by Dean Ing
"Fine," Forry said. "But whatever you call it, most of you won't like it."
"Why?"
"Because you all have a different picture of it. Vegetarians will picture the future society as one in which no meat will be eaten. Prohibitionists expect the end of booze but a good Italian radical would be aghast at the idea that wine and good food, including meat, would be taboo. Nudists expect nudism, puritans expect purity—in petticoats, at that. Serious straight-laced Wobblies expect the world of the future to be very serious and very efficient, but the easygoing ones look forward to a frivolous, bang-up time for everybody. And the differences on the sex question are going to be wild! I'll bet the march toward complete promiscuity will continue but I've noted that most of the Wobblies I've met are on the conservative side."
Roy sighed once again and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Wobblies don't believe that establishing our social system will solve all problems. We only contend that it will solve a good many of the most pressing problems."
Forry grunted and rubbed along his wisp of a mustache with a thumbnail. "I wish I could smoke in this flying sardine can," he said. "What the hell ever happened to socialism? I don't believe I've even heard the word for years."
"Scientific socialism stopped being scientific about a century and a half ago," Roy told him. "It got to the point where everybody was called socialist, from Roosevelt to Hitler. Sweden was socialist. So was Russia, not to speak of England, which still had a royal family left over from feudalism. It stopped making sense. The only group in the States that would have been called socialists are the Libertarians."
"What do they want, as compared to you Wobblies?"
"To reform People's Capitalism, or Meritocracy. We want to end it and establish a new system. They want more GAS for everybody, better education, better everything. They're reformers, not revolutionaries." He looked out the small porthole. "Hey, we're coming in." Then, in a lower voice: "Did you notice that the man who was following us is on our shuttle?"
"I noticed."
They walked down the shuttle's ladder, their small luggage in hand, and headed for the customs hall. Customs was the merest of formalities; the twelve packs of illegal cigarettes went through unseen.
Passed by customs, they headed for the exit and were immediately accosted by two young men, one in prole garments, the other in a fairly presentable sportsman's garb. The prole was big and square and on the rugged side, the other was trimmer. Both were in their early twenties and both wore grim expressions.
Forry looked at them warily but Roy said, smiling and extending his hand, "Hi, Ron. Hi, Les. I knew you'd make it." As usual, a smile worked wonders on the face of the
Wobbly organizer. "Forry, these are the Wobblies I told you about. Ronald Ellison, Lester Bates, meet Forrest Brown."
Forry nodded as he shook. "Glad to see you fellas. We're being followed."
"I spotted him," the husky youth, Ron, said. "I thought this contract thing didn't start until tomorrow morning."
Forry said, "It starts at midnight. But meanwhile they'll be wanting to know where Roy is going, where he'll be when the contract does go into effect. Did you get a car?"
Les, the better dressed one, nodded. "Right."
They left the administrative building and started out into the large parking area.
"Where's the car?" Forry said.
"Not in the parking lot," Ron" told him. "We thought there might be somebody waiting for you to land. Just follow me."
Mystified, Roy and Forry let the other two lead the way. They walked to the far end of the shuttleport's administration building, then entered a narrow alley between it and a huge hangar. The drab narrowness gave the passage a sinister quality.
The little ex-newsman said in protest, "What the hell?" He looked at their two guides suspiciously and then at Roy.
Roy said, "It's all right. If they say it's okay, then it is. Lead on, Les."
They hadn't gone fifty feet down the deserted alley before two others entered it. One of them was the unknown who had tailed them from the time they had left the c^ices of Oliver Brett-James in Nassau. The other was a stranger. They were pretending to be in deep discussion, as if unaware of the four ahead of them in the narrow alleyway.
Les, Ron, Roy, and Forry continued on their course, the newsman nervous about their followers.
And then two more huskies entered the alley behind those followers.
Ron said, with grim satisfaction, "Here we go." He and Les turned and watched expectantly as though ready to return.
