As Dirk accompanied Mara and Kori to the IFSBG office building, his feelings were mixed. Two weeks had passed since his initial meeting with them, and they were at least as enigmatic now as before. This was partially because he had not seen much of them. They had arranged for him to live as a guest in the home of a middle class Betelgeusean family, so that he might know something of the people whose interests he would represent.

Earlier that morning, he had been brought to Kori’s office again. Mara had fixed him with her penetrating gaze, and asked him a disturbing question.

“What have you learned?”

Dirk had been unable to answer the question.

As they approached the place where Dirk would register as a Candidate, the question still bothered him. He did not think he had learned nothing in the two weeks he had been exposed to a new culture, but he wasn’t quite able to pinpoint any specific, important thing to tell Mara. At least, not that he could put into words at the moment. Kori further perplexed him by suggesting he look for ways in which he may have changed. This didn’t provide any answers, though; just more questions in his mind.

But all these uncomfortable thoughts were soon swept away by the beautiful golden sculpture in front of the Federation building. The sight of it never failed to take Dirk’s breath away, and make him forget his troubles of the moment. It was ringed by a wide silver band, and on that band was inscribed:

THE GREAT SEAL OF THE INTERGALACTIC FEDERATION OF STRAIGHT, BUTCH GUYS.

Kori stopped to inspect the Seal. “Mmm. The flippers want cleaning,” she observed.

“I still think the ball is off-center,” Mara added as they went inside.

Several days later, Dirk settled onto a bed in his suite aboard the spaceliner Entropia. An appropriate name, he thought. Instructed to relax a bit, Dirk was light years from relaxation. The registration had been a smooth enough process, he supposed. Having satisfied the basic requirements for Candidacy—being an adult human male—Dirk’s only obstacle had been a mental competency examination. The question was not normally raised, but he was being sponsored by Betelgeuseans, and the bureaucrats wanted to be sure. Dirk had passed, even though the examiner raised an eyebrow once or twice.

Now the Entropia was carrying him, along with many other Candidates, to Erstwhile, Entropia’s first stop on the campaign trail. Entropia was one of four sister ships, each with its own campaign route, ending on the planet Earth. Entropia went to four provincial primaries and one caucus, the remaining eleven contests being divided between the other vessels. To ensure fairness, and to keep money from becoming too great a factor, the IFSBG paid all travel and lodging expenses for the Candidates and their entourages. Of course, bribes, dirty tricks, and political maneuvering were still the responsibilities of the Candidates.

“Dirk,” Kori called through the door, “luncheon is here.”

Dirk rose, grateful for something to do. He opened the door to his private apartment, and entered the suite’s living room.

“Are you rested?” Kori asked as Dirk sat on one of the couches that were finer than anything he had ever sat on before.

“Not really. I’ve been wondering why you chose this campaign route, rather than one of the others. I know Erstwhile’s in the same province as your own world, but otherwise it seems like more trouble.”

“That is because you have not yet got it into your mind that you want to win, Mr Bordeaux.” Once again, Mara’s steely gaze was making Dirk feel uncomfortable. “It amazes me, how little you know of the politics of your own species. The reason we chose Entropia’s route is that it receives more media coverage than the other three. True, this makes the primaries along this route more prestigious, and more difficult to win, but it also grants greater rewards to those who are victorious.”

“How does it—“

“I am explaining that, Mr Bordeaux. Please try not to interrupt. Right now, nobody knows who you are. We could no doubt buy you a victory in some backwater primary race, and no one would really care. You do not have the kind of notoriety that would automatically make you a legitimate consideration.

“But if you can work a miracle, and win a major primary—one of the races on Entropia’s route—then your obscurity will work to your advantage. You will be the dark horse Candidate, the unknown quantity. The hole card, if you will. Most of the electorate is already familiar with the heavily backed Candidates, and there is not usually a great deal of public interest in them, unless their own personalities fire the imagination. But you will be a mystery, an enigma; and the electorate will be burning with curiosity about you.

“So our choice is basically a calculated risk. While your chances of winning along this route are not as good, your odds of carrying the entire election increase exponentially if you do win a primary. At some point, Mr Bordeaux, you must learn to dare greatly, if you are to be of use to us.”

When Mara finished, Dirk remained silent. There wasn’t much to say. Either he would pull off the kind of miracle Mara had described, or he would make an ass of himself on all the countless video screens in seventeen civilized galaxies. He calmly began wolfing down the lunch courteously provided by Acme Spacelines, a subsidiary of Acme Space Guys. He knew this because it was engraved on the dishes, the flatware, and the cold cuts. Before he got very far with his lunch, there was a chime of the doorbell.

“Come in,” Kori called.

The door to the suite opened, and a liveried messenger entered. “Time for the Honored Candidate to report to rehearsal,” he announced.

