Rolltown bh-3

by Mack Reynolds

  “That is not important, Mr. Hardin, and we are not particularly interested in you. Any of your town authorities, or even an ordinary member of your community would have done. It is just that circumstances made it you, rather than someone else. We wish to issue an ultimatum.”

  “An ultimatum!” Bat snapped. “I’m beginning to suspect that you’re all around the bend. What was the idea of stopping me, dressed in those phony uniforms? You’re not Mexican officials; certainly you’re not police.”

  “But we are Mexicans, Mr. Hardin, and in a way even police. Vigilante police. And here is our ultimatum. Your mobile town of New Woodstock must turn about and return to your own country.”

  Had Bat Hardin not been blindfolded, he would have stared.

  The speaker said flatly, “We do not want you here in Mexico, Mr. Hardin.”

  “Who are you?” Bat demanded.

  “We are Mexicans,” the other said, more emotion in the elderly voice. “Mexicans who are tired of having their country raped by you endless hordes of norte-americanos.”

  Bat said hotly, “We applied for and received all permissions required by the Mexican authorities to pass through the country and exit through Guatemala.”

  “We do not agree with some of our authorities. They are overly conscious of the American dollars spent by your tourists, your vacationists and you who permanently establish yourselves in our country and devastate it. You corrupt our young people with your money, your lack of moral decency, your arrogance to a proud people, your pretense to a superior culture.”

  Bat began to say something but the older man interrupted him. “When I was a boy, you used to cross the border in ones and twos, some as ordinary tourists, some in their house trailers. We welcomed you, welcomed the dollars you spent in our country. It must have been at the time of the 1969 Olympics that the dam first broke. That year not scores or even hundreds of your trailers and mobile homes crossed but literally thousands. And that was just the beginning. When you established your fantastic Negative Income Tax and millions of your people were suddenly free to leave America’s overcrowded cities with their slums and ghettos, then they swarmed out over not only your own land but Canada and, above all, Mexico as well.”

  A new voice, a younger voice but still in English added, “And now my own country, Guatemala, and the other nations to the south. Everywhere, everywhere, your damnable mobile cities destroy the countries in which they park.”

  “Listen,” Bat said. “We pay our way. We spend plenty in every country we go through or remain in. Your people benefit by the dollars we spend.”

  The older man’s voice same again. “A few benefit. Most of us, not at all. Our way of life, our culture, is destroyed. The sites in which you stay, government built, are government operated. It collects for the power you buy, it collects for the expenditures you make in the ultra-markets, restaurants and cantinas located on each site. Admittedly, the money realized is used by our authorities in their grandiose attempts to speed up the industrialization of Mexico. But some of us are not even sure that we wish to be industrialized to the fantastic extent to which you of the north have accomplished.”

  Bat began to retort, but the other overrode him.

  He said, “Mr. Hardin, Mexico’s relationship with the colossus to the north has not been a happy one, by and large. Do you labor under the illusion that Texas was liberated#longdash#I believe that is the tongue-in-cheek term#longdash#by Texans? Such men as Davy Crockett and Jim Bowie were not Texans, Mr. Hardin, they were, ah, volunteers from the United States, adventurers come to wrest wealth from a weaker people. The flag that flew over the Alamo and was captured by Santa Anna’s army was that of a volunteer troop from New Orleans. And did you know, Mr. Hardin, the big reason the Texan revolt took place? Most of the American immigrants were from your southern states and couldn’t bear the fact that Mexico had abolished slavery. But Texas was not enough. Border trouble was provoked and what are now your states of Arizona, New Mexico, California and parts of others were also seized. The fact that the seizure was premeditated is to be seen in the fact that your General Fremont and his army had trekked all the way to California before the war was declared and was ready at hand to capture that area.

  “It was not the last time that you invaded our country, Mr. Hardin. Time and again you crossed our borders when what you deemed were your interests were threatened, when we elected a president of whom you didn’t approve, or when our internal policies didn’t coincide with your desires.

