Rolltown bh-3

by Mack Reynolds

  Dean Armanruder touched a control on the arm of his overgrown chair and the lights went up sufficiently for them to see each other with more ease.

  “Sit down, Hardin,” he said. “Could I have Manuel bring you a drink?” He touched another control.

  That was the Armanruder style. No automatic bar for him nor even an old-fashioned one which he would have to operate himself. Of course not. When he wanted a drink he didn’t stir from his chair, even though the beverage in question was only a half-dozen steps away. No, he summoned Manuel who was seemingly on duty twenty-four hours a day and could really rest only when his boss was asleep.

  Cool it, cool it, Bat told himself. What business of his was it? Armanruder had earned his comforts. You didn’t become manager of a corporation these days because your father owned most of the stock. The wealthy might inherit a concern but few were foolish enough to attempt to operate it themselves. If they did there was a good chance of disaster. You won to the top these days through merit. Armanruder obviously had plenty of it, the type of merit that counted in their ultra-competitive society.

  Bat took a chair but said, “No thanks. I’m going to be up half the night and a drink would probably make me that much more groggy.” He nodded to Nadine Paskov, ever the beauty queen, who this evening wore one of the new Cretan Revival gowns, the breasts bared, the nipples painted, red. She looked as though bored by his arrival. He said, “Good evening, Miss Paskov.”

  “Hi Bat,” she said, disinterestedly. She finished the drink in her highball glass.

  Manuel entered but for the moment Dean Armanruder ignored him. The small, dark-complexioned servant wore a white jacket now. During the day, while driving one of the Armanruder units, he wore a dark suit and a chauffeur’s cap.

  Armanruder said to Bat, “How do you mean, you’ll be up tonight?”

  Bat told him the day’s developments and the older man was obviously disturbed. “Why in the world did you two have to go into town?”

  “I told you that. We sensed a sullen quality and wanted to check up on it. We certainly weren’t looking for trouble and would have avoided it if we could.”

  “From what you said, that ne’er-do-well, young Zogbaum, precipitated the fight.”

  “Not really. You could feel it in the air. Had we known, of course, we wouldn’t have gone into town. But we didn’t. I don’t think it’s too important, especially since we’ll be pulling out tomorrow. Nevertheless, it won’t hurt for a couple of us to patrol the town tonight.”

  “I suppose so,” the other said, then looked at his butler cum chauffeur. “Two more of the same for Miss Paskov and me, Manuel. Mr. Hardin isn’t drinking.”

  “Yes, sir.” The Spanish American turned to go. If Bat had it correctly, Manuel and his wife, Concha, had come from New Mexico or Arizona. Their Spanish would be invaluable on this move down to South America.

  Bat looked after the slightly built servant and must have had an element of questioning on his face.

  Dean Armanruder misunderstood it. He said, “You’re wondering why Manuel would take a job like this in these days of NIT? It’s a fact that servants are few indeed in the States any more. Only the truly wealthy can afford them. But it’s not that with Manuel and Concha; I pay them little more than they would get in the way of NIT.”

  Bat Hardin was mildly surprised at the other. What business was it of Bat’s?

  Armanruder chuckled and said, “Poor Manuel is over a barrel. He’s not eligible for NIT.”

  “Oh? I was under the impression that he was an American citizen.”

  Armanruder chuckled again. “Yes. But not all citizens are eligible for NIT. You see, friend Manuel was caught at falsifying his income tax. He and his wife were collecting their NIT but working on the side to augment their fortunes. Very, very bad. When the computers check you out and catch you, you’re no longer eligible for NIT and in this day and age of unemployment you have your work cut out finding a position.”

  Bat said, “Actually, that wasn’t what I was thinking, though. The thought went through my mind, there but for luck go you or I.”

  Nadine Paskov said in bored impatience, “Oh, good heavens.”

  But Armanruder shook his head. “Speak for yourself, perhaps, Hardin, but not for me. Luck is not involved. Manuel Chauvez and I come from different strata in society. It was fated that he occupy his position and I, mine. At his birth he was slated to be a servant or the equivalent, I to be among the top one percent of our system.”

  He settled back in his chair, made a dome of his fingers and his tone became slightly pompous. “The fact of the matter is, Hardin, that our present Meritocracy doesn’t differ as much as all that from previous socio-economic systems. Down through recorded history the real developments of the human race have been made by about one percent of the population.

  “Discoveries, inventions, breakthroughs, new arts and sciences, the things that count in the advancing of the race. Under all social systems, not just Meritocracy, the elite came to the top and directed, planned or developed.”

  Bat was feeling perverse. He said sourly, “Or, at least, they could claim they were and who was in a position to argue?”

  The older man shook a finger at him negatively. “No, you’re incorrect. Hardin, the human race has been on Earth for something like a million years. Up until about eight thousand years ago it progressed very slowly indeed under a system of what you might call primitive communism, community ownership of such property as existed and largely democratic institutions based on family and clan. It wasn’t until the advent of class divided society and private ownership of the means of production that the race began to forge ahead. Obviously, no single person invented the institution of chattel slavery but if one had he should have been listed as one of the greatest benefactors the race has had.”

