Why is Senate Republican Leader Robert Dole the real leader of the congressional opposition, instead of House Republican Leader Robert Michel? In the House, a simple majority can dictate the procedures for debate. If the Democrats enjoy a modest degree of unity, they can block votes on unfriendly amendments, waive points of order, and render the House GOP powerless on the floor. On the other side of the Capitol, the Senates's Rule XXII requires a three-fifths vote (sixty senators) to invoke cloture, that is, to stop debate. If Senator Doler and his fort-three GOP colleagues stick together, they can sustain a filibuster and scuttle Clinton legislation. The president can seldom afford to ignore Senator Dole.

Senate minority leaders have not always had such power. At one point during FDR's tenure, Republicans had only seventeen seats, so they could not keep up a filibuster even though procedures of the time required a two-thirds vote for cloture. By the late 1970s, the Senate had adopted the current three-fifths rule—but Republicans had fewer than the forty-one seats needed to block cloture. The 1980 election suddenly gave them a majority, which they held until 1986. Although the next two elections held them above the forty-one-vote line, the ability to filibuster meant little: Republicans wanted to pass the programs of Reagan and Bush, not stall them. With the looming Clinton victory in 1992, forty-one again became the Republicans' magic number. On election night, they had forty-two. Soon afterwards, Paul Coverdell's win in a Georgia runoff brought them up to forty-three; and in June 1993, Kay Bailey Hutchinson's landslide in a Texas special election boosted them to forty-four.

Moreover, they enjoyed more unity than in the past. From the New Deal through the 1970s, the Senate GOP included a sizable faction of liberals. Republicans such as Thomas Kuchel of California, who served as party whip until his loss in a 1968 primary, often supplied key votes for the programs of Democratic presidents. By 1992, retirements and defeats had thinned the liberals' ranks to the point where they no longer held a single leadership position.

In the spring of 1993, the Senate Republicans were poised for first blood. When President Clinton proposed his costly "economic stimulus" package, the GOP leadership got all Senate Republicans to sign a letter pledging a filibuster. They followed through, killing the bill and rattling the president.

The budget reconciliation bill, embodying President Clinton's economic program of major tax increases and modest spending restraints, offered the Senate GOP a different opportunity. Filibusters are forbidden on reconciliation bills, so the minority could not singlehandedly derail the Clinton plan—but its united opposition could force the Democrats to take all the blame for raising taxes. That way, Republicans could regain control of an issue that they had lost with the Darman budget deal of 1990. From a partisan standpoint, the outcome was perfect; because no Republican voted for the plan, and because it passed only when Vice President Gore broke a tie, every Democrat who voted aye could be charged with casting teh decisive vote.

These fights did not have predestined results. Had President Clinton sough bipartisan support earlier in the year, he might have peeled off a few of the small band of liberal Republicans; luckily for Senator Dole, the president was so accustomed to the one-party Arkansas legislature that he was slow to grasp the importance of GOP support. Meanwhile, the Republican Leader used his backroom talents to hold potential defectors in check.

On other issues such as campaign finance, Senator Dole has had less success in maintaining the loyalty of liberal Republicans. Nevertheless, his power guarantees that the president must reckon with him—and that the news media will cover him. Always known for his caustic wit, he has been happy to lob well-timed sound bites at the Clinton White House. When the president's spokesman complained about GOP attacks, Senator Dole suggested that White House aides "calm down, go off for a weekend, have a Diet Coke."

In this respect, too, Senator Dole stands apart from most Republican congressional leaders of the past. Robert A. Taft of Ohio, the de facto GOP Senate leader during the 1940s, resembled Dole in several ways; he was a conservative Midwesterner with a retentive mind, a mastery of the legislative process, and an aura of gravitas. Unlike Dole, he did not leaven his seriousness with a sense of humor.

Other GOP leaders of the era were equally colorless without being equally intelligent, so they became easy targets for Democratic gibes. At a 1940 speech, FDR focused on three GOP lawmakers: Joseph Martin, Bruce Barton, and Hamilton Fish. He said that most people had supported his achievements—except "Martin, Barton, and Fish." He repeated the phrase throughout the speech, and soon the Madison Square Garden crowd was chanting it with him. Mr. Martin responded that the attack was a "a bit unfair."

Perhaps President Clinton had that speech in mind when he needled Senator Dole at a White House correspondents dinner. But instead of making a deft joke, the president cracked that the economy-minded Kansan had sought millions of tax dollars for a Wichita boathouse. When that turned out to be false, the White House had to issue a meek apology. Not only did President Clinton look clumsy, but he had riled the owner of Washington's longest memory, sharpest mind, and most ascerbic tongue.

