Chatsworth simply dissolved in his chair, laughing helplessly. The crowd went wild. Stillson charged back to the podium, took off his construction helmet, and spun it into the crowd. A minor riot over possession of it immediately ensued.
“Second board!” Stillson yelled into the mike. “We’re gonna throw out anyone in the government, from the highest to the lowest, who is spending time in bed with some gal who ain’t his wife! If they wanna sleep around, they ain’t gonna do it on the public tit!”
“What did he say?” Johnny asked, blinking.
“Oh, he’s just getting warmed up,” Roger said. He wiped his streaming eyes and went off into another gale of laughter. Johnny wished it seemed that funny to him.
“Third board!” Stillson roared. “We’re gonna send all the pollution right into outer space! Gonna put it in Hefty bags! Gonna put it in