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money-hungry anticonservationist.” He shook his head. “He’s gungho on this industrial pollution issue. It’s his number one priority, they say.”
    â€œInteresting that he’s fighting for the lumber bill out west,” Lawson murmured, tongue in cheek.
    â€œThe habitat of an owl out west apparently doesn’t do him as much political good as digging out industrial polluters on his doorstep.”
    â€œYou said it.”
    â€œKeep me posted, will you?”
    â€œYou bet.”
    He put down the receiver. Seymour was an odd bird, he thought. The man had little material wealth, but his old Charleston heritage had helped put him in office. The backing of Senator Mosby Torrance hadn’t hurt, either. The junior U.S. senator from South Carolina was a personable man with an equally impeccable reputation, even if he had a failed marriage behind him. Mosby’s marriage had been very brief, Kane understood, and rather secretive, but that had been because of his bride’s tender age, his sources told him. He couldn’t quite remember, but it seemed that there had been some connection with the Seymours before that. He’d have to remember and tell Lawson. It wasn’t important enough to try to reach the reporter, even if he knew where to look. No matter. Lawson would call back.
    Â 
    In the campaign headquarters of Sam Hewett, candidate for the Democratic nomination to the U.S. House of Representatives for the district that included Charleston, South Carolina, a heated discussion was taking place between Hewett and his advisers.
    â€œYou can’t risk a personal attack on Seymour at this point,” Norman Lombard muttered through a cloud of cigar smoke. His dark eyes lanced the candidate, who was tall and thin and rather nervous. “Let us take care of anything in that line. My father owns the biggest tabloid in America and my brothers and I are solidly behind you, financially and every other way. You just shake hands and make friends. For now, worry about nothing more than the Democratic nomination. When the time comes, we’ll have enough to slide you past Seymour at the polls.”
    â€œWhat if I can’t gather enough support?” Hewett asked uneasily. “I’m not that well-known. I don’t have the background that Seymour does!”
    â€œYou’ll have the name identification when we get through with you,” Norman said, chuckling. “My dad knows how to get the publicity. You’ll get the votes. We guarantee it.”
    â€œYou won’t do anything illegal?” the candidate asked.
    The question seemed to be perennial in Hewett’s mind. Lombard sighed angrily and puffed on his cigar. “We won’t have to,” he assured the other man for the tenth time. “A little mud here, a little doubt there, and we’ll have the seat in our grasp. Just relax, Sam. You’re a shoo-in. Enjoy the ride.”
    â€œI want to win honestly.”
    â€œThe last person who won honestly was George Washington,” Lombard joked cynically. “But never mind, we’ll do our best to keep your conscience quiet. Now, get out there and campaign, Sam. And stop worrying, will you? I promise you, it will all work out for the best.”
    Hewett wasn’t as certain as his advisor appeared, but he was a newcomer to politics. He was learning more than he wanted to about the election process every day. He’d been idealistic and enthusiastic at the outset. Now, he was losing his illusions by the minute. He couldn’t help but wonder if this was what the founding fathers had in mind when they outlined the electoral process. It seemed a realshame that qualifications meant nothing at all in the race; it was a contest of personalities and high-tech advertising and money, not issues. But on that foundation, the election rested. He did want to win, he told himself. But for the first time, he wasn’t sure why.
    It had