  Bat Hardin’s eyebrows went up but he let the other proceed.

  Armanruder went on pontifically. “If anyone was to have the leisure time#longdash#leisure from primary labor, that is#longdash#to develop the sciences and arts, it meant that the overwhelming majority of people in a society must sacrifice themselves so that a small minority could be free. Say, five percent of the population. And that five percent must be the elite, and was. But even among them, the slave-owning class, only about one percent made the great advances.”

  “Once again,” Bat said dryly, “how do you know they were really elite, that they had the best brains and abilities?”

  The former corporation manager shook his finger again. “Because if they weren’t, the true elite emerged and displaced them.”

  “Always?”

  “Always. Under the older socio-economic systems, slavery, feudalism, classical capitalism, it might take time, but sooner or later those with the true abilities took command.” He thought about it for a moment, then added, “Admittedly, it sometimes took quite a while to depose the incapable and you usually had to shoot them out. No ruling class or caste will give up its position of power and wealth without resistance. That’s one point where the Meritocracy is superior over past systems.”

  “How do you mean?” Bat said. He was antagonized by the other’s pomposity but the subject fascinated him, since it struck so near to home.

  The older man said, “Under the Meritocracy you seek and reach your level. It’s a system that fits the human race because it’s one that is stratified, because people are. It’s a highly disciplined society, as the universe is. It’s a society in which individuals can freely move from one level to another but only by their own abilities. Nothing counts except your own individual achievements.”

  “Oh, Lord, all this is boring me spitless,” Nadine Paskov said.

  Bat Hardin came to his feet. He had a few arguments in his mind but he said, “I should be getting on my rounds.” He added wryly, “I suppose the manner in which we do the little governing that is needed in these mobile towns is the last of the old time democracy.”

  Armanruder chuckled. “Yes. And do you se
e who our fellow townsmen elected to the executive committee? We who, before retirement, were most successful in our positions in society. You don’t find men like your impetuous friend Zogbaum on the executive committee.”

  VII

  As Bat Hardin walked back to his own home, with the intention of getting a little sleep before relieving Al Castro, he muttered, “No. And you don’t see me on the executive committee either.”

  It came to him that high intelligence wasn’t the only requirement to get to the top in this each-man-for-himself-and-the-devil-take-the-hindmost world. You had to have the push and aggression of a Dean Armanruder. A lazy genius isn’t one. When Armanruder had first come to the mobile art colony, he had begun operating, volunteering his services, taking over responsibilities. Most of the town’s members did a minimum of participating in its required community work. Oh, there were few complete shirkers but the average citizen was too taken up with his art work, his family, the maintenance of his mobile home, to find time for lengthy committee meetings, the handling of accounts, the making of decisions involving the community.

  Within a month, Dean Armanruder had been elected to the executive committee and within two months was dominating it. Not that Bat Hardin was complaining. The other was efficient, intelligent, farseeing. It was seldom that he took a stand with which Bat disagreed. Had New Woodstock been under a town manager, as was the case with many of the larger mobile towns and cities, Bat’s vote would have gone for Dean Armanruder.

  He relieved Al Castro at ten o’clock and patrolled the town with Luke Robertson, a tall, lanky, slow-moving fellow who did sculpturing in iron and who seemed to have an inordinate affection for Bat Hardin, as did his wife, for that matter. Bat wasn’t quite sure why. But when somebody likes you, for whatever reason, you have a tendency to like him in return. In actuality, Bat had to admit that he didn’t appreciate Luke’s work, in fact, it was exactly the sort of abstract, meaningless#longdash#to Bat Hardin#longdash#sort of thing that he actively disliked. Bat’s tastes went to the representational art forms, even free verse left him with a taste in his mouth. Of course, he had never mentioned that to Luke Robertson.

  Al Castro and young Tom Benton had reported their four-hour watch uneventful. They had immediately#longdash#Al yawning mightily#longdash#taken off for their respective homes as soon as their relief had taken over.

  The hours between ten and two were equally free of any signs of disgruntled locals. In fact, Bat was beginning to wonder if he hadn’t made a fool of himself by taking these precautions.

  Al and Tom relieved him and Luke again at two, and having copied Al’s contagious yawn, Bat made his way back to his trailer. In the living room, he scowled momentarily at his bar. But no, the hell with it. Tomorrow was going to be one long day and he couldn’t afford to be even a bit woozy.

  He turned out the light and began unbuttoning his shirt as he made his way back to the bedroom.

  VIII

  At dawn, Bat made a sudden decision. He checked the power packs which he had charged during the night, activated the car and started up. He picked up his phone and said, “New Woodstock, Dean Armanruder.”

  But it was Nadine Paskov’s face which faded onto the screen. She was obviously in bed and for once the glamorous secretary was less than her best, even though she slept nude and was bare to her waist.

  She looked at him sleepily#longdash#and indignantly#longdash#and said, “What in the damn world do you want at this time of the damned night?”