With Senator Dole's aggressiveness in mind, some look forward to a Clinton-Dole presidential contest. Senator Dole might well be a formidable contender, but his candidacy would have three major problems.

First, despite his splendid legislative record, Senator Dole has had trouble in national campaigns. During the 1976 vice presidential debate, he referred to World War I and World War II as "Democrat wars," which enabled Democrats to portray him as a reckless hatchet man. In 1980, he finished seventh in the New Hampshire presidential primary, with 597 votes. Eight years later, after George Bush upset him in New Hampshire, he snapped at the winner: "Stop lying about my record." His 1988 campaign suffered not only from his attack-dog image but from internal chaos.

Second, he was born in 1923. Although he remains physically vigorous, he would have to fight the impression that he is out of step with the times. If the voters still want change, the Clinton reelection campaign might imply, why go back to the generation that passed the torch in 1992?

Third, he has yet to articulate an alternative to the Democratic agenda. In 1987, Senator Nancy Kassebaum said: "There's always a question: Does he have a vision?" She later apologized, but even his admirers acknowledge that he is more a legislative artisan than a visionary national leader.

If Robert Dole equals Robert Taft plus humor, then Ross Perot equals Huey Long plus charm. Although many observers think that the Perot phenomenom is unprecedented, Long paved its populist way nearly sixty years ago. And just as the diminutive Texan constantly engages the attention of the Clinton White House, Long was a preoccupation of FDR. "It's all very well for us to laugh over Huey," Roosevelt warned his advisers. "But actually we have to remember all the time that he really is one of the two most dangerous men in the country." (Douglas MacArthur was the other.) As the Ross Perot of the New Deal era, Huey Long desrves a moment's attention.

After winning the Louisiana governorship in 1928, Long launched a massive program of social services and public works while gaining personal control of state government. In 1930, he won a seat in the Senate, where he became the leading spokesman for a radical program of wealth redistribution. Early in FDR's first term, he threatened a serious third-party challenge to the president's reelection. The challen ge ended when he died in 1935.

Long had much in common with Perot:

• Though lacking great personal wealth, Long gatherred a huge warchest from corporations doing business with Louisiana and state employees who had to kick back a fraction of their salaries. The "deduct box," as it was called, reportedly held a million dollars or more, an impressive summ for the mid-1920s.
• United We Stand America, Ross Perot's grassroots organization, has a clear frontrunner in Long's 4.7 million-member network, called the Share Our Wealth Society. Like UWSA, Share Our Wealth could easily have served as the embryo for a national third party. During a half-hour radio broadcast in 1934 (shades of Perot's "infomercials"), Long called on Americans to form local chapters of his organization. His appeal could have served as a model for Perot: "Organize your share-our-wealth society and get your people to meet with you, and make known your wishes to your Senators and Representatives in Congress."
• Long wrote a policy manifesto in the form of a novel titled My First Days in the White House. The book promised sweeping cures for the country's ailments, which he blamed largely on the "Masters of Finance and Destiny." In a series of books, Perot has similarly demonized "domestic lobbyists, foreign lobbyists and representatives of political action committees."
• Long urged his listeners: "Save this country. Save mankind." Perot's latest book is titled Save Your Job, Save Our Country.

In spite of such parallels, there are also key differences. Long damned his critics as tools of special interests, but he did so for the sake of theatrical effect. Perot, by all accounts, really is prone to conspiracy theory and is hypersensitive to personal attacks. Long was an encyclopedic factmonger who could outdebate the wiliest advocates, whereas Perot gets flustered when he has to answer unexpected questions.

The most important difference lies in the reaction of each man's target. Franklin Roosevelt answered Long's challenge by addressing his policy concerns and invading his political base. In the Second Hundred Days—spanning the spring and summer of 1935—FDR got Congress to pass Social Security, tax reform and other measures that won over down-and-out voters who might have followed Long's call for radical change.

The Clinton forces have made some headway in dealing with Perot on a personal level. During a television debate on the North American Free Trade Agreement, Vice President Gore deliberately antagonized Perot with questions about his finances. Perot's petulant responses, including a preposterous denial that he had ever lobbied Congress, severely undercut his public standing and may have contributed to NAFTA's passage.

While the administration may have wounded Perot, it has not resolved the concerns of Perot supporters: wasteful government and insider politics. President Clinton's 1993 economic package sparked a hostile reaction because of the widespread belief that it raised taxes too much and cut spending too little. Vice President Gore's report on "Reinventing Government" briefly made the front pages but was rapidly eclipsed by overseas crises. The Clinton health plan got applause for its good intentions but groans for its incomprehensible details. And as the year wore on, the new administration produced its own crop of rumors, scandals and tales of infighting—the unmistakable earmarks of Washington insiders.

