Rolltown bh-3

by Mack Reynolds

  Bullets were again caroming off the surface of the vehicle. They retraced their route. Twice, Bat Hardin recognized the whoosh and trail of bazooka rockets but he had been right, they were far off the mark. Whoever was on the old-time rocket launcher was no marksman.

  Luke Robertson’s vehicles were still drawn out of the way and Bat Hardin maneuvered through.

  He yelled out the window, “Jeff’s been hit. Where’s Doc Barnes?”

  Barnes came hurrying forward, physician’s bag in hand.

  Jeff Smith, his face drained as death, looked over at his companion.

  “Hey, man.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sorry about that nigger thing… Bat.”

  Bat shook his head. “Nothing to it… Jeff.”

  Doc Barnes wrenched open the door of the car and bent over Smith.

  He looked up at Bat. “He’s dead.”

  Bat Hardin didn’t say anything for a moment. Two men were hauling Jeff Smith from the car, ridiculously gently in view of the fact that pain would never come to the small feisty Southerner again.

  Bat said, “I’ve copped one too, Doc. See if you can patch me up a little.”

  “We’ll get you out of the car and up to the hospital where I can do a better job.”

  Bat shook his head. “Can’t. If I do, I’ll never be able to get back in, and I’m the only one who can drive this thing. It takes a certain know-how.” He looked at Luke. “Somebody in here tipped them that we were coming in this vehicle. Find Nadine Paskov. Have her check in the computer banks and find out who voted against me in that hassle I had with Jeff.” He added sourly, “She’s probably under some bed, somewhere. A change for her. I suspect that whoever cast that vote against me is our traitor. If she refuses to tell you, for whatever reason, slap her around a little.”

  “Got it,” Luke said. “What’ll I do if I find the traitor?”

  Bat looked at him levelly.

  “Got it,” Luke said, and was off.

  “Hold still, damn it,” Doc Barnes said. “Let me get this bandage on you. You need plasma; you dripped too much ink, Bat.”

  “Oh, great,” Bat said. “Have you got some kind of pep pill instead?” He looked out over the crowd and called, “Ferd, you’re next.”

  “Coming up,” Ferd Zogbaum sang out, pushing his way through the assembled men. He caught up the automatic rifle that had fallen to the ground when the men had taken Smith’s body out, and scrambled into the bloody seat next to Bat.

  Bat called, feeling himself already weaker, “There’s an extra clip of ammo in Jeff’s pocket.”

  Somebody brought it.

  Bat Hardin activated the lift lever again and they started forward.

  He explained as they went. “I can’t get the car to the crest. You’ll have to make it on foot. All hell is breaking loose over there. Don Caesar is sending new men over as fast as they can make it to defend the point. They know damn well, now, that we know it’s there, and they’ve got to defend it.” He felt his voice going weaker.

  Next to him, Ferd Zogbaum was checking the clip in the gun. Jeff Smith had nearly emptied it. Ferd threw it and rammed home the spare full clip with the heel of his hand.

  Bat said weakly, “Where did you get checked out on the Chinese Am-8?”

  Ferd said, “I was in the big one too.”

  They were approaching the knoll. From behind, the full barrage of all that New Woodstock could mount in the way of long-range rifles was firing over them, attempting to pin down any of the enemy forces on hand.

  Bat ground to a halt. He pulled his two pistols out.

  “Okay, Ferd. It’s all yours.”

  Ferd was out of the car, automatic in hands and scurrying up the hill, slipping, sliding on the sandy terrain, going three feet up, sliding back at least one. A continual fire kicked up the dust around his feet but he miraculously remained erect. Bat, his eyes fogging, leaned out the window of the car and blasted away at anything that moved#longdash#save Ferd.

  The freelance writer achieved the top, fired twice, thrice, in this direction and that, on full automatic, and finally immediately down as though toward his feet. He turned and began retracing his steps, running dangerously. He fell, rolled a score of feet, staggered erect, came on again.

