Call it The Cause. It is an arguable cause, maybe even a proper cause. But that's beside the point. On Wednesday, it was only a vocal cause, one that provoked thought in a way its sponsors didn't intend.

Accept this vague approach for now. It will be made clear as I go.

The scene is the annual State of the State address at the Missouri Capitol. It isn't a coronation, but as pomp goes, this is about as august as state government gets.

All the necessary parties are in place, in the immense chamber of the House of Representatives. Gov. John Ashcroft is announced by the doorkeeper and marched down the center aisle by a processional of senior lawmakers. Some hands are shaken along the way, some words of greeting are offered. It is at once friendly but formal.

The governor climbs to the speaker's rostrum, where he commences to inform a joint session of the General Assembly about the condition of things.

After a few stirring minutes of Ashcroftian oratory, The Cause announces itself.

It rumbles to life from the first row of the rear balcony, beneath a huge mural commemorating World War I. Doughboys stare down from their painted battlefield on two women chanting in unison a mantra to The Cause.

House members, in their cushioned swivel chairs below, turn in concert to see what the ruckus is about. The governor stops talking and a man wearing a dark suit and earpiece hustles the women up some stairs and out a door.

Governors don't get to be governors without having their wits about them. Ashcroft seems unflustered, makes a remark that eases the tension and proceeds with his speech.

He isn't a standup comic dispatching a heckler, but he does all right.

Minutes go by and a second person espousing The Cause makes his views known. Ashcroft stops again and the man is hauled out.

The speech continues. Another man stops it. His technique is different: he shouts once, then perhaps it dawns on him that he's an introvert put up to this stunt. His confusion is oddly effective. All eyes are this silent man as he is hauled off.

Time goes by. The next guy who interrupts has a whistle; this delights no one.

Ashcroft informs the assembly the speech is drawing to a close and anyone with further interruptions should get them in quickly. It gets a good laugh, but clearly he is running out of comeback lines.

The next tactic is the coup de grace. A man represents The Cause with vehement shouts from one end of the mezzanine; when the authorities descend on him, a colleague starts the shout from the other end. It's the old misdirection play.

This second guy is far along in his soliloquy when Col. C.E. "Mel" Fisher, superintendent of the Missouri State Highway Patrol, apprehends him. When his yakking continues even in custody, the man is treated to a Fisher headlock and cut off in mid-yak.

Five times the governor's speech was disrupted. Ashcroft handled the interruptions with aplomb. Fisher got the loudest applause ... I admit, it was a textbook headlock.

This intermittent demonstration proved puzzling in its intent. What was its point? Lawmakers who disagreed with The Cause had more reason than ever to do so. Sympathetic legislators were probably embarrassed by the display. Undecided officials are less likely to go out on a limb for The Cause.

The House chamber is the living room of state government. These guests trashed it.

And it occurred to me that people advocating The Cause weren't trying to sway lawmakers at all. The protesters knew they would win no support from people whose sanctum they were violating.

They also knew that when they rose to shout, every camera lens in the chamber pivoted in their direction. The setting was appealing not because of the officials present, but because of the media there to monitor the officials.

Probably a lot of the media featured the protesters on news shows and in newspaper headlines. Seven people, well placed and suitably loud, get results.

I grow tired of media bashing. At times, though, it is deserved.

Now you know why The Cause is not identified here.