Cromwell waited until the gasp from the crowd had died.
"Friend, you are acting for another candidate," Cromwell said. "That is as it should be. Heckling is part of the American tradition. But tonight I am tired and, I confess, somewhat sick at heart. I feel that this assembly has already expressed its opinion. I do not wish to detract from your unanimity. If your mind is made up, I shall step down and most energetically support your selection."
A man stood up. It was Mr. Appleton. He was neat, brushed, and orderly.
"I am not a delegate to this meeting," Mr. Appleton said. "I have no legal right to speak. But I represent a large number of senior citizens from Southern California. I came to this convention as an observer. However; I feel compelled to speak out. I must tell you that the senior citizens of California will be outraged when they hear this. They will be shocked when they discover that a great political party did not listen to all of the candidates. They will be shocked when they discover the amount of money that has been expended on liquor and gaudy buttons at this convention. I say to you that a man like Mr. Cromwell, who has honestly and modestly tried to put his name before you, deserves your attention." He paused and shook his head. "I hope that none of you will feel committed by the free liquor you have consumed or the free meals you have eaten."
Cromwell nodded at Mr. Appleton. He looked over his shoulder at the chairwoman. He was tired.
"Easy now, John," Mike whispered. He watched Cromwell. "Very gently now."
"I don't know, Madam Chairman, whether it is any use for me to speak," Cromwell said. "Perhaps the convention has made up its mind in favor of another person. Perhaps, to save time, I should sit down now."
He locked his hands together on the lectern, in full view of the audience. The long fingers twisted together until the knuckles were white. The chairwoman looked at Cutler and then at the delegates. She tried to read the sentiment in the hall and the confusion showed on her face.
"Why, that's very considerate of you, Mr. Cromwell," the chairwoman said. "The agenda is rather crowded and . . ."
"Railroad, railroad," someone screamed. "Cromwell's being railroaded. Give him a chance to speak. The chairwoman is Cutler's person. Let Cromwell speak. "Railroad."
The man who shouted was one of the men Mike had spoken to a few minutes before.
The chairwoman stood paralyzed. Another person jumped up and shouted "Railroad.". Suddenly the whole auditorium was on its feet shouting at the chairwoman. "Let him speak. Railroad."
The delegates began to boo. Cutler stood up and the boos deepened. Cutler sat down. The delegates began to stamp their feet.
"Mr. Cromwell will give his speech," the chairwoman shouted into the microphone.
Her voice was heard, but the delegates continued to boo, as if the offense called for further punishment. When Cromwell raised his hands they finally fell silent.
"The first thing I shall do as governor is quite simple," Cromwell said. His voice was still cold, but it was no longer condemning. "I shall end the Communist menace in this state. Oh, I know. Everyone is against Communists these days. But one must do more than merely be against Communists. Words are cheap," and his voice was softly loathing. "But actions are hard. And I intend to act. I intend to do very specific and concrete things."
The delegates were rapt.
"I am going to start with one Communist professor who is infecting the youth of one of our great universities," he said. He reached into his vest pocket and spilled some papers on the lectern. He shuffled among them and the thin rustle of papers came over the microphone. He selected one paper from many. He held the paper up. "On this paper I have the name of a Communist professor. I am not alleging this or suggesting this or hinting this. I am telling you flatly and categorically that this professor is a Communist. And he is teaching the youth of this state." Cromwell paused, bent forward and spoke in a whisper into the microphone. "And I shall give you his name."
He paused and there was a vast exhalation in the hall. He moved the paper and the eyes of the delegates jerked.
"The professor's name is Professor E.T. Moon." There was a slow collective sigh from the delegates. They did not know Moon, but they knew a decision had been made. They were at the end of one kind of confusion. They clapped and stood up on their seats.
"And this is only the beginning," Cromwell said.
The delegates howled. Someone pressed something into Georgia's hand. It was a cheap white card. Scribbled on it with a pencil were the words "Cromwell for Governor." It was carelessly and quickly printed. It looked spontaneous. Stuck in one corner of the card was a pin. She pinned on the card and noticed that all over the auditorium people were taking off the Cutler buttons and putting on the white Cromwell cards.
The delegates beat one another on the back, pointed at the crude cards, felt somehow that the person next to them had produced the cards.
Once a small group started a serpentine, but Cromwell stared at them and they saw his unsmiling face and abandoned the attempt. They got back on their chairs and applauded.
"All right," Mike said. "Let's get out of here. It's all over. Cromwell will give his speech, but he can say anything. It won't matter. He's won the endorsement."
Mike started to push up the aisle. Hank reached out and grabbed his arm.
"Just a minute, Mike," Hank said. He stepped close to Mike. "Seaton was your man, wasn't he, Mike? You arranged it, didn't you?"
"Sure. That's right."
Hank looked at Mike for a moment. Then he smiled. He reached back and took Georgia's hand and led her through the crowd.
