Max whistled softly.
Hamp went on, after dialing still another syntho-beer. "These sons all continued the dream. They were devoted to ending racism. They'd progressed beyond the point of fighting for black rights alone. They were also smart enough not to throw the fortune away on lost causes. They were hanging onto it until the right time and the right organization came along. The fortune was kept as secret as possible and they led very simple lives while managing it. Remember, they were smart. One by one, as new developments such as radio, the airplane, and later, electronics, came along, they got in on the ground floor. For instance, one of them helped launch IBM back in the 1920s."
"That would explain it, without the other stuff," said Max.
"And along in here came a new development. It wasn't practical to live like misers while hoarding a fortune that would one day be used to end world racism. To manage a modern fortune, you've got to be educated in top schools, you've got to have the correct social and financial contacts, which are often the same people. In short, you've got to move in the right circles. It's all part of the great fortunes game. A Rockefeller, a Mellon, a Rothschild, can't operate out of a sleazy flat in Harlem. At any rate, Max, I'm the current holder of the purse strings and the Anti-Racist League is being doled out all the funds I feel it can handle at this point."
Max was eyeing him. "I'll be damned," he said. "That fortune must be king-size by now."
"It is," Hamp said dryly. "And the present descendant of Pod Hampton still has the dream."
Max said, "But for Christ's sake, you shouldn't be risking yourself carrying out extreme assignments for the organization."
Hamp looked at him flatly. "I refuse to finance activities that I'm not willing to take on myself. If Indians like Tom Horse and Chicanes like Jose Zavalla are willing to take the risks they do, so is Horace Hampton."
Max nodded acceptance of that stand. "Right," he said. "I assume you want me to keep this to myself."
"If I thought you couldn't, I wouldn't have told you," Hamp said.
Max looked at his wrist chronometer again. "I suppose we ought to get going. The Synthesis committee has rented a small hall for the meeting. Only delegates are to be admitted- and their bodyguards."
As they stood, Hamp looked over at him questioningly.
Max laughed. "I assume nobody'll have bodyguards besides Roy Cos. That rule was made with him in mind. From what I hear, they average two attempts on his life a day, the poor bastard."
They headed for the door. "Yeah," Hamp growled. "Every hit man in Mercenaries, Incorporated has zeroed in on him."
They went out onto the street and headed for the Assembly Halls, a commercial building devoted to a score of rentable halls ranging from a large auditorium to small lecture rooms that would hold audiences of fifty or so.
Max was eyeing his companion strangely. "How do you know?" he said.
Hamp covered. "Just guessing. It makes sense. It's not just that insurance conglomerate that wrote the Deathwish Policy now. Poor Cos has everybody and his nephew down on him-the United Church, the government of every country in the world that fears revolutionary change, the World Club, God knows who else. He's the sorest thumb to show up for many a year."
Max said, frowning, "Why the World Club?"
The black shrugged. "They want a World State, but under their wing-not the kind he's agitating for."
As they got nearer to the building in which the meeting was to be held, the crowd began to manifest itself. There were several police cars, lights flickering above them, a police ambulance, and a contingent of uniformed police stationed across the street from the entrance to the halls. There was also one Tri-Di unit mounted atop a truck, and a couple of hundred curiosity seekers, gawking. Among them were twenty-five or so teenagers of both sexes, each carrying a child's baseball bat. These latter were dressed identically in prole clothing-sweaters and denim shorts.
Hamp said, "Not much of a turnout when you consider Cos is exposing himself. I'd think there'd be thousands."
Max said cynically, "The news media has been given orders to play down the Deathwish Wobbly. They can't ignore him entirely, news being news, and the fact that he might get burned any minute. But they're trying to ease coverage on him and especially this meeting. Every radical organization going, no matter how zany, is on Roy Cos's bandwagon, whether he wants them or not. Everybody's beginning to have second thoughts about whether basic changes ought to be made in the world's socioeconomic systems, even in the Soviet Complex and the People's Republic of China."
They came up to the entry to the halls, just as two heavy limousines slid quickly to the curb immediately before them.
"Cos," Max grunted.
Four men, Gyrojets swinging from their hips in quick-draw holsters, sprang from the first vehicle and immediately dashed back to surround the second one, each of them at a corner. Their hands rested on their guns and their eyes were never still as they scanned the crowd, not excluding the police or the Tri-Di crew. Two of the doors of the second limo opened and three more guards erupted. They immediately stationed themselves between the car and the entry, and they too had their hands on pistol butts. The teenagers with the baseball bats pressed closer, between the guards and the building entrance.
Two more men got out of the second limo and looked up and down the street, one apprehensively, the other as though resigned.
Max said, "Jesus, is that the Deathwish Wobbly? Colorless looking little guy, isn't he?"