  “Come on boy, come on!” Bat pleaded.

  Suddenly, Ferd Zogbaum stopped dead in his tracks. The automatic rifle dropped from his hands. He grabbed his head desperately and began to waver.

  “The bug!”

  He staggered around, completely out of control of himself, moaning in agony. A burst of automatic fire hit him.

  Bat, reeling weakly himself, flicked on his phone and stuttered, “Emergency, emergency! Mexican Police. Road Dolores Hidalgo, San Miguel de Allende. Emergency emergency, emer…” And then the fog rolled in.

  When Bat Hardin became conscious again, he was in the mobile clinic of Doc Barnes. He felt weak, but his mind was alert. He looked about him. Ferd Zogbaum, unconscious, was in the next bed. It was a three-bed dormitory. The other bed was empty.

  Doc Barnes came in followed by Diana Sward who was wearing a nurse’s white smock. She was obviously a volunteer.

  Barnes said, “You’re awake. Good.” He turned and looked down at Ferd Zogbaum.

  Bat said, “How’s Ferd?”

  “He’ll be all right. He took three hits, but none of them too serious. We’re taking him in for some minor surgery now.”

  Bat said, “Listen, has he been unconscious all this time?”

  Doc Barnes looked at him impatiently over his shoulder. “Why, yes.”

  Bat said, “Look, Doc. When you were in private practice what was your specialty?”

  “Why, I was a surgeon.”

  “Brain surgeon?”

  “No. I have done some brain surgery, but it was not my specialty.”

  Bat took a deep breath. “Look, Doc. Ferd Zogbaum is going to die on your operating table.”

  Di Sward blurted, “Don’t be an ass.”

  He ignored her. “Doc, Ferd has an electronic device planted in his skull. Can you take it out?”

  Barnes goggled at him.

  Bat pursued. “He’s a paroled convict. Life sentence. He saved us all. Look, Doc. We took a lot of casualties in this fracas. All is confusion. He can die on your operating table. You can sign… whatever it is you doctors sign when a guy cashes in his chips.”

  “I’m an ethical…”

  “And you and everybody else in New Woodstock owe your life to Ferd Zogbaum.”

  Doctor Barnes held a long silence. Finally he said, “What was he sentenced to life for? I have heard of this electronic bug before but it is the first in my experience. It should not be difficult to remove. Is he a murderer?”

  It was Di Sward who said heatedly, “He’s an idealist! He has political objections to the present socio-economic system in the States.”

  Doc Barnes looked at her wryly. “You seem a bit partisan, Miss Sward. However, so do I. I don’t exactly know what they are, but I too have reservations about our present socio-economic system. You are sure that Zogbaum’s, ah, crimes, are all of a political nature?”

  “Yes,” Diana said firmly.

  “Very well. Now the question becomes, if he, ah, dies on my operating table, and I remove the electronic device from his skull, how does he continue to collect his NIT or otherwise support himself?”

  Bat and Diana looked at each other blankly. Diana Sward said finally, “I make a reasonable living with my painting. He can write under a pseudonym until he gets to the point where he is making better sales. We’ll never return to the States.”

  Doc Barnes took her in. “You are his mistress?” She said, her mouth tight, “Yes, I am his mistress, and I am willing to become his wife#longdash#if he will have me. I am not a great acquisition.”

  “Like hell you aren’t,” Barnes said sourly.

  Doc thought about it, his face in disgust. “Damn it,” he said. “Why can’t a doctor just carve the
m up, or slip them the necessary shots or pills?” He glared at Di. “Miss Sward, let’s make the arrangements to get this operation rolling, before we have no patient left… to die on our operating table.” He turned and left the room.

  Diana Sward looked at Bat and said, “I think we’ve swung him. See you later, Bat.”

  “Yeah, see you later, Di,” he said, looking after the woman he loved as she left the room.