The need didn't materialize. The action that took place was brutal and brief. One of the new arrivals had a short truncheon in his right hand; the other seemed to have something metallic over the knuckles of his right fist. With no prelimi-naries whatever, they attacked. In fifteen seconds, the two who had been following Roy Cos were down on the alley floor, arms over their heads in a futile attempt to protect themselves. The newcomers lashed into them with heavy shoes, kicking at ribs, stomachs, and kidneys.
"Jesus," Ron said in admiration. "If Billy doesn't look out he's going to kill those funkers."
"Couldn't happen to nicer guys," Les growled.
Forry looked over at Roy Cos. "You are an organizer," he said in awe.
Roy said, "I have my moments."
Leaving their unconscious victims behind, the two additional guards came up, grinning as though embarrassed.
The first one said, "If either of those bastards are out of the hospital in less than two weeks, I'll turn in my merit badge in mugging."
Roy said, "Forrest Brown, meet Richard Samuelson and Billy Tucker."
Forry said, even as he shooF, "You gentlemen take your work seriously, don't you?"
Dick Samuelson and Billy Tucker were in the same age group as Ron and Les, both six-footers, both around two hundred pounds. They greeted Roy Cos warmly after they shook hands with the little newsman.
"Holy smog," Forry muttered. "If all you Wobblies are like this, why didn't you put over your damned revolution years ago? Let's get out of here before somebody else shows up."
The six of them hurried on up the alley.
"Glad I made it in time," Billy said. "I had to come all the way from Denver. Had a meet there."
Forry looked at him. "What kind of a meet?"
"Wrestling."
The alley debouched on a small parking area. For all but a few, private cars were a luxury.
They came up to the limousine Ron indicated, and Forry began to get into the driver's seat, saying, "I'm the only one who knows where we're going to ground."
But Roy shook his head. "Les is a racing driver," he said simply.
The ex-newsman looked at Les Bates thoughtfully and then nodded. "Fine," he said, getting into the back seat instead. "Get out on the highway and turn right, Les." He said to Billy, "I saw you give those two characters in the alley a quick frisk after they passed out. Did you get anything?"
"A shooter," Billy said, satisfaction in his voice.
"Well, as soon as we get out into the countryside, you ought to ditch it. We can't afford to be found by the police with an unlicensed gun. If they coop Roy up in some banger, the Graf's men will figure out how to get to him within hours. If any of the rest of your boys are heeled, think about that."
They looked at him respectfully even as Les, obviously expert at the wheel, took them out onto the highway. Dick Samuelson said, "Yes, sir," meek as a mouse, and brought out a compact black automatic, holding it in a gloved hand to be tossed out a window.
Billy dipped his hand into the side pocket of his prole denim jacket reluctantly and came out with a Gyrojet pistol. "It's a beauty," he said with regret. "Whoever those cloddies were, they didn't skimp on equipment."
"They're probably employees of the Graf," Forry said sourly.
Dick Samuelson hissed between his teeth. "Then Roy wasn't just whistlin' Dixie when he said that most likely we'd be in thick soup, eh? I've heard about the Graf."
R
on said, "There's a car behind. I think it's a tail."
Les grinned gently and snicked his gear selector. "I picked out this pile of iron myself," he said. "Belt up, boys."
Billy said to Forry, "You still think we ought to toss these shooters out?"
"Absolutely," the newsman said. "The first time we turn a comer, so they can't see you do it. For all we know, they're police. We don't want to take on a carload of fuzzies."
"Okay," Billy said. "Get our asses out of here, Les. Graf's men or fuzzies, they're sure to be heeled."
Shaking their pursuers was child's play for Lester Bates. He was not only a racing driver but a very smooth one, powering through the apex of every turn, using every inch of the road.
It was only after there could be no doubt that they had lost their pursuers that Les turned to Forry. "Where do you want to go?"
Forry gave directions and then, after a time, said, "That tavern, there. Pull in behind it."
Roy looked at him. "You don't mean we're hiding out in a roadside bar?"