  Bat said mildly, “Sorry. I wanted to let Mr. Armanruder know I was going to take a quick scout along the route we’re taking today. I assume that I’ll be back before the town takes off. If not, I’ll rejoin along the route.”

  “I couldn’t care less,” she said snippishly and making with a yawn that would have done credit to Al Castro, the expert.

  “Please tell Mr. Armanruder,” Bat said. “Sorry again.”

  She muttered something nasty and flicked off.

  It wasn’t necessary to enter Linares proper to continue on along the highway, for which Bat Hardin was thankful, although he rather doubted the town would be awake this early. Mexicans are seldom early risers he had found out from his previous visits. Perhaps it went back to the old days when they were without means of heating their homes and remained in bed until the sun had warmed the world.

  He drove along Route E-60, the road rather rapidly ascending. It was considerably more beautiful a drive than had been the day before with its flatness of countryside; however, Bat wasn’t particularly observant of scenic values. He still had his premonitions and chewed away at his heavy lower lip as he drove. There didn’t truly seem to be anything untoward. But…

  He sped along at a clip of two hundred kilometers an hour. He wasn’t in too much of a hurry. He didn’t expect to go any further than the Pan American Highway and he’d make that in half an hour or so; however, he wanted to be sure and be back to New Woodstock before the town took off past Linares.

  They nailed him about five kilometers before he reached the tiny hamlet of Iturbide and about forty kilometers out of Linares. There was a road block of three cars, only one of which was a steamer and it an old-fashioned kerosene burner, by the looks of it.

  Four men, two of them in a uniform which Bat didn’t place and all of them armed, stood before the road block.

  Bat came to a halt and activated the window.

  One of the civilian-dressed of the four came over and said, “Senor Hardin? Come out, please.” His English was at least as good as Bat’s own.

  Bat opened the door and came forth, scowling. He said, “How did you know my name?” His eyes went over them. The alleged uniforms were obviously makeshift. He snapped, “You’re not police!” and his hand shot for his shoulder holster.

  Bat Hardin was not slow at the draw, but the Mexican was a blur. His own pistol was out and trained on the American’s stomach.

  He said softly, “Move much more slowly, Senor Hardin, and give me that for which you were reaching. So. You carry a gun here in Mexico. To shoot Mexicans with, undoubtedly.”

  Bat brought forth the gun and handed it over. He said, “I have a permit issued by your border authorities. Our town is going all the way down. At least to Peru. Undoubtedly we’ll be going through some fairly wild country in places like Colombia and Ecuador. So we have various guns. They weren’t meant to be used against the citizens of your charming country.”

  He submitted to a frisk by the other, who relieved him of his pocket phone.

  The Mexican stuck Bat’s Gyrojet pistol in his belt and said, “You’ll never reach Peru or Ecuador, Senor Hardin, which will undoubtedly be a great relief to them. This way, please.” He indicated with his gun the more modern of the three cars.

  “Where do you think you’re taking me?”

  “It is not a matter of mere thinking, Senor Hardin. Just to make matters clear, I would not particularly mind shooting you, although this is not the purpose of your, ah, arrest.”

  Bat climbed into the seat next to that of the driver. Into the back climbed one of the uniformed men, a short carbine at the ready and trained at the back of the American’s head.

  The English-speaking one took the driver’s seat and started up. They had to wait a half minute for the engine to heat, the steamer being that old a model.

  “What am I supposed to have done?” Bat demanded.

  “Nothing in particular, simply being a gringo here in Mexico.”

  “Who are you people?”

  The other ignored him and said something in Spanish to the Mexican in the rear. That one threw what seemed to be a towel over Bat’s eyes and tied it roughly. Bat winced when the cut on the side of his head had pressure applied to it.

  They drove only a few minutes before taking off on what was obviously a side road. A side road to the right, Bat remembered. He might have to remember such information in the future. He hadn’t the vaguest idea of what he was up against. They went on for what he estimated to be two
kilometers, climbing rather steeply, if Bat, in his blindfold, could estimate correctly.

  Finally they came to a halt and car doors opened. There were other voices now, in the background, all speaking Spanish. Bat was taken by each arm, not especially roughly, and led forward.

  “Watch your step,” the English-speaking one said.

  “Watch your own,” Bat rasped. “You people realize that you’re kidnapping an American citizen?”

  There was a chuckle but he couldn’t tell from whom it came.

  The one with whom he had been carrying on the conversation said, amusement in his voice, and something more, “We do indeed, Senor Hardin.”

  They entered a house, led him down what was evidently a hall. He tried to count the steps he took, so as to be able to identify the house later. They obviously entered a room and then sat him in a chair.

  A new voice, an older voice and a highly cultured one, said, “Ah, Mr. Hardin. You do not look like a villain, Mr. Hardin. But I suppose you do not know that you are a villain. Villains seldom think of themselves as villains, so I understand. They usually think they are being terribly put upon by their victims and only doing what is correct.”

  Bat snapped, “What is the meaning of all this? I don’t have the vaguest idea of why you have grabbed me, or what’s going on. How do you know my name?”