Forry Brown was saying, "Inside. Let's get inside, damn it. I don't like to be out in the open like this."
Roy Cos grunted and they headed for the door, the guards crowding around them now.
Roy Cos's manager hesitated and looked at one of the kids with the baseball bats. "Who the hell are you?" he said.
The boy saluted with his bat. "We're the Junior Wobblies, sir. Come to help protect Comrade Cos." He wielded the bat as though it was a field marshal's baton.
Roy Cos looked at him. "Junior Wobblies?" he said. "There is no such organization. If there was, I would have heard of it."
The boy wasn't fazed. He looked to be about seventeen- man sized, but with a teenager's awkwardness. "We've organized on our own, Comrade Cos. We haven't had time to get in touch with the national organization for their approval. There's fifty of us here surrounding the building. If any of these professional mercenaries show up, we'll give 'em hell."
Ron grunted in disbelief and his hand tightened on his Gyrojet.
But Forry shook his head. "Let them alone," he said. "The Graf doesn't have any teenagers in his outfit. His need is for experienced professionals." He clapped the boy on the shoulder. "Carry on, kid."
"Yes, sir."
Hamp and Max had joined the Wobbly contingent as they entered the building, three of the guards going ahead.
Max said to Roy Cos, "We're the delegates from the Anti-Racist League."
Roy shook hands. "I suppose you know my name," he said. "And this is Forrest Brown, my business manager."
"Max Finklestein and Horace Hampton," Max introduced them.
"The meeting's on the third floor," Forry said nervously. "Let's get going."
Ron and Les got into the elevator alone and rode up, to check out the way. The other guards packed around Roy and Forry, waiting.
Roy looked over at Hamp wanly and said, "A helluva way to live."
The black nodded. The other was right. The elevator returned.
On the third floor, Ron and Les were waiting. The whole group proceeded to a hall down the corridor from which sounds were emanating. They were evidently a bit late.
Two members of the Synthesis committee were at the door checking credentials. Roy Cos, on the face of it, hardly needed them, but he went through the motions of proving himself a delegate from the Wobblies. Max presented a letter identifying himself and Horace Hampton.
The meeting was a bore, doomed to failure from its inception. The Synthesis group, which had proposed it, was obvious
ly sincere in its desire to unite all the radical elements but, as Hamp whispered to Max Finklestein, sincerity alone was dull as dishwater.
There were perhaps thirty-five present, including the Synthesis committee, the bodyguards, and various delegates. The leading representatives were those from the Wobblies, the Nihilists, the Luddites, and the Libertarians, in addition to the Anti-Racists. The other delegates were from splinter groups and some, splinters from splinters. There was even one representative from an organization evidently unknown to the others, called Technocracy, Incorporated. Going at least a century and a half back, the Technocrats opted for a world government dominated by scientists, engineers, and technicians. He wasn't quite booed down.
A table in front of the hall acted as a rostrum and each delegation was called upon to give the program of its organization. Roy spoke for the Wobblies, Max Finklestein for the Anti-Racist League, a Nils Ostrander for the Nihilists, and a blowsy woman named Bertha Holtz held forth for the Libertarians, who evidently carried high the banner of the new women's lib and that of the gays as well. After these four stars, the splinter groups each had their turn, turns that dealt almost exclusively with hair-splitting.
Hamp and Max had seated themselves next to Roy Cos and Forry Brown, the guards being strategically placed about the room, all standing with their backs to the walls. Hamp spotted Nils Ostrander, who sat next to a younger, very earnest-looking man whose suit was by far the best of any of those present. He also spotted the other person he was looking for, an athletic-looking young fellow in his early twenties. The chairman had introduced him as the sole delegate from one of the smaller organizations back East, of which Hamp had never heard, and suspected that no one else present had either.
By the time each organization had had its say, the chairman was looking distressed; indeed, downright unhappy. He said, "Did anyone else wish to speak?"
Hamp stood and said, "I wouldn't mind doing a little summing up."
He was invited to the table and stood in front of it, rather than behind.
He looked over them, sighed, and said, "This meeting is a farce and I suspect that by this time most of us realize it. It's been a farce because its purpose is unobtainable. The organizations here can't get together because they don't stand for the same things. I can't figure out what some of you do stand for. Everybody here is against something, but damn few are for anything. Cos's Wobblies at least have a program, whether or not it's valid, but the Nihilists proudly announce that they haven't. All they want to do is tear down the present social system without having anything definite to replace it. The Libertarians want to reform the present Welfare State by granting more GAS for all proles, by pushing through still further rights for women and gays. They aren't interested in complete change, just reform. The Luddites want to turn the wheels of progress backwards. They want to destroy modern technology and return to the days before automation and computerization, when all of the labor force was needed in production, distribution, and services. The trouble is that you can't uninvent things any more than you can unscramble eggs. We of the Anti-Racist League have only one thing in common with the Luddites: our interest isn't in overthrowing
People's Capitalism and neither is theirs. Neither is it the interest of the Libertarians. In fact, in the ranks of anti-racists are some who are wealthy and have an interest in maintaining the status quo, save on the racial question. You see, none of us stands for the same thing. We can't unite."