The little man grunted amusement. "Hardly. That's just where we drop this car. You know what's happened by this time? Whoever was following us has noted our license number and relayed it to either the police or some of their own organization. So we switch. I have a car stashed here; the owner's an old drinking buddy who can keep his mouth shut."
Dick Samuelson looked over at him as they pulled into the parking area. "Even if the Graf's hit men are working him over?"
"No, not then," Forry admitted, drawing deeply on his cigarette. "But Ted doesn't know enough to tell them anything. His instructions are to give them the truth. We left a hovercar here and later picked it up, leaving this one in its place."
They pulled up beside the vehicle he indicated. Les looked at it questioningly. He said, "It has no license plates. That'll make it conspicuous."
Forry nodded. "On purpose. Ted couldn't tell anybody what the numbers were, even if he wanted to. We'll put the plates on shortly, down the road a bit."
Continually checking to see whether they had picked up new pursuers, they finally made it to their destination. It was an old house on the beach to the south of Miami, fairly well isolated. Undoubtedly, it had once been the winter home of a wealthy northerner. Forry had Les Bates back the car into the garage, so that it would be hidden from view but poised for escape.
The six of them went into the rambling one-story villa. Forry led the way to the living room. Roy looked about him. "How'd you manage this?"
Forry said, "I rented it for a week, using my international credit card. I've got a few thousand saved up. We won't use your million a day until after we've made our initial play. We don't want them to zero in on us at this stage."
They all found seats in comfort chairs or on couches. Ron said, on edge, "What happens now?"
Forry said, "In a minute, one of you go up to the sundeck on the roof as a sentry. But I want to talk to you first, before the others get here."
"What others?" Roy said.
"You'll see," Forry told him. He looked around at Ron, Les, Dick, and Billy, ran his tongue thoughtfully over his gray lower lip, and said, "The question becomes, how do Roy and I know we can trust you? I think his idea of getting Wobbly members to act as his bodyguard, rather than professionals, was a good one. In the past, Deathwish Policyholders have hired professionals. Often they wound up getting hit by their own guards, who were either bribed by the Graf's men, or were already on his payroll. No offense intended, but how can we know that one of you can't be gotten to, if the bribe's big enough?"
Silence. When Roy spoke, his voice carried rock-solid confidence. "Forry," he said, "it's a thing you wouldn't know about. All of these boys are at least third-generation Wobblies. They got their ethics at grandpa's knee."
"Two of my great-grandparents, as well," Les said quietly.
Roy continued, "I've know Les, Ron, Billy, and Dick all of their lives. Their parents are personal friends. When I was Billy's age, I lived next door to his folks. I've changed his diapers. You see, Forry, being a radical becomes a way of life. Practically all of your family's friends are Wobblies. You play with the children of other Wobbly families. Your fun is mostly picnics or dances or other entertainments thrown to raise funds for the movement. You attend meetings with your parents before you're old enough to understand what the hell that sweaty, sincere guy with the microphone is talking about. When you're old enough to notice girls, the ones you can approach easiest are Wobblies themselves, probably one of the girls you grew up with. If you have children, they're raised in the same tradition, a sort of political ghetto. The radical movement in the United States started in 1877 with the socialistic Labor Party. The Wobbly movement got going in 1905, mostly with socialists. Do you know how many generations ago that was?
"Think of it! Eight generations of us. Oh, new recruits do come in; not many, I admit. And sometimes Wobblies drop out and stay out. But largely our membership consists of people raised in the radical tradition. Forry," he chuckled, "I'm beginning to suspect we're starting to breed true. Young fellows like these four are born Wobblies."
"There goes your credibility," Forry growled. "Just kidding, of course. But I selected these four because they're third-or-more-generation revolutionists and all personal friends of mine, like their parents before them. If I can't trust them, I don't give a damn how soon they kill me."
"Okay, okay." Forry Brown looked around at the four, one by one. They all wore expressions of faint embarrassment, with pride shining through.
