The Candidate

People want freedom.

At least that's what they think.

People want -no, people need- herding into open fields. Not wide open prairies, not endless rolling hills. It's important that there are ditches and hedgerows. Not fences. Fences can be torn down, fences can be built higher. But hedges... hedges appear natural. Nobody questions them. Nobody looks at them and thinks, when were these planted? Why there? What for? By whom?

Here and there we may allow a break in the hedge. A gate opens, and the herd may find itself in a bigger field. "More freedom," they'll cry, as if freedom is a relative concept. Yet you must apply caution when selecting the field. Too small and you'll have an uncomfortable herd, unsettled and non-cooperative. Too big, and you risk the herd becoming overly comfortable. Healthy competition, with carefully meted rewards, is the most effective way to manage the herd. They must feel that their efforts are getting them something in return; yet they must also feel the need to keep on working, keep on producing, keep on consuming.

Occasionally there are problems in the herd. Restless elements who want more. Rarely should they be sacrificed. Such action is disruptive. Costly, too. Rearing a herd is expensive. Far better to let them make the herd uncomfortable. They're more likely then to comply with the measures you put in place to keep them safe. Temporary pens. Smaller fields. Then, when all's settled, you grant them some of their freedoms back. Not all, not right away. You wait for them to ask. Let them believe they've regained some control. Let them divide themselves. "They cost us this, now we're taking it back." But some freedoms you don't return. Things have changed, this says, don't let them change further. Keep them divided. Keep them uncertain enough to remain pliable.

On even rarer occasions one of the herd will raise its head. Look around. Wonder why the field isn't bigger, why the hedges are so tall, why the ditches are so deep and wide. Why the shepherd is in charge. This is a bigger problem for everyone.

The solution?

Controlled democracy. Not the sort of messy free for all that dilutes power and leads nowhere. A car needs only one driver, a herd one shepherd. Give the herd a choice. Let them pick from two potentials different enough to provoke a debate, but not so radical you risk the status quo. Let the herd bicker about who should guide them. What's important is they are guided to the correct pasture. Never let them question that. Never let them question the destination. Only the means of getting there. All it takes is for one person to gain a foothold; one person to wake them up, to show them what's really going on. Then the whole artifice crumbles.

* * *

"Mr Curpless? The conference is ready. Everyone's seated. Hansom's just left the stage."

"Thank you, Martens."

Curpless left the small dressing room and walked along the lengthy breeze block corridor. It was a far cry from the arena, with all its flags and banners. A thin veneer that would be stripped away within hours of the rally ending. Today a political gathering; tomorrow a rock concert; the day after, a trade fair.

He stood behind the podium. The audience saw pure oak. His finger played with a stray splinter of plywood.

At each side of the stage, twenty-foot screens showed giant images of him, mimicking his every move.

The floor cheered. The seats cheered. The balconies cheered. Were the cheers flooding through the PA an echo, or the prompt for the crowd's hysteria? Only a few people knew.

He smiled. He looked at the crowd. Left to right, up and down. He pointed at a few people, he nodded, he waved. He stared into the distance, and his smile faded. He looked lost in thought. His hand rested on the podium, the hidden autocue ready to begin. He pursed his lips. He took a quick breath as if working out what to say.

The audience was silent. He felt every single person hang by a thread, waiting for him to speak.

"My fellow citizens. Before us, we have a clear choice. We can choose the reckless policies of my competitor. He wants us to gamble our economy on his empty promises. Or we can choose these safe hands. Hands that have guided millions to work and prosperity over these last four years."

More cheers reverberated around the arena. Another thirty minutes of this and he'd be able to get them to do anything he wanted. Anything. He looked around them again. Another smile, a point, a nod, a thumbs-up.

And then his eyes chanced upon a young man in the front row. Their eyes locked. The young man wore jeans and a T-shirt. A black sport coat obscured the shirt. The figure removed it without dropping his gaze.

Question everything. Believe nothing.