Outside in the corridor, Clara was leaning against the wall. She was smiling, but when she saw Mike her eyes hardened like splintered agates. She put the scarred side of her face against the wall. Mike walked over to her.
"Well, we did it," Mike said.
"Sure. You did it. You son of a bitch," Clara whispered.
"Stay away from him today, Clara," Mike said. "Cutler might make trouble. Might try to block John's nomination on grounds of moral turpitude. Stay away."
Through the cigarette smoke her splintered agate eyes looked at Mike. She turned and walked for the elevator.
Mike watched her walk away. He turned and grinned at Hank.
"I'll tell you something else, Hankus," Mike said. "Remember Bellows, the delegate from Satt Bernardino who made the motion to make Cutler the unanimous choice? Well, he was our man, too."
"And so was the guy who started to yell 'railroad,'" Hank said. "He was your man too, wasn't he?"
"That's right," Mike said. "We needed that little touch to persuade the delegates that Cutler and the chairwoman were trying to take something away from them. Funny thing, Hank, try and take something away from people and all of a sudden that's the thing they want."
Hank looked from Mike to Georgia. For some reason he felt an intense anger with Georgia. He was angered by the blank, unknowing way in which she looked at Mike. He wanted, very badly, to shatter the look; to make her share his sense of outrage.
"And the little cards and pins with Cromwell's name on them?" Hank asked. "Those were your idea too. That's what all those clerks were doing in that room. They were printing out those little cards with soft pencils so that they would look real spontaneous and homemade."
"That's right," Mike said. "The delegates had to feel that Cromwell was their man. The cards helped."
The look on Georgia's face did not change. Hank felt his stomach tighten. Inside the hall Cromwell was speaking and the strong, harsh inflection of his voice carried into the corridor although the words were lost and garbled.
"I'm going to go get my bottle now," Hank said. "I'll see you in the morning."
Georgia started to say something, but he had already turned and was walking away. He did not turn around.
CHAPTER 25
Two Calm Men
Robert Grover, head political reporter for the 'Los Angeles Post,' walked down the inner quadrangle of Stanford University. He
was forty-two years old, proud of his leanness and tended to dress in very severe double-breasted suits. He was also proud of the fact that no one ever took him to be a reporter. On the city desk they said it was one of his great advantages; that he looked like a bank clerk. No cigars, no hat with a press card stuck in the band, no fast talk, no soft lead pencil and wad of yellow paper, no boozy last-minute reporting. He carried a big old Sheaffer pen in the inner breast pocket of his suit. When he took notes he wrote them in a small black loose-leaf notebook and he took them in shorthand.
Not good to leave Fresno before the convention is over, he thought, but this story is worth it. Mike Freesmith had told him what Cromwell would say in his speech so it didn't matter if he was there or not. This Moon business would be the big story of the convention anyway.
Still, he hated to be away from the convention. He liked the rich environment of political conventions. He liked to stand in a crowded room, a glass of ginger ale in his hand, and listen to the boozy loud talk of the politicians and the would-be politicians and the fixers and the people that thought they were fixers.
Because he was completely trustworthy, he usually knew more about what was happening at a political meeting than any single participant. One of the keenest thrills, the thing that made the job worthwhile, was to listen to the boastful, extravagant talk of a politician who did not yet know that his throat had been secretly cut by more powerful people. The fact that he was privy to such information, that he knew who was dangling and who was solid, was the reason that Robert Grover liked political reporting.
He came to a door with "Classics Department" printed on it in faded gold letters. He went into a corridor and saw several closed doors. Each of them had a card thumbtacked to it. He found Professor Moon's office and knocked. There was a rustle of paper from inside the room, the sound of a chair scraping and then a voice called softly, "Come in."
Grover liked Professor Moon at once. He liked the neatness of the office, the absence of ashtrays and cigarette butts, the neat piles of lecture notes on the shelf, the orderliness of card catalogues. He liked the simple black suit that Professor Moon wore. He even liked the way Professor Moon's eyes swam uncertainly behind thick glasses.
"Professor Moon, my name is Robert Grover, political reporter for the 'Los Angeles Post,'" Grover said. He shook Moon's cool small hand and sat down in the chair that Moon pushed forward.
"You can smoke if you want to," Professor Moon said and he took an ashtray from a drawer and put it at Grover's elbow.
"No thanks. I don't smoke," Grover said.
Professor Moon nodded his head with approval and they smiled at one another with understanding.
"What does the 'Post' want of someone like me?" Professor Moon asked. He smiled deprecatingly, but his eyes focused behind the thick lenses and peered sharply at Grover. "I'm just a professor of classics you know. No political expert."
"Just a background story," Grover said. "A sort of think piece. We understand that you are doing some interesting work and the city desk thought it might work up into a good article."
"A political-article?" Professor Moon asked. "I don't see how . . ."