The audience stirred, some muttering among themselves.
Nils Ostrander, the delegate from the Nihilists, was on his feet angrily. "That's defeatism! Quite a few of us stand for the complete dismemberment of the welfare state. We ought to get together to pull this rotten system down."
More mutterings and still more agitation. The saturnine Max Finklestein was looking at his companion in amusement.
Hamp said deliberately, "I've done a lot of wondering about the Nihilists. You are a continuation of the terrorists of the late 20th century, such as the Symbiosis Army here in the States, and the Sekigun, the so-called Red Army of Japan, and similar groups in Germany and Italy. Anti-establishment, but pro-what? And, given the viewpoint of those who opt for the status quo, you serve a very definite need. Whether you want to be or not, you serve as agents provocateurs. The assassinations and kidnappings laid at your door serve to turn sincere people of good will away from any movement that proclaims the need for fundamental change. People are repelled by what you do in the name of radicalism, which puts a chip on their shoulders about all revolutionary groups- including the Wobblies, who foreswear force and violence and want to make their changes through legal means. In short, you're the kiss of death to all the movements represented here tonight. If there was no such organization as the Nihilists, it would be to the interest of such outfits as the United Church, the IABI, the World Club and, for that matter, Mercenaries, Incorporated, to start one. They use you to louse up the image of anybody advocating change."
"That's a lie!" Ostrander yelled in indignation.
"Is it?" the black said emptily. "Let me give an example. Recently, the multimillionaire World Club man, Harold Dunninger, managed to get himself on the shitlist of the United Church, as well as in the bad graces of some of the higher-echelon members of the World Club. Names? Harrington Chase, Moyer of the IABI, and Lothar von Brandenburg, the Graf, who was anxious to take the place scheduled for
Dunninger in the top ranks of the World Club. Obviously it wouldn't do for Dunninger to be eliminated by one of the Graf's men. So the job was delegated to the Nihilists and the blame put on them."
"That's a lie, you bastard!"
"I$o, it isn't, Ostrander. You engineered it yourself. You're a mole in the Nihilists, an agent of the Graf."
The Nihilist delegate was gaping at him, his face white, only partially in anger. His younger companion seated next to him was eyeing him strangely.
Hamp shrugged in contempt. "You pretended it was a kidnapping to raise funds for your organization but you put the ransom so high there was no chance of it being met. Then you killed him, per orders of the Graf. I don't have the proof with me here tonight, but now that I've made the charge, I have no doubt that your fellow Nihilists will look into the matter."
The black flicked a hand at the chairman to indicate that he was through and returned to his chair.
Forty Brown looked at him, amusement on his wizened face. "You really throw the shit in the fan, don't you?"
Roy Cos was looking thoughtful. "You know," he said, "I think you're right, Hamp. I've often wondered about what motivates those Nihilists. They're just too far around the bend to be true."
Hamp's talk had been the finish of the meeting. It broke up into squabbles, everybody standing as they argued.
Max said mildly, "What happened to our friend, Nils Ostrander?"
Billy Tucker had come up, worried about the way the gathering was now milling around. He said, "I just saw him light out, arguing with that kid with him. Shouldn't we get out of here?"
Hamp said to Roy, "I'd like to talk to you a little more. Could it be arranged?"
Roy Cos said, "We're staying in a suite at the Drake, just for the night. Why don't you come over with us?"
"Right," Hamp told him. "But just a minute. I want to say something to someone here."
"Hurry it up," Forry Brown told him, scowling. "I don't like Roy to be exposed to so many people for so long, and we've still got to ran the gauntlet in the street. By this time the word's probably gotten around that the Deathwish Wobbly is inside this building and there might be a few thousand rubberneckers out there, with a few of the Graf's men sprinkled among them."
Hamp made his way across the room and confronted one of the delegates, who looked as though he was preparing to leave.
Hamp said, looking directly into the man's eyes, "Hello, Pinell. I understand you're looking for me."
The other was too young to be very adept at covering but he tried. He said, "The name's Merson and I
represent."
"Your name's Franklin Pinell," Jerry interrupted flatly, "and you were sent by the Graf and Peter Windsor to hit me. You're the son of the late Buck Pinell, co-founder of Mercenaries, Incorporated, who has an account amounting to some forty-five million pseudo-dollars in a bank in Berne."
Dean Ing & Mack Reynolds Page 33