  “But all that is past history. It is the present to which we object. Your New Woodstock is but a small town, comparatively. Your mobile cities come and completely dominate our country. The best beaches from Tijuana to the Guatemala border and from Matamoros to Yucatan are crowded with them. Manzanilla, for instance, once a small fishing town and resort, now has no room for Mexicans on vacation. Thousands upon thousands of your luxurious mobile homes cover every desirable spot. Every restaurant is full of your people, every bar, every nightclub overruns with them.

  “Nor is it simply the beaches. Every scenic area in Mexico knows your mobile towns and cities. Lakes Potscuaro and Chapala have been ruined, a Mexican cannot get within a half mile of either. Your hordes eat up the best products of our seas and our fields and orchards. With your fantastic incomes, you shame a Mexican, make him appear a beggar in comparison. In such resorts you run up the prices astronomically so that we can no longer buy even mildly luxurious items.”

  The older-sounding man snorted in contempt. “What is your current Per Capita Annual Income? Something like $20,000?”

  Bat said sourly, “Precious few of we who live in mobile towns have incomes approaching that.”

  “But nevertheless, even a comparatively well-to-do Mexican seldom sees the amount one of your people gets in what you call NIT.”

  Bat said angrily, “If you people would cool your population explosion a little your Per Capita Income would go up too. Your population increases almost as fast as your industrialization.”

  The first voice he had heard, that of the leader of the group that had captured him spoke then and bitterly. “We do not need lessons in the manner in which to control the size of our families, Senor Hardin. One of our greatest objections to your presence is the manner in which you spread your corrupt moral code. Your young men seduce our most beautiful girls with their wealth; seldom do they marry them. But when they do marry, it is usually to girls of our better families who cannot resist the affluence offered them. Your own women are shameless whores, often in your towns running about in their topless styles. Their sexual code is like that of a bitch in heat.”

  The old voice came again. “Nor is that the only manner in which you destroy our culture. Supposedly you of the most advanced nations#longdash#speaking in terms of Gross National Product#longdash#are interested in developing we smaller countries. In actuality, you smother us. Your capital dominates our mines, our best fields, our backward industries. The oil and iron of Venezuela do not belong to Venezuelans, for example; it belongs to norte-americanos, and that is but one example. But even that is not all. How can our people get underway when the intellectual drain bleeds us white of our best minds and most highly trained technicians? My own son is a surgeon. Does he operate on his people who need him so badly? No, he has been attracted by the high pay in the United States.”

  A new voice broke in, as bitter as were the others. “But your towns, your hundreds of thousands of mobile homes, streaming south. It is they that blanket our country, and, in continuing contact with your people, make us envious of your affluence and susceptible to your corruption. Why, even this New Temple that sweeps your country#longdash#it is a religion of no religion. What do you think our simpler people are to believe when they see that such a religion is that of a people who live like gods by their standards?”

  Bat said, “Listen. None of this is deliberate on our part. It began a long time ago and accelerated and there is no way to call a halt. We Americans have a tradi
tion of being on the move. Our ancestors had it in their blood when they came over in leaky ships, largely from Europe. They had it when they pressed ever west in the wagon trains, the mobile homes of that day. When the house trailers began to emerge in the 1920s, after the advent of the automobile, we took to them overnight. By the 1960s, fifteen percent of all homes built in the States were mobile homes. And that was only the beginning. When the guaranteed annual wage came along, the multitude of unhappy dwellers in the slums and ghettos were able to make an exodus from them. They swarmed out of the large cities and millions of them took to the mobile home life.”

  “But why inflict yourselves on us?” someone barked.

  Bat looked in that direction. “It was a natural development. When the mobile homes began to merge into mobile cities, sites were set up all over America for them. In the national parks, in the mountains, along the beaches, in the more picturesque deserts even. In a way it was a partial answer to the population growth. Large areas of the country had been going to waste, as far as living room was concerned. There had been a trend toward crowding ever more into the largest cities, with all the problems that were involved such as pollution, smog, parking, traffic, and a dozen more. But with the mobile cities, they could move out into the west, into areas where there was plenty of room.”

