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overgrown boy in his light summer suit. But he had the gait of a man used to being obeyed, admired, courted, and loved. Slow but not stately, almost lazy but loaded with self-confidence. Gearan introduced me with a light setup: “You know George's work. He wrote jokes for Dukakis.”
    “Not really,” I demurred. “They just needed a short Greek with no sense of humor to test-market the lines.”
    Clinton held my eye with a smile while he shook my hand. His was soft, and the grip was surprisingly light for a politician. “Sounds to me like you have a sense of humor,” he said. “What else do you do?”
    Mark and Stan left us alone, and Clinton started to putter around the office, picking up books, poll questionnaires, photos, anything that caught his eye. Before we really began talking, the phone rang. Democratic Party benefactor Pamela Harriman was calling, and she wanted to know Clinton's position on campaign contributions from political action committees (PACs). While he listened, Clinton perused a polling report, licking his finger as he leafed through the pages, looking up at me every moment or so as if to apologize for the interruption. When the call was over, he asked for my advice. Tsongas was refusing PAC money; should he do the same?
    “PAC money isn't morally worse than other contributions,” I said. “But attacking PACs is an easy sound bite right now, so unless you can raise a ton, it's probably not worth ceding the high ground. Besides, Harkin's sucking up all of the labor money anyway. You're not giving up as much as you'd gain with the editorial boards. I'd take the pledge.”
    “That sounds about right,” Clinton said. For the next half hour, I joined him on the first of countless stream-of-consciousness tours across the political landscape of his mind. He seemed to know something about everything — from the party rules for picking superdelegates to turnout in black precincts on Super Tuesday, from how the credit crunch was bankrupting small businesses in New Hampshire to how microenterprise loans could help farmers in the Mississippi Delta — and he swooped from issue to issue without losing his thread, punctuating his soliloquy with questions for me. By the time he closed with the prediction that the nomination would be decided on the day of the Illinois primary, I was blown away.
    Before he left for lunch, he asked me about the 1990 budget deal, one of my areas of expertise. What was good about it? Where was it weak? Could Harkin and Kerrey be hurt by their votes? He wasn't testing me, just looking for advice, and it seemed as if he was taking it in, filing it away for future use. We were working together from the moment we met. He walked out with a wave and a promise to call. When I asked if I could hear soon because of Gephardt, he turned in the doorway and said, “Of course.”
    That evening I felt pulled in different directions. The idea of Kerrey was still appealing, and I thought he had the better chance to win. But compared to Clinton, the man I had encountered was distant and unfocused. He didn't seem to know what he would do as president, and his team didn't seem as enthusiastic about having me on board.
    Clinton was more impressive up close, smart and ready. Yes, he was more conservative than I. He supported the death penalty; I was against it. He had supported Bush's Gulf War; I was for extending sanctions. He supported the Nicaraguan contras in the 1980s; I thought this policy was both illegal and wrong. But all of the potential nominees supported the death penalty, and most executions were carried out under state law. As for our foreign-policy differences, what was past was past: By late 1991, Bush had won the Gulf War, Nicaragua had held a free election, and the cold war was over.
    More important, Clinton and I were in sync on the issues I cared most about. His belief that the role of government was to open opportunities to people who “work hard and play by the rules”