“Rehearsal?” Dirk managed, around a mouthful of roast Something sandwich.

“For the Election Song and Dance,” Kori supplied helpfully.

Dirk still looked puzzled.

“Mr Bordeaux,” Mara remonstrated, “surely you did not suppose your campaign would consist of a luxury cruise, followed by tea and crumpets? All this campaigning simply gets you into the Election Song and Dance. Once there, you will have a few short minutes to impress enough Electors to win the actual election. And you will be surrounded by competitors who would like nothing better than to see you fall on your face. So you had best be on your way to rehearsal.”

When Dirk left, Kori let out an exasperated growl. “Mara,” she said, “how long do we have to play ‘good girl-bad girl’ with this clod? He’s starting to irritate me.”

“We will play this game as long as it is necessary. He needs to believe that he has at least one ally among our race. That will help us to influence him if he gains office, or at least generates enough attention to have a media career after the election.” She looked significantly at Kori. “If he is successful, you had better get used to being his very best friend for a number of years.”

“Well, I don’t see why it has to be me,” Kori said petulantly. “I may have proposed it in committee, but it was your idea, after all.”

“Do not be childish. You are nearly his own age, while I have a number of years on him.” Mara smiled faintly. “I have no intention of mothering an adult human.”

As Kori could think of no effective reply, she poured herself some tea.

The dance instructor was not what Dirk envisioned when he thought about dancing; this man was more like a drill sergeant.

“Gentlemen,” he announced, “this election is a business for real men, and I’ll be damned if I let any girl-boys slip by me into the Song and Dance. So starting right now, we’re going to make men out of you, if the process kills some of you.”

Sergeant Lonnie King was a real man, and he took his business seriously. That business was training potential IFSBG Chairmen. When all the Candidates were present, he lined them up along opposite walls of the ballroom provided for training purposes. When he addressed the Candidates, his voice could be heard clearly in every corner of the cavernous ballroom.

“All right. The first thing we’re going to do is make sure everyone here is a man. I want everyone to put his hands high up inside his thighs, and pull up, hard.” As people hesitated to obey, he said, “Now!” Everyone did as he was told. It made no sense to Dirk, since a complete physical examination had been part of the Candidate Screening. But Sgt King pressed on anyway.

“Does it hurt?”

A few people said, “Yes, sir.”

“When I ask the group a question, I want the group to answer! DOES IT HURT?”

“Yes, sir!” This time, the room shook with the volume of the response.

“Well, then I guess everyone in here is a man. Okay, if it hurts, you can put your hands down.” Some people were too intimidated to move. Grinning wickedly, King observed, “I guess there are some people in here who aren’t really men, or else they’re pretty stupid.” All hands dropped.

“Now listen up,” King continued. “Someone in this room may very well become the next chief executive of our government. And I won’t approve anyone that I wouldn’t be willing to salute. I don’t care what anyone has told you, and I don’t care if you win every race along this route. If you don’t get my signature of approval, then you don’t go to the Election Song and Dance, except as a spectator. So you’d all better concentrate at least as much effort toward impressing me as you do the public.” As he spoke, Sgt King glared at each Candidate in turn. “Now that we all understand each other, let’s get started.”

Dirk began to wonder if debtors’ prison would have been worse than this. Sgt King may have been serious about the election, but the traditional dance routine was a ridiculous affair, consisting of awkward steps and gestures, while the dancers wore straw hats and skin-tight shorts, and played with walking sticks. The song was no improvement. It was silly and repetitious, dealing with the singer’s enthusiasm for sports, female breasts, and the abuse of alternate lifestyles. Through it all, Sgt King was coaching, encouraging, criticizing, and intimidating. If any of the Candidates had not been taking this business seriously before, they certainly were by the end of the session.

After the rehearsal, Dirk relaxed by the Entropia’s swimming pool with two of the other Candidates, Ray Fleming and Oliver Gates. They were ignoring Sgt King’s advice to keep moving and stretching for about an hour. Naturally, they were beginning to feel stiff and sore.

Ray stood and offered a toast. “To our pal, Lonnie,” he said, lifting his glass of sour mash. “May he be raped by feminist guerillas.”

“Hear, hear,” the others responded.

“If one of us wins,” Ray continued, “that will have to be the first Executive Order.”

“Hear, hear.”

“Say, how many sessions do we have to attend with this guy?” Dirk wondered.

Ray sat down to think, but could not find his way through the alcoholic maze. Oliver provided the answer.

“A couple dozen perhaps, between primaries. They’ll progress in length from two hours to maybe three and a half by the end. We’ll eventually learn to dance in a group: sixteen Candidates, led by the departing Chairman, like in the actual Election Song and Dance. He’ll ask the questions in the song, and we’ll sing the answers back.”

