Chapter VI

On the evening of his first public appearance, Shamar was given a neatly typed speech. He rehearsed it hurriedly, stammers and all.

“Fellow citizens! As I stand here, looking over this sea of faces, hearing your applause and seeing how your hearts go out to one poor man in distress, it--I--Well, I’m deeply touched. I can’t tell you how much it means to me. I prepared a speech for tonight, but I’m not going to use it. I’m just going to stand here, instead, and tell you, just as the words come out, how I feel.” Here he would pause for applause and then continue. “Thank you so very much. Thank you. I know you’re all behind me--except for the police agents in the audience.” Here he would wait for laughter. “We all know them, don’t we? I see about a dozen. A dozen agents have come down here to find out what I’m going to say. Isn’t that ridiculous?” Here there would be mixed laughter, applause and cries in the affirmative. “All right! Thank you. I hope they get an earful tonight.”

Later in the speech he would demand, “Why are they doing this to me? I want you to tell me why. What have I done? What am I accused of doing? Well, I’ll tell you this--I’m not the kind of a man who is going to submit meekly to this persecution. I’m going to fight back. I’ve got a little money left from my lottery winnings, and I’ll spend every cent of it to fight these people doing this thing to me.” Here he would pause dramatically. “I want to leave you with this point. It’s not just Shamar the Worker that’s involved. What am I? A poor, itinerant laborer going from town to town. I’m nothing, I have never had anything, and I guess I never will have anything. I’m no rich black marketeer or businessman. I’m no fat politician. I’m just one little man. But it’s not me--and this is the point I want to leave you with--it’s not Shamar the Worker. He’s unimportant. What is important is that if they can do this to me, they can do it to you. If they can do it to Shamar the Worker today, next year one of you will be up here on this platform speaking just the way I am. So you see, this is your fight. It’s not me that’s important--it’s the principle that’s important--”

The meeting went brilliantly. Every time he paused, the audience responded just as the speech-writer had indicated. It was as if they were as well rehearsed as he.

The next night, another meeting. And another. And another. He slept no more than four hours a night when the campaign was in full swing. He spoke dozens of times into the bright glare of TV cameras. He paraded down a million streets in an open-topped car. Faces poured in front of his own; on and on they came. People with tears in their eyes cried, “God bless Shamar the Worker!” Once the Committee hired a brass band.

So, for two weeks, it went.

Then the Party threw him back in jail, in an apparent effort to deprive the movement of its momentum.

After three days, during which time Shamar was held incommunicado, Counselor Freemason obtained permission to interview his client.

“We’re making marvelous progress! Ge-Ge is turning into a most effective crusader. You should hear her when she cries, ‘Give me back my man!’ This is a wonderful development for us. It’s having the opposite of the intended effect. Von Stutsman has over-reached himself this time. The Party is going to have to back down, and it will cost him dearly.”

“How’s the finances?”

“Ge-Ge has given us some advances--”

“How much have you spent?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I haven’t been keeping track closely. Perhaps we’ve run a little more than we anticipated. The response, you see--”

Shamar returned to his cell wishing Earth’s printing presses had worked a little longer.

It took nearly two weeks to arrange for Ge-Ge to visit him. When she arrived, she was nearly on the point of tears.

“Oh, my darling, how I’ve missed you!”

She brought him up to date on the progress of his case. As Counselor Freemason had reported, his imprisonment merely increased the vigor of his supporters. Now they were at their highest pitch: a pitch which would be difficult to maintain.

“I’m just worried sick,” she said. “If the Party can hold out another week or two. I don’t want to worry you, Shamar, but I want you to know how you stand. Counselor Freemason says the worst that could happen would be a short prison sentence, no more than a year, for not filing tax forms. We could keep you out on appeal for quite a while.”

“Ge-Ge, how much have we spent so far?”

“About three hundred thousand dollars.”

“Good God! They’ll have it all when they get through! If I ever get back to Earth--”

“I don’t care about money, Shamar! I just want you free!”

He took her shoulders. “Ge-Ge, suppose the Party can’t afford to back down? Maybe they feel they have to stand firm to prevent a lot of future trouble. And when Freemason gets all the money ... then what chance will we stand? They might railroad me for years. They’ll make an example out of me. Now, are you willing to gamble? Everybody would jump at the chance to vote them out. If we could--”

“Please, Shamar,” Ge-Ge said. “All this voting thing you’ve always been so sold on is all right, I guess--but it just won’t work. To begin with, there isn’t any way to vote.”

“Maybe there is,” he said.

Shamar was still in jail the following day when Ge-Ge appeared on the TV program.

PAMDEN had been reluctant to release time to her. PAMDEN was Itra’s largest industrial co-operative--Plastics, Agricultural Machinery, Detergents, Electricity and Newsprint--and, being the most efficient, was responsible for operating the TV networks.

“Good heavens,” said the station executive. “Nobody can say we haven’t already given you coverage. Miss Germadpoldlt.”

“They’ve ordered you to stop!” she protested.

“They? The Party? Miss Germadpoldlt, do you honestly believe that? Nobody tells a station manager what to program. Believe me. There is no prior censorship whatsoever. But, on the other hand, we can’t turn over the TV stations to minority propaganda either.”

Ge-Ge argued and pleaded, and in the end the executive sighed wearily. “I think we’ve been more than fair. But for you--and this is a personal favor, Miss Germadpoldlt, because you are a young and attractive woman--for you, I will phone our program director and see if he can get you on the Noon Interview Show for tomorrow. It gives you the Itra-wide network, which is certainly more than anyone has the right to ask. You’ll have ninety seconds to make your case. That’s the best I can do.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” Ge-Ge sobbed. “You’re so fair and generous.” Outside his office she took a deep breath, crossed her fingers and went home to revise her speech. She had only expected sixty.

Ge-Ge arrived at the studio well in advance and was handed over to the makeup department. With deft skill they converted her youth to age and contrived to instill in her face weariness and defeat. Her protests were ignored.

“This is the way you make up for TV,” she was told.

They clucked collective tongues in disapproval when they were finished and sent her on her way to a brief chat with the M.C.

The M.C. assured her that she looked divine and hastily scanned her prepared remarks, which had been heavily edited by some anonymous hand in the news department. The M.C. incorporated a few pointless revisions and dispatched the message to the department handling idiot-board material. It was explained that Ge-Ge was to read, word for word, from the electronic prompter.

Ge-Ge watched the program from the wings. When she heard a commercial message in favor of the consumption of a particular variety of candy, her heart ran away with itself. Her courage faltered. But Shamar’s face brought it back.