Even the NAFTA victory could backfire. To secure the agreement's passage, President Clinton cut side deals and promised to defend pro-NAFTA Republicans against campaign attacks. Inside Washington, these moves look like crafty leadership. Elsewhere, they look like pork-barrelling and bipartisan collusion. Whether or not Perot can engineer a personal comeback, the NAFTA vote could fuel anti-incumbency and foster third-party challenges to lawmakers of both parties.

The Power of Bob Dole and Ross Perot comes from familiar sources. Senator Dole holds a key institutional post where he can shape laws, which in turn are upheld by the coercive power of government. Ross Perot's influence hinges upon his wealth: without it, he would be just another opinionated customer at a Dallas barbershop. In the 1990s, says futurist Alvin Toffler, such traditional forms of power are giving way to another: the application of knowledge.

Enter Rush Limbaugh. This self-described "harmless little fuzzball" has neither a billion-dollar bank account nor a high office in Washington. What he does supply is more formidable: a daily barrage of facts and logic, delivered with wit and confidence.

Limbaugh is a multimedia master of the information age. In 1988, 260,000 people listened to Limbaugh on fifty-six radio stations. By 1993, Limbaugh's radio audience had grown to 17.9 million and the "Excellence In Broadcasting Network" included 622 stations. At the same time, his syndicated television program was winning a bigger audience share than "Arsenio Hall" and his newsletter was selling 353,000 copies a month. His first book had remained on the New York Times best-seller list for more than a year, and his second had a record-setting first printing.

Moreover, he knows that technology carries information in both directions, and members of his audience supply him with material via fax and computer e-mail.

What matters most is not the medium but the message. Limbaugh's broadcasts and writings carry out an essential task for any political opposition: hanging the establishment with its own words and deeds. He constantly searches the Clinton record for items that deserve the harsh light of reason and ridicule. His newsletter has published a lengthy and detailed catalog of broken promises and inconsistencies. On his televison program, he contrasted President Clinton's Bosnia saber-rattling with his statement that we should not "get involved in a conflict on behalf of both sides." Limbaugh skewered the president's position with a simple question: Does this mean we're going to bomb both sides?

More recently, he juxtaposed a clip of candidate Bill Clinton ridiculing the "family values" issue with a clip of President Bill Clinton embracing the issue in a speech before religious leaders.

FDR never had to deal with the likes of a Limbaugh. Will Rogers approximated Limbaugh's mix of humor and commentary, but he was on FDR's side. Some commentators have likened Limbaugh to Father Charles Coughlin, the infamous "radio priest" of the 1930s. This comparison is a smear. Father Coughlin preached a strange brew of statism, prejudice, and conspiracy theory. Limbaugh's message is about none of those things; rather it is about liberty, optimism, and a zest for verbal combat. Above all, it is about the joyful breaking of the taboos of "political correctness." In short, Rush Limbaugh is the morale officer of the Culture War.

President Clinton is uniquely vulnerable to the Limbaugh treatment. Not only does his administration supply Limbaugh with abundant ammunition, but he lets the gibes unnerve him. As the same correspondents dinner where he committed the Dole gaffe, Clinton mentioned a recent program in which Limbaugh had praised Attorney General Janet Reno for maintaining her composure when Representative John Conyers assailed her: "Did you like the way Rush stuck up for Janet Reno the other night on his program? He only did it because she was attacked by a black guy." This charge of racism diminished the president's stature while raising Limbaugh's: nothing so elevates an opposition leader as a personal attack from the president of the United States.

Others in the Clinton camp have also made intemperate criticisms. Rep Dan Glickman of Kansas warned about Limbaugh's commentaries: "This lack of respect shown the president is worse than disgusting. It is also dangerous to the political integrity of the country." And Roger Clinton, one the president's half-siblings, flatly called Limbaugh a "traitor" for daring to question the president's policies.

The most ominous reaction has come in the form of the "Hush Rush Bill." This pending legislation would restore the misnamed "Fairness Doctrine" to the regulation of the airwaves. Under the proposed rule, stations carrying Limbaugh's show and other controversial programming would have to "provide reasonable opportunity for the presentation of contrasting viewpoints"—or else risk serious challenge to their licenses. Because it is hard to define "reasonable opportunity," many stations might drop such programming rather than worry about costly litigation. In other words, lawmakers are considering the use of government to silence political opposition. The old form of power is trying to trump the new.

No mere jokester could prompt such a serious reaction. To President Clinton's congressional supporters, who know and fear the power of knowledge, Rush Limbaugh really is the most dangerous man in America.