Roy said, "Now I've got a question. Back in Nassau, you asked Oliver Brett-James how big the benefits to his company were when I die, and how much the daily premiums he had to pay were. Why did you want to know?"
Forry brought a pack of his smuggled cigarettes from a pocket and took his time lighting up. He said finally, "I wanted to know how much time we had before his company started hurting. As of midnight tonight, I start earning my way. Your publicity starts tomorrow. I've already gotten in touch with my contacts in Tri-Di news. They're all going to broadcast the story of the Wobbly who took out a Deathwish Policy so that he'd acquire the credit needed to spread his message. Oh yes, tomorrow I start earning my ten thousand pseudo-dollars a day. The longer I keep you alive, the longer I keep my job. It stops the moment you do." Les blurted, "Ten thousand a day!" Forry spread his hands. "Why not? There's a personal risk. Suppose I get into the line of fire when somebody takes a shot at Roy? Or suppose somebody heaves a bomb that gets all of us? Besides, what is ten thousand to Roy? He has a million on tap every day. He can afford to keep his hired help happy. By the way, you four bodyguards will each get ten thousand daily."
Dick Samuelson growled, "You're one thing, but we didn't get into this for money. We don't want any pay."
Roy Cos shook his head at that. He said, "No. Forry's right, Dick. There's nothing in that contract that says I can't have a bodyguard and pay him as much as he's worth. I'm not allowed to make donations to organizations—political, religious, or whatever. But you can squirrel your wages away. When I've finally had it, you boys can contribute as much to the movement as you like. If I last long enough, you'll be rich. I don't believe I've ever known a rich Wobbly. You'll be in a position to make the biggest donations to the organization ever.''
An identity screen bell rang from somewhere and all stiffened.
"That's probably Mary Ann," Forry said, getting up. "But we should have posted a sentry before this. How about one of you fellows going up onto the roof? Make your own arrangements; I'd suggest a two-hour shift."
"Okay. I'll take the first shift," Billy said, standing too.
With Ron going along, just for caution, Forry went to the front door of the villa and checked the screen. He seemed to be satisfied.
The woman who came through looked every inch the office worker. A little on the plain side, though with a comfortably nice figure, she was neatly efficient in appearance, conservatively dressed, and wore no makeup whatever. She was in h
er late thirties and carried an attache case.
"Good evening, Forrest," she said.
"Forry," he told her. "We're going to be seeing a good deal of each other under rather hectic circumstances in the days to come. No need, nor time for formality. Did you bring your things?''
"They're out in the car I rented," she said. "It's automated, so we can return it to the agency without any difficulty."
"This is Ron Ellison," he told her. "One of the team. He'll get your bags and you can pick out a room for yourself. Meanwhile, come on back and meet the rest."
While Ron went for her luggage, Forry and the newcomer went to the living room. The men stood to be introduced and Forry did the honors.
Roy said, "Isn't there a drink around here?"
Forry had stocked a fairly good bar. While Les was making the drinks, Forry told the Wobbly organizer, "I've known Mary Ann Elwyn for years. She's a damn good secretary. Her pay will be the same as everybody else's—ten thousand a day." He smiled a small smile as she gasped. "Enough to keep her honest, we'll hope. If we last the week out, she'll have enough to retire. Seventy thousand pseudo-dollars, on top of her GAS, could equal a nice standard of living. If you last for more than a week, each day adds another ten thousand to her nest egg."
Roy Cos was frowning. He said in complaint, "Forry, what the hell do I need with a secretary?" He sent his eyes over to the young woman. "Not that I have anything against you."
"Are you kidding?" Forry said to him. "When this thing starts, you won't even be able to handle your mail. If you last the first week out, she'll be needing stenographers to help her."
"I'm highly experienced, Mr. Cos," Mary Ann said briskly. "Forry has explained the situation to me and my duties. I'm not too keen on the physical danger, but—well, ten thousand pseudo-dollars a day…"she hesitated for a moment, then, "… buys me a lot of courage."