“How do you know all that?” Dirk wanted to know.

“I’m being sponsored by Acme Space Guys, and some of their executives are former Chairmen. They’ve told me what to expect.”

At that moment, an especially attractive diver performed an extraordinary dive from the high board. She emerged from the pool, at first unaware that her bathing top had forsaken her. The three Candidates stood and applauded, because that sort of thing was expected of a Candidate. She favored them with a look that may have been faintly contemptuous. Then she winked at them, and sauntered back to the changing rooms, with a definite sway in her steps. The moment left Dirk feeling uncomfortable, and more than a little foolish.

“Anyway,” Oliver continued when they resumed their seats, “I hope you guys won’t feel at a disadvantage because of Acme. I mean, the odds may be with me, but it really is anyone’s election to win.”

Ray hiccuped amiably, but Dirk felt a little worried. The odds definitely were with Oliver; three fourths of all the IFSBG Chairmen had been sponsored by Acme. That fact was not quite so daunting when the early years were taken into account. In those days, all the Chairmen had been Acme Candidates, after the Big, Bad Wolf had retired. But even though greater parity had been achieved in recent years, Acme still sponsored more winners than losers. Oliver changed the subject by asking Dirk who his main sponsor was.

“Pelrapeire,” was the reply.

“Never heard of it,” Ray said.

“It’s in Orion Province, in the Betelgeuse system.”

“But which faction? Surely you don’t mean the whole planet,” Oliver asked.

“No, just the government.”

Oliver whistled low, and Ray suddenly became sober and alert. “Dirk,” Oliver said, “that’s amazing.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because nobody gets a whole planet backing him at first; at least, not before now. Ray came closer than anyone else in the last ten elections. He’s got the entire I-Way Conservative Party behind him.”

“I-Way?”

“It’s the seat of Cornucopia Province,” Ray explained.

“Oh. Okay, but I don’t see the advantage. Other than a few extra votes—“

“The votes of one political party don’t mean much, compared to the rest of the Federation,” Oliver conceded. “But an undivided party means money, and lots of it. There’s no one in the party trying to undermine the Candidate, so no one will disagree when it comes time to spend money on him. Now, it’s true that the Federation handles our travel expenses, but winning voter support, and faction loyalty, is still up to us. That often requires impressive sums, both in advertising and bribes.”

“So if you’ve got Acme for a sponsor—“

“Exactly. You’ve got more to spend on your campaign than just about anyone else. That’s why Acme Candidates win a lot of the time.

“But you and Ray are both going to be able to compete. He’s got a major party backing him unanimously, so the rest of Cornucopia should follow suit pretty quickly; and you’ve got a world this early in the game. Even a small one will be able to throw a lot of cash into the kitty. And by all accounts, Pelrapeire is a very wealthy planet. Before it’s over, there are going to be some fortunes won and lost.”

Dirk could only agree. Ray nodded and said, “Yeah, I’ll bet there’s going to be a major battle of the bucks over this one.”

“But we’re not going to let it affect us,” Oliver stated. “No matter what our backers do, we remain united. Right?”

Dirk and Ray spoke their assent. They finished their drinks, and retired to their separate suites. As Dirk walked along the ship’s corridor, he couldn’t help but think how difficult it would be to defeat someone as confident and good-natured as Oliver Gates.

“At least,” he mused aloud, “I couldn’t lose to a nicer guy.”

Jongun sat on his tribal throne, unsure of his own mood. He played idly with the latest toy from Acme Space Guys, certainly liking it. And he liked the fact that he’d soon be getting ready for the long trip to Earth, for the IFSBG Election Song and Dance. Or at least its most important rehearsal. That was always fun.

Still, he was also a bit sad. He had selected a truly beautiful girl to be his bride. What an honor for her. And she had responded by calling him fat and stupid. It had made him feel so depressed to rape her, and then order her thrown into the tribal cooking pot, sold to his tribe at a real bargain by Acme Space Guys. But rules had to be followed, especially when you’re king. If the girl had just been properly awed by his august majesty, there would have been no problem, and she’d be sitting on his lap as queen, right now.

There was no help for it, he supposed. And at least he wouldn’t be going to Earth completely unescorted. One of the ambassadors informed him that the great king Vladimir the Impaler would accompany him when he went. That would make him feel really important. He knew he’d have to wear the traditional grass skirt for the rehearsal Dance, but he’d wear a military uniform while travelling with the great king. Yes, that would be best for the trip itself. He hitched the grass skirt he was wearing for the Feast uncomfortably. The military uniforms were much more comfortable, even if they had to be specially made for his paunch.

His former bride-to-be was served, and she really tasted nice. So much better than stringy old Uncle Theo. He’d suspected she would. And he supposed that he really was happy. Life was good, after all.