"Well, you've done some research on communism and religion and art, haven't you? That sort of thing?"
"Yes, but it doesn't have much to do with modern politics. I don't really think your readers would be interested in my sort of thing."
"Just tell me a little about it," Grover said. "Just describe the work generally."
Professor Moon smiled. He shook his head modestly, deprecatingiy, but Grover could see he was flattered. Professor Moon reached in a drawer and took out a thin typewritten manuscript.
"These are the first few chapters of a large work I intend to do on the subject," Pr6fessor Moon said. He glanced shyly at Grover. "It's very slow work, you know. There is a tremendous amount of material. These few chapters are based on thousands of pages of notes. The whole work won't be finished for years, I'm afraid. Very difficult subject."
"Why don't you just describe it to me?" Grover said. "In simple language, of course. Just as simply as you can."
"All right, in simple language," Professor Moon said. He was pleased. He leaned back in the chair and held the manuscript in his hand. "I got interested in the subject of property relations through my study of art. I discovered that whenever you have a good and free art you have communal ownership . . . communism, you might call it. And when you have good art and communism you also have a strong religious faith. In the time of the Torah, for example, which regulated the life of the ancient Jews, you find communist ownership and very good art and strong religion. And in primitive Catholicism, in the early days of the church you find that natural law, good art and communal ownership all emerged at the same time. Then I found that whenever private ownership emerges, art starts to decay and then, almost inevitably, the religious faith starts to crumble. Now that's it. Put much too simply of course."
"Would that mean that Christianity, primitive Christianity that is, was communistic?" Grover asked.
"That's right," Professor Moon said enthusiastically. "You've caught it. And whenever private ownership emerges the religious faith diminishes."
"What about modern Christianity, Professor Moon? Is it communistic?"
"Not yet," Professor Moon said. He leaned forward, laid the manuscript on the table, smoothed it out. "But it's becoming more communistic. Just look at the Social Encyclicals of Pope Leo the Eleventh. Why they're just full of communist notions of ownership and social relations. And Protestant theology is the same way. It's leaning more and more toward communal ownership. And the more it does the deeper the religious faith."
"Do you think that Communism and Christianity are compatible then?" Grover asked.
Grover took out his notebook. He unscrewed his Sheaffer pen and made a few quick notes in shorthand.
"I've always wished I had learned shorthand," Professor Moon said. "It would save so much time taking notes in the library. Especially from the rare books which you can't remove from the library."
Grover smiled at Professor Moon and nodded.
"I was asking if you thought that modern Communism and Christianity are compatible?" Grover said.
"Oh, yes. Sorry. I don't really know much about modern communism, you know," Professor Moon said doubtfully. "But just speaking off the cuff I'd say that Christianity and communism are having an effect on one another; they tend to soften one another. Maybe if it continues we'll find that the simplicity of the primitive Christians will return and adopt some of the ideas of communism. I never thought about it much . . . the problem of modern-day relations between them."
"Could you tell me your best opinion though?" Grover asked.
"Well, I think they are compatible," Professor Moon said. "Communism and Christianity will probably come together and each adopt the best features of the other and we'll have something like what we had after the fall of the Roman Empire: communist ideas of property, religious enthusiasm and good art."
"Would you say, Professor Moon, that you are a Communist?"
"Of course. I'm a communist. Just as I'm a Catholic. Part Catholic and part communist. That's what I tell my classes," he said. He looked at Grover and then leaned forward confidentially. "It rather shocks them at first. They find it difficult to deal with antinomies."
Grover made notations with his pen. He filled one page with sharp angular marks and turned the notebook over. Just as he looked up again there was a knock on the door.
A young man pushed through the door. He was breathing hard. He stood spraddle-legged. There was a press card stuck in the brim of his hat.
"Is one of you Moon?" the young man asked.
Grover closed his notebook and screwed his pen shut. He stood up.
"I'm Norton from the United Press," the young man said. "John Cromwell has just been endorsed by the Democratic Pre-Primary Convention for governor. In a speech he made this afternoon he stated that you were a Communist."
&n
bsp; "Me?" Professor Moon asked.
Professor Moon looked at Grover and his eyes diffused completely behind his glasses. His lips trembled and he seemed to be asking Grover for instructions.
"Yes, you," the United Press man said.
"I don't know who Cromwell is," Professor Moon said. "I've never heard of him."
"What difference does' that make?" the United Press man said. "Are you a Communist?"
Professor Moon looked around for Grover, but he was already in the doorway, his hat in his hand. Professor Moon was suddenly defenseless.
"I guess I am a communist," he said. "But a very special kind. A kind of scholarly interest led me . . . "
"Professor Moon, I have to leave," Grover said. "Thank you for your time."
As Grover walked across the Quad, two men came loping across the asphalt. He knew they were reporters. He hurried to find a phone.
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