Typecasting by Harry Turtledove

 
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    Governor Bill Williamson of the state of Jefferson sat on the bed, waiting. He was ready to go. He had his shorts on, his wallet in one pocket, his keys in the other. That was as dressed-up, and as dressed, as he ever got. Several clean pairs of shorts sat in a small suitcase by the bed. Being a sasquatch made dressing and packing easier, one of the few advantages it had in a world dominated by little people.
    Or he thought it made dressing up easier, anyhow. He looked at the bathroom door, which remained resolutely closed. He looked at the clock on the nightstand. What he saw made him mutter to himself. He looked at the bathroom door again. Still closed.
    His patience slipped, which was dangerous for a politician and even more so for a husband. “Come on, Louise!” he called—bellowed, if you want to get right down to it. “We need to hit the road.”
    â€œI’ll be out in a minute,” she said.
    It was one of the longer minutes Bill had ever known. Impatient or not, he’d been married too long to say so. What he did say, when she came out in shorts much like his but a brighter blue and a matching top that covered and supported her breasts, was, “Whatever you did, it worked.” They’d had their silver anniversary the summer before. As husband and as politician, he knew how to keep people sweet.
    Or he did most of the time, anyhow. All Louise said was, “Hrmp.” She didn’t like being noodged—a useful word Bill had picked up from Hyman Apfelbaum, Jefferson’s attorney general.
    Getting up from the bed, he went over and hugged his wife. At nine feet two, he was almost two feet taller than she was; sasquatch genders differed in size more than little people did. “You’ll knock ’em dead in Ashland, kiddo,” he said.
    â€œSave the soft soap for the head of the Appropriations Committee, okay?” she said tartly. But she couldn’t help smiling, and after a moment she relaxed in his arms and squeezed him back.
    â€œMike and I lie to each other all the time. It’s part of the game. I don’t play those games with you,” Bill said, which was largely true. Politics and marriage had different rules. Anyone who thought otherwise wouldn’t stay married, or in politics, long.
    Louise picked up her own suitcase. It was bigger than Bill’s, but not a lot. “I’m ready. Let’s go,” she said. “It’ll be great to see Nicole.”
    â€œIt sure will,” Bill agreed. Their older daughter was a senior drama major at Jefferson State Ashland. Bill had no idea what kind of job she thought she’d get after she graduated, but he didn’t need to worry about that for another few months, anyhow.
    Out the bedroom door he and Louise went. The doorways in the governor’s mansion were ten feet high; rooms had thirteen-foot ceilings. When Jefferson split off from Oregon and California right after the end of World War I, the first governor lived in a rented house. The new state’s treasury flush with Coolidge-era prosperity, the second governor built the mansion and the state Capitol. Charlie “Bigfoot” Lewis was a sasquatch himself, and had his architect run them up on a scale that suited him. His working assumption was that little people could deal with too big more easily than sasquatches could with too small. Bill blessed him every time he didn’t have to duck or bang his head.
    The chief steward waited for them at the front door. Opening it, he said, “Enjoy your vacation, Governor, Mrs. Williamson. Give your daughter my best. She’ll be in … The Tempest , isn’t that right?”
    â€œThat is right, Ray,” Bill said, pleased the man had remembered. “I’ll tell her hello for you.”
    Old Glory and Jefferson’s state flag flew on a tall pole in front of the mansion. Jefferson’s banner was pine green, with the state’s seal