  “But why Mexico! Gringos go home! You’re destroying our country. We don’t want you!”

  Bat said stubbornly, “Your officials gave us permission to enter.”

  “Yes, our officials! Your dollars corrupt everything. Our officials cannot see beyond the immediate millions that accrue to them through the money you spend.”

  “We’re only passing through,” Bat said. “We’ll only be in Mexico for a short time. We’re heading all the way down the Pan American Highway to South America.”

  The voice of the one from Guatemala broke in heatedly. “Yes, and in our small country your presence is even more objectionable. We of the more progressive classes are up in arms. I have come all this way to join the forces of Don Caesar…”

  “Shuush,” somebody muttered.

  “… and to prevent you from going any further. Why, some of your towns are already swarming over nations as far south as Chile and the Argentine. Why you have not already been met with arms I cannot say.”

  Bat said impatiently, “Why pick on New Woodstock? I’ve never heard of anything like this before. You haven’t attempted to turn back other towns.”

  The older man’s voice said, “Quite deliberately, Mr. Hardin. Obviously, what we do is illegal by Mexican law. However, we are dedicated and determined men. You will be an example. The fact that you are a mobile art colony, with all the connotations that brings to the average person’s mind, will make the example stronger. Were we to attempt to stop a city or town composed almost entirely of elderly retirees, it would be more difficult for us to gain sympathy both in your own country and ours. But an art colony has a connotation of Bohemian life, immoral artists, wild parties, much drinking of alcohol and smoking of marijuana.”

  Bat said bitterly, “You’d be surprised how hard working and staid most real artists are.”

  “That is beside the point. It will be what people think, not the reality. Those that support us will draw a vivid picture of the depravity of New Woodstock, Mr. Hardin, and how God-fearing, country-loving Mexicans turned you back in indignation.”

  “And if we don’t turn back?”

  “We are dedicated and determined men, Mr. Hardin.”

  “I suspect you’re just a handful of malcontents. The majority of Mexicans don’t support your views.”

  “It hasn’t been put to a vote, gringo,” his original captor said. “However, there’s more of us than you would think. All right, the ultimatum has been served. What is your answer?”

  “It isn’t up to me,” Bat said flatly. “New Woodstock is operated democratically. It’ll have to be brought before the executive committee.”

  “Very well,” the old man said. “Jose, return him to his car.”

  José, evidently the original captor, spoke rapidly in Spanish for a moment, then took Bat by the arm. “Let’s go, gringo,” he said.

  Bat came to his feet and suffered the other to lead him back the way they had come earlier. They retraced the route in the same elderly steamer and the blindfold was not removed until they reached the spot where Bat’s car had been left. They kept him carefully covered.

  José looked into the interior of the car thoughtfully. He reached out with the barrel of the revolver he carried#longdash#it was an old-style, possibly World War Two vintage, six-shooter#longdash#and smashed the screen of the vehicle’s phone.

  “Hey, that was a dirty trick,” Bat protested.

  José said apologetically, “Sorry. We’d rather you not be able to communicate with the police immediately.”

  “I’ll do just that when I get back to Linares.”

  “That will give us time enough.”

  “How about my gun?”

  “I’ll keep your gun, Senor Hardin. “I’d hate to have you using it on me, later.”

  “I told you our guns were not to be used against the citizens of this country.”

  The other’s voice was dry. “That remains to be seen, gringo.”

  Bat climbed into the car, started it up and made a wide turn, heading back for the site where New Woodstock had settled for the previous night.

  He swore under his breath. He supposed he could have asked the Mexican to return his pocket TV phone but on the face of it the other wouldn’t have for the same reason he had broken the electro-steamer’s phone. It was going to be a hassle to get another pocket phone here in Mexico. He’d probably have to wait until he got to Mexico City and the American Consulate. These days, the unique device combined not only a portable TV phone, but your identity number which embraced your credit card, your voter’s registration, your military number, what amounted to your post office box, your income tax registration, and everything else in the way of identity, including passport.

