Выбрать главу

There were few questions. Roy had been hoping for one or more from the note-taker in the back row. You could usually tell the extent of a newcomer's real interest by his questions.

Following the meeting, while the balance of the small audience drifted from the hall, the membership gathered around to shake his hand and congratulate him. As a National Organizer, he was used to the plaudits of his fellows who were unable to express themselves in public speaking. So far as he was concerned, the meeting was a flop and he could see that the chairman felt the same way. Not even the little stranger in the rear had remained.

When the other members had gone their way, the chairman asked Roy if he'd like to come home with him for pseudo-coffee and talk. He was the local Group Organizer, a good man, but Roy was aware of the fact that the man's wife was rabidly against the Wobblies, in fact was a militant member of the United Church who considered all radicals slated for hell. Besides, Roy Cos was emotionally exhausted. His depression had been growing over a period of weeks.

"No thanks, Jim," he said. "I think I'll get on to bed. I have to take the vac tube to Newark tomorrow for another meeting. And you know Newark. The membership there is so apathetic they probably haven't gotten around to hiring a hall. I'll wind up on a soapbox in the park and damned few people are out in the parks anymore."

"Yeah," Jim said. "Only those who have no place else to go and screw. Well, see you on your next trip around, Comrade."

Roy said wearily, "Jim, for God's sake: please, please, don't call me comrade. I hate the word. If you use it, ninety-nine people out of a hundred think you're a Euro communist, or some other reactionary bastard."

They separated at the door and Roy Cos headed for his third-class hotel. His mind was empty.

The streets were deserted as usual at this time of night, especially of the few vehicles that were allowed surface traffic. He was surprised when two figures materialized to either side of him and he could hear the footsteps of a third close behind him. His first inclination was to think it was three of the organization members who happened to be going in his direction.

The voice of the one to his right disillusioned him on that score. It snarled, "We didn't like what you had to say, chum-pal."

Roy's mind raced for options, but found none. He continued to stroll at the same speed. "Sorry," he said. "It was what I believe." He had been through this sort of thing before. He expected a beating. Probably not bad enough to hospitalize him, this time, since they didn't seem particularly heated up, but probably enough of a working over to keep him from the Newark meeting.

The other said, "We reckon you need a little lesson in Americanism."

"Your version of…" Roy began, but was interrupted by a heavy blow from the man on his left, then another in his back, even as he reeled sideways.

Neither blow was crippling, but between them, they threw him against the wall of the decrepit building, so that he banged his head against the bricks. Stars flashed before his eyes, red heat bloomed in his brain, and he began to fall. The pain was such that he hardly felt the kick in his side. The three were surging in, babbling incoherently about their anger, their frustrations, their hate of the nonconformist. All three were younger and in all probability in better shape than he. His chances of meaningful resistance were all but nil. He struggled to bring his arms up over his head, unable to restrain a groan of pain—though he tried.

More kicks came. They weren't pros and the beating was less damaging than it might have been. His best bet was to wait it out, curling into a fetal crouch to guard his head and groin.

But then came a shout and a pounding of feet. "Halt! Get away from that man! Halt or I'll fire!"

Cursing in surprise, the three were off in as many directions.

Panting, he staggered erect and tried to assess the damages. Except for bruises, there weren't any. His three assailants hadn't had the time for a complete mauling. He brushed at his street-grimed clothing with shaking hands.

He looked around. Down the avenue he heard another order to halt but, unless his rescuer was actually willing to shoot, he wasn't going to have much luck.

Only a few doors down was the entrance to a prole autobar. He staggered toward it, still brushing his jacket. Just before he entered, he straightened up as best he could, but the attempt was needless. The sorry little bistro was empty of customers.

He fumbled himself into a chair at the first table he could get to and for a time sat there, catching his breath. For all he knew, the police officer would return and pick him up on general principles, and before he could make adequate explanations, he might wind up in the banger. He might even louse up his schedule and miss the Newark meeting.

He brought forth his Universal Credit Card, put it into the table payment slot, and dialed a syntho-beer. He knew that his monthly GAS credits were low and there were several days to go before next month's deposit was credited to his account, but he needed that drink. Largely, national organizers of the Wobblies had to be self-supporting. The membership made minor contributions to the National Fund, but since they were all on GAS themselves and needed their credits for their own survival, it couldn't be much.

The beer had come and he had taken his initial swallow before the newcomer entered the autobar, looked around, and then descended on his table.

Roy Cos brought his gaze up. He had expected a uniform, but the other was in ordinary garb. Then Roy recognized him. He was the note-taking stranger.

The gray-faced man couldn't have weighed more than fifty kilos. He wore a wispy mustache, in a day when facial hair was long out of style, and his faded eyes had a perpetual squint. He slid into the chair opposite Roy.

Roy said, in resignation, "I thought you were an IABI man. But thanks, anyway. You came up like the Seventh cavalry rescuing the wagon train."

"Who, me?" the other said in false innocence, dialing for a drink. He looked at Roy's beer. "You look as though you could use something stronger than that. How about a whiskey?"

"Can't afford it. You mean you're not a cop?"

"No, I'm a reporter. And I can afford it." He dialed for the whiskey, his own credit card in the table slot.

Roy eyed him. "What was all that about, 'Halt, or I fire'?"

The other grunted sour amusement and fished a package of cigarettes from a side pocket. "If I'd shouted, 'Halt or I'll write,' they'd be kicking my butt right now. I figured they'd hardly hang around demanding to see my badge."

He stuck a smoke into his thin pale mouth and lit it with a lighter. To Roy's surprise, it wasn't marijuana, but tobacco. You couldn't mistake the odor of this forbidden narcotic.

Roy said, "Well, thanks again. You think you ought to be smoking like that in a public place?"

"There's nobody here but us. What happened?"

"You know as much about it as I do. I suppose it was those three hecklers. Who in the hell are you?"

The other extended a scrawny hand. "Forrest Brown. Call me Forry. I'm from the local area Tri-Di news—stuff that you don't get on the national networks."

As they shook hands, Roy said, "You're a news commentator?"

Brown shook his head. The smoke drifted up his face from the cigarette that drooped in his mouth, making him squint still more.

"Just a leg man. Oh, I go on video occasionally, when one of the regular men is off. But I never reached commentator level. I suppose I wasn't pretty enough. You've got to project personality to hit commentator level."

The center of the table had sunk and returned with the whiskey. Roy took a glass, still shaky, and said in defiance, "Here's to the revolution," and knocked it all back.