The Space Program

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It was the cocktail party from hell.

Curtis Brannon, independent candidate for governor of the state of Wyoming, had been to a few bad ones during his three months in the spotlight, but this definitely took the prize. The room overflowed with out-of-work miners, out-of-work cowboys, out-of-work oil-field hands, and dozens of other economically disadvantaged voters, none of whom had any business trying to look comfortable in a suit and tie.

There were even a few out-of-work accountants in attendance, but none of them looked particularly comfortable either. Nor did the two employed ones in charge of Brannon’s campaign. Contributions were obviously not coming in the way they had hoped. Everyone here supported Brannon’s candidacy, but none of them had the discretionary income to help him pay for it.

Another uncomfortable-looking fellow near the punch bowl didn’t fit any of the standard profiles that Brannon had learned to recognize. Unshaven, unkempt, and woefully under dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, he had been watching Brannon like a hawk for the last twenty minutes and sweating like a pig the whole time, but he hadn’t yet worked up the courage to make whatever move he had come here to make. Brannon wondered if the guy had a gun, and if so whether or not he should let him use it. Right now the only sure way to jump-start his failing campaign would be to survive an assassination attempt.

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