"Brimming," said Pete. "Enough ideas to get your constituents off your
neck for a while, at least."
"Indeed."
"Indeed," said Pete. "Tommy, how fast can you get a PR-blast to
penetrate? How much medium do you control?"
"Plenty," Tommy gulped.
"And how fast can you sample response and analyze it?"
"We can have prelims six hours after the PR-blast. Pete, if you have an
idea, tell us!"
Pete stood up, facing the senator. "Everything else has been tried, but
it seems to me one important factor has been missed. One that will take
your constituents by the ears." He looked at Tommy pityingly. "You've
tried to make them lovable, but they aren't lovable. They aren't even
passably attractive. There's one thing they _are_ though, at least half
of them."
Tommy's jaw sagged. "Pregnant," he said.
"Now see here," said the senator. "If you're trying to make a fool out
of me to my face--"
"Sit down and shut up," said Pete. "If there's one thing the man in the
street reveres, my friend, it's motherhood. We've got several hundred
thousand pregnant Grdznth just waiting for all the little Grdznth to
arrive, and nobody's given them a side glance." He turned to Tommy. "Get
some copywriters down here. Get a Grdznth obstetrician or two. We're
going to put together a PR-blast that will twang the people's
heart-strings like a billion harps."
The color was back in Tommy's cheeks, and the senator was forgotten as a
dozen intercom switches began snapping. "We'll need TV hookups, and
plenty of newscast space," he said eagerly. "Maybe a few photographs--do
you suppose maybe _baby_ Grdznth are lovable?"
"They probably look like salamanders," said Pete. "But tell the people
anything you want. If we're going to get across the sanctity of Grdznth
motherhood, my friend, anything goes."
"It's genius," chortled Tommy. "Sheer genius."
"If it sells," the senator added, dubiously.
"It'll sell," Pete said. "The question is: for how long?"
* * * * *
The planning revealed the mark of genius. Nothing sudden, harsh, or
crude--but slowly, in a radio comment here or a newspaper story there,
the emphasis began to shift from Grdznth in general to Grdznth as
mothers. A Rutgers professor found his TV discussion on "Motherhood as
an Experience" suddenly shifted from 6:30 Monday evening to 10:30
Saturday night. Copy rolled by the ream from Tommy's office, refined
copy, hypersensitively edited copy, finding its way into the light of
day through devious channels.
Three days later a Grdznth miscarriage threatened, and was averted. It
was only a page 4 item, but it was a beginning.
Determined movements to expel the Grdznth faltered, trembled with
indecision. The Grdznth were ugly, they frightened little children, they
_were_ a trifle overbearing in their insufferable stubborn
politeness--but in a civilized world you just couldn't turn expectant
mothers out in the rain.
Not even expectant Grdznth mothers.
By the second week the blast was going at full tilt.
In the Public Relations Bureau building, machines worked on into the
night. As questionnaires came back, spot candid films and street-corner
interview tapes ran through the projectors on a twenty-four-hour
schedule. Tommy Heinz grew thinner and thinner, while Pete nursed sharp
post-prandial stomach pains.
"Why don't people _respond_?" Tommy asked plaintively on the morning the
third week started. "Haven't they got any feelings? The blast is washing
over them like a wave and there they sit!" He punched the private wire
to Analysis for the fourth time that morning. He got a man with a
hag-ridden look in his eye. "How soon?"
"You want yesterday's rushes?"
"What do you think I want? Any sign of a lag?"
"Not a hint. Last night's panel drew like a magnet. The D-Date tag you
suggested has them by the nose."
"How about the President's talk?"