  Well, it couldn’t be helped.

  New Woodstock was beginning to get itself together preparatory to leaving, when Bat arrived. However, it would undoubtedly take a couple of hours or so more before it was really ready to roll. Instead of going to see Dean Armanruder immediately, he returned to his home with a cup of coffee in mind. He wanted to think about it a little before confronting the executive committee’s questions. Obviously, they would depend largely on his opinions and Bat Hardin wasn’t quite sure what they were.

  He entered his mobile home and stared at the table. His pocket phone cum credit card was on it.

  He took it up, still gaping disbelief. So far as he could see, there was nothing wrong with it. He said into it, “New Woodstock, Al Castro.”

  Al Castro yawned at him but on this occasion it was not simply a mannerism. He was still in bed. “Hi, Bat. What’s up?”

  “Sorry,” Bat said. “I was just testing my phone. Forgot you’d be sleeping.”

  “My pal,” Al yawned, fading off.

  Bat left his home and looked up and down. Sam Prager’s mobile home and electronic repair shop was parked next to him on one side but nobody seemed to be about his place. Probably still in bed. The Pragers were inclined to read late into the night and arise at a late hour.

  Ferd Zogbaum’s camper was on the other side but there was no sign of Ferd. Bat strode over in that direction and ran into his comrade on the far side of the camper. He was evidently deep in a heated discussion with Jeff Smith, a discussion that was already just short of physical violence by the looks of it. Not that Bat had any illusions about the possible outcome. Ferd had size on the feisty southerner, and, besides that, Bat hadn’t missed the professional pugilist shuffle the other had gone into the night before.

  Smith was saying, his voice shaking with rage, “All right, I’ve told you, Zogbaum, stay away from her.”

  Ferd said, only slightly less violently, “And I tell you, Smith, that all thi
s is up to Diana. To her and to me. She’ll associate with whoever the hell she wants to associate with. You’re not her husband.”

  “All right,” Smith snapped. “You asked for it!” He began to fall into a fighter’s stance. At least, Bat decided, the little man had guts.

  Bat began, “Okay, okay, you two. Break it up, you’re not a couple of kids.”

  Jeff turned on him, glowering. “Shut up, nigger.”

  IX

  Bat stared at Jeff Smith for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed.

  “Ill be damned,” he said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that word. I thought it was out of date. You must be the last of the old-time Southerners. As a matter of fact, my maternal grandmother was a Black, but I doubt if even she was full-blooded. In this day and age there are precious few full-blooded Blacks in the United States except for that small number of recent immigrants from Africa.”

  “Any nigger blood at all makes you a nigger, nigger.”

  Bat grinned at him. “So I understand was the law in some of the southern states in the old days. Your name is Smith, eh? Probably British descent. Did it ever occur to you, Smith, that the Romans never drew the color line? Some of the emperors, even, were Africans.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?” Smith snapped.

  “The Romans never drew the color line and they occupied England for half a millennium. How can you be sure that you are as lily-white a Caucasian as all that? Are you sure none of your ancestors didn’t marry one of those Romans who’d been touched with the tar brush?” Bat laughed his contempt.

  “Why, you black bastard.”

  Ferd Zogbaum, as disgusted as his friend was, growled, “As far as that goes, Bat’s complexion isn’t much darker than your own.”

  “Keep out of it, Zogbaum,” Smith snapped. It was hard to tell, at this point, who his primary antagonist was.

  Bat said, conversationally, “For that matter, I wonder just what percentage of your Southerners have African blood in them. For two centuries and more you had your black slaves. For all that time, your men forced themselves on the more attractive girls. What was the old saying among your young fellows? You’re not a man until you’ve had a nigger? And don’t forget the old custom in towns like New Orleans where young aristocrats set up apartments in the French Quarter for their quadroon or octaroon mistresses. You know what the children of an octaroon look like, Smith? They look white and they move to another town and pass as white. Did you labor under the illusion that the famed Creole beauties of Louisiana were solely of French descent?”