  Aftermath

  The Secretária de Defensa Nacional colonel said courteously, “Your arrest was a technicality, of course. You are free to go at any time you wish, Senor Hardin. But, after all, several of our nationals were killed, including Caesar Munoz and his son, José.”

  “And several of our own citizens, Colonel,” Bat Hardin said softly.

  “Yes, including one that you killed yourselves, this Manuel Chauvez.”

  “He was caught signaling Don Caesar’s son,” Bat said. “He tried to resist arrest and Mr. Robertson was forced to shoot him. Evidently, he had what amounted to a mania against his employer and against Americans in general.”

  The colonel gestured to the TV screen on his desk. “As I said, your arrest was a technicality; however, to double check on you I secured your dossier from your American National Data Banks. Purely routine. Your record, I am pleased to see, is impeccable.”

  Bat said, “I should congratulate you people on the speed with which you came to our assistance. I was unconscious at the time but I understand that the helicopters were there in less than fifteen minutes.”

  The colonel nodded. “You see, we were aware of Caesar Munoz’s activities and his group was under observation. We knew they had desperate plans but weren’t exactly sure what they were. Nevertheless, we had a sizable force on continual alert. Frankly, we were astonished at the magnitude of the attempt. Thank God he has failed.”

  Bat said unhappily, while gnawing at his lip, “Are you so sure that he has? What will happen when this affair hits the newspaper headlines?”

  “It will not hit the headlines, Senor Hardin. The Mexican and United States governments are cooperating to suppress the account. We are aware of the problems brought on by the mobile towns, but Don Caesar’s solution was not the correct one. He was trying to turn the wheels of time backward. It can’t be done. Yesterday will never be with us again, whether we wish it to be or not.”

  “What is the solution?”

  The colonel shrugged in a Latin gesture. “Perhaps I do not know. Perhaps it is more rapid progress for Mexico so that we, in turn, became an affluent society.” He laughed abruptly. “You would be surprised, Senor Hardin, how rapidly the spread of mobile homes is coming to our country. We already have several mobile resort towns, some of which cross periodically to the United States. And, to the south, Guatemala has recently complained of the large number of Mexican homes and trailers that are flooding that country.”

  Bat came to his feet. “I should be going. New Woodstock is scheduled to head south today. All repairs have been completed. We must thank the Mexican government again, for taking on all expenses involved.”

  “Certainly it was the only possible thing for us to do.” the colonel said, coming to his feet and extending his hand to be shaken.

  He said, “Would you mind answering one question, Senor Hardin?”

  Bat looked at him quizzically.

  The colonel said, “I went over the details of the whole unfortunate affair. I must say, I admired your measures. I am sure Don’ Caesar never expected such a valiant defense.”

  “Thanks,” Bat said.

  “As a police officer myself, I find I am somewhat surprised that your talents are hidden away in such a small town as New Woodstock. Your war record is impressive.” He gestured at Bat’s dossier still in the screen on his desk phone. “Have you never considered attending one of your American police schools and then securing a position in one of your larger cities?”

  Bat said evenly, “I’m not eligible.”

  The colonel frowned puzzlement. “But why?”

  “My I.Q. is not adequate.”

  “Not adequate! We do not use the same system here in Mexico but I was under the impression that an I.Q. of 132 was quite superior.”

  “My I.Q. is 93, Colonel.”

  Frowning still, the colonel looked down at the dossier. “It says here, 132. You seem to have made some sort of a mistake, Senor Hardin.”

  Bat Hardin stood silently for a long moment. Then, without asking permission, he rounded the colonel’s desk and stared down at the dossier in the screen.

  Finally, he said softly, “Al Castro can take over my job.”

  The colonel’s eyebrows went up. “You are not continuing with the rest of your town to the south?”

  “No. I’m returning to the States to find my level. Perhaps Ferd Zogbaum was correct and there are basic changes to be made in the Meritocracy, but, if so, they’ll be made from the inside, not from without.”

  “I wish you luck, Senor Hardin,” the colonel said.

  The End

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