And Then There Were Two

Even if machine politics is mostly a relic of the past, the Democratic National Convention last week managed to resemble something well oiled and humming. When the delegates arrived in New York City, the primaries had already made Bill Clinton the party's nominee and Clinton had already made Al Gore his running mate. Jubilant at the thought that this, at last, might be a winning team, the Democrats in Madison Square Garden cheered like paid extras.

Most of them, that is. Jesse Jackson, who had to be wrestled into line at the 1988 convention, where he controlled 30% of the delegates, came to this one with just his (considerable) powers of speech -- which he couldn't exercise until he reluctantly agreed to endorse the Clinton ticket. Mario Cuomo, who for months had sniped at Clinton from the sidelines, preached some old-time Democratic religion while blessing a ticket with postliberal views on welfare (too generous) and government spending (ditto). Even Jerry Brown couldn't throw a wrench into the works, though he and his cantankerous supporters tried. When he finally spoke on Wednesday night, his sulfurous podium performance included no endorsement of his party's ticket. Maybe it was resentful party regulars who arranged to have Brown leave the stage to the music of a Sousa march known to most people as the theme from Monty Python's Flying Circus.

It was supposed to be Clinton's week, and in most respects it was -- but for the stunner that would reduce his acceptance speech to a secondary headline in Friday's papers. Ross Perot's sudden withdrawal from the race he had never officially entered left many supporters across the country feeling betrayed. Their grand, impractical crusade seemed to fall victim to the most grimy practical considerations: Perot's inability to rev up his stalled candidacy. Hamilton Jordan and Ed Rollins, his odd-couple team of political handlers, were frustrated by the candidate's unwillingness to be handled. First Jordan was said to be heading for the door, but at midweek it was Rollins who actually left, thwarted by Perot's rejection of a pricey ad campaign. Then, suddenly, Perot himself was gone, stepping aside, he said, because he had concluded that he could not win in November. Or was he gone? In TV appearances Friday, he talked about helping to form an ill-defined third force to endorse congressional candidates.

That still left an army of volunteers in political limbo, while both parties scrambled to make them feel welcome. Would his supporters turn out to be "basically conservative," as George Bush was quick to characterize them? Or were they issuing a "call to change," as Clinton rushed to claim? Early polls showed more of Perot's supporters opting for Clinton, but many were still too deep in shock to reconsider their options. Some were insisting that they would still cast a protest vote for Perot, whose name will remain on the ballot in half the states or more. In time, many of them will begin warily examining the candidates of the two shopworn parties they abandoned just a few months ago.

Perot did seem to send his followers a signal about what direction they might take. He spoke about having been impressed in recent weeks by a "revitalized" Democratic Party. And that was even before Clinton's acceptance speech, which adroitly pitched the Democratic tent in the middle- class backyard. The President appears to have noticed too; he spent the week fishing -- but at the Wyoming ranch of Secretary of State James Baker, the Bush campaign chairman in 1988 who may sign on for a repeat engagement.

As usually happens after a prime-time political lovefest, the challengers bounced out of the convention way above the incumbents: a TIME/CNN poll conducted on the day Perot quit the race had Clinton-Gore topping Bush-Quayle by 20%. That lead was 3 points larger than the one that Michael Dukakis enjoyed in the immediate afterglow of the 1988 convention. But Dukakis kept his campaign in low gear, and the Bush team wiped out his lead with negative campaigning. This time the Democrats are taking no chances. The day after the convention, Clinton and Gore set out on a six-day bus tour from New York to St. Louis. In this year's volatile politics of frustration and skepticism, maybe the only thing more uncertain than a three-way race is a two-way race. (See related stories beginning on page 28.)