Chapter 5: Campaign Trail

Noon on Sunday, Tom and Barbara Lucas boarded the yacht Icarus, on loan from noted Party supporter Buzz Brenner. It would take them on a tour of some of the lesser-known highlights of the Solar System, from the asteroid belt to the moons of Jupiter and Saturn.

Monday morning saw the couple at Mining Camp 433 Eros, located at the asteroid of the same name. Ugly as a mining camp could be, it still held a sizable population of potential voters, all of whom Tom would try to glad-hand and sell himself as their preferred candidate.

The structure consisted of a pressurized block containing housing, entertainment and administration. The rest, consisting of warehouses, ore processing and shipping facilities and about three quarters of the workshops, were unpressurized.

As he walked into the cafeteria he could sense he was in trouble – the crowd wasn't exactly hostile, but it wasn't welcoming either. He figured it was because he was interrupting their meal break.

The first question proved it. He was in trouble.

"Hey, Tom, why didn't you bring along your daughter?"

"Yeah," yelled one tough-looking woman sporting tattoos on her forearms. "Let's see your little streaker." The laughter was ugly.

"I'm going to have a word with your daughter when we get back home," Barbara assured her husband through gritted teeth.

"Yes," agreed Tom in a whisper, his smile a painted-on charade. "If we get out of here with our clothes on, it'll be a miracle."

As Tom tried to give his speech about economic policy, he was rewarded with more and more calls to bring forward his "saucy wench," as one young man with a taste for Renaissance Fairs put it. Finally the excruciating photo op was over, and he and his wife could re-board the yacht Icarus for their next port of call.

In contrast to the misery that the Lucases were experiencing, the reporters travelling with the couple were having a grand time. Tom himself was his usual suave, sophisticated best, and his wife was everything a politician's mate should be, but nothing seemed to go right for them. And things going wrong mean a reporter has something to report. It also meant that the reporters were able to have a side-splitting dissection of the day's misadventures as they enjoyed their single nightly glass of beer that Buzz Brenner rationed out.

The first day's report went into voluminous detail about the audience of rough-edged miners demanding the presence of young Miss Melanie Lucas, herself a minor. The miners had let it be known she'd be perfectly welcome to dress in her preferred outfit.

The reporters also explored the fact that the yacht was named 'Icarus', drawing parallels between the flight trajectory of the legendary character the ship was named after, and the projected trajectory of Tom Lucas' campaign.

Tom and Barbara did not have access to the reporters' stories during this trip, so throughout the voyage they would remain blissfully unaware that the most savage skewering was being done by correspondents representing the Brenner contingent.

Melanie did not share her parents' blissful state of ignorance. She was aware that something had changed – that the media conglomerate that had formerly supported her loving father now seemed to be doing everything in its power to undermine his candidacy. From editorials to the tone of the reports, it was poking holes in his platform and implicating her as one of his greatest 'scandals'.

The first day back at school after the news of her naturist proclivities had broken saw her getting some teasing, but for the most part it was mild. The teachers all seemed to be keeping a weather eye out for trouble.

Unfortunately, in every school there exists an element of bullies, and North Lunar City High was no exception. When Melanie emerged from the post-Phys Ed shower, she discovered all her clothing had managed to vanish. Mabel Winters was looking at her snidely.

"You want to walk around nude, now you can," she said sarcastically, leering at the uncertain, dripping-wet girl.

"What did you do with them?" demanded Melanie, horrified.

"What do you care? You don't need them," sneered Mabel.

Melanie's best friend Alicia came up then. Loudly, so as to be overheard by the teacher, Miss Stevenson, Alicia demanded, "Mabel, what did you do to Melanie's clothes?"

Mabel and her three followers held up Melanie's clothing, snipped into scraps. Evil grins split their faces – grins that Melanie was more than anxious to wipe off.

Alicia was outraged, but kept her head. She kept shouting loudly enough that Miss Stevenson could overhear. "Mabel, you and your friends deliberately destroyed Melanie's clothes? Even her gym outfit? You've left her with nothing to wear."

Mabel was never the most precocious child. She didn't realize that Miss Stevenson was now perfectly aware of the disciplinary issue awaiting her presence in the girls' change room, and was heading there post-haste. Her accomplices were similarly wanting in terms of forethought and insight.

Miss Stevenson burst into the room to see Mabel and both her compatriots triumphantly hefting tattered remnants of clothing. Because she was behind them, they didn't realize they'd been undone until it was too late.

"Ladies, you have just earned yourselves detention," she advised the surprised trio, hustling them to the Principal's office.

When Miss Stevenson returned, having left the three miscreants with the Principal, Miss Arbuthnot, she realized she still had a dilemma to resolve: what could they scare up for Melanie to wear? "Maybe you can have something delivered from home?" she asked hopefully.

"And stay in the change room until it does?" Melanie asked skeptically. "I've got a test next class, it starts in two minutes, and I have to be there for it."

"I think we can get you a bye," suggested Miss Stevenson.

"That's not fair to the other students in the class," Melanie pointed out. "Look, I'll go like this." She indicated her natural state, wearing only shower sandals. "It's not like I've never been nude in public before. Granted, everyone else was at the time..." Melanie's fury was rapidly building to a crescendo.