"It's only for your own protection," Cam expostulated. "I know there are
more people in this lash-up. We've got to make certain that they're safe
from accident--can't have the _Gestalt_ disrupted."
"Bosh," was Ev's invariable verdict.
Meanwhile, Cam's little elves paraded through with all the paraphernalia
of the Big Push. Livid posters, featuring a Messianic Sowles. Full-page
ads, exhorting everyone with an ounce of American decency in his body,
to attend the Rally Under The Stars. Subliminal commands were sneaked
into the visiphone and 3-D circuits. Couples in Drive-Ins found
themselves determined to be among those who stood up to be counted at
the Bowl. Christian Soldiers across the continent chartered all manner
of craft, from Ocelots to electromag liners, to bear them to the great
event. Goodies by the thousand were stamped out to hawk to the faithful:
Badges, banners, bumper stickers, wallet cards, purse-sized pix of
Sowles, star-and-cross medallions and lapel pins.... The potential
proceeds of the Rally alone began to assume war-chest proportions.
And above all they worked on the Speech. This had to be the greatest
sockdolager since Goebbels explained Stalingrad. Cam's feverish brain
had figured out a host of effects to catalyze the audience reaction. But
in the last analysis, triumph or disaster would hinge on the oral effort
of the Grim Reaper, as some of the minions at MAB had come to term
Sowles.
So, Huckster Heaven became a memory, like a place in a previous
existence. Other clients were neglected; and it was even left to Curt
Andrews to follow up Occidental Tobacco.
Books were carted in, thumbed through for inspiration, and cast back
into the outer corridor in disgust.
"Ev, catch this:
"'The flaming light of the Lord shall go forward into the farthest
reaches of this planet, to every village and commune where the
Anti-Christ has ruled; and indeed it shall go beyond, with mankind's
vaulting spirit, to the moon, the planets, and the stars!'"
"Not bad," quoth the half-sodden seer, inspecting another treasure from
his nasal passages. "My buddies say the marks will go for it like
Gang-Busters."
"Kindly refrain from the pseudo-sophisticated jazz," said Cam, in pain.
"One of these days your name's going to get written down in that little
book. And besides, this _is_ an intrinsically worthwhile movement."
"Kindly refrain yourself from the adman jargon and attempts to snow the
troops. This Sowles is the worst mountebank since Charlie Ponzi, and you
know it. You're in this for the fast megabuck same as me, so let's not
kid ourselves."
"Euramerica needs just such a unifying figure now," said Cam. "And just
such a cause, one that will inspire positive action against the Commie
Complex. Otherwise, the U. S. of E. will keep on floundering around in a
morass of debate while They single-mindedly weave our doom."
"On a single-minded loom," sang Ev into a snifter. "Who would have
thought that my great gift to the world would be put to such a perverse
use right off the bat?"
"Speaking of bat, let's get back on the ball." And the hands of the
clock rolled round and round....
* * * * *
Two days before the Rally, an exhausted Cam tottered to the visiphone
down the hall, and dialled Sowles' Temple.
The monkish aide answered. "Sowles' Christian Soldiers; Brother Kane
here."
"What became of Abel?" asked Cam before his cortex could intervene. The
aide's eyes glowed with a promise of vengeance, as he put Cam through to
Sowles.
"How do the preparations progress?" asked the ex-cleric.
"Well, sir. Which is why I called. The first draft of the Speech is
ready."
"I'll be there within the hour," said Sowles, and the screen blanked.
When Sowles arrived at MAB, an Execusec conducted him to the door of the
"Think-Box." He stared disapprovingly after her. "When the Soldiers hold
sway, modesty will be rigidly enforced."
Cam dictated a memo to his pocket recorder forbidding MAB girls to
observe the current abbreviated fashions.
"Well, well; Friar Tuck," burbled Ev from his customary prone position
on the couch. "Have a toddy, and get that tired, cold blood
circulating."
"Revolting," said Sowles.
"Politics make strange bed-fellows, eh, Sowles? Like you 'n' me! And
let's not forget the Little Brown Jug! Ho, ho, ho!"