"At that time there was no valid organization putting up such a fight. He thought the Abolitionists were a bunch of impractical do-gooders, a bunch of starry-eyed whiteys who, beneath it all, believed that blacks really were inferior, and should be pampered like children by those who were good of heart, rather than being exploited as slaves. He continued to invest the money; railroads, mainly. When he died, both the securities and the dream went to his oldest son who, if anything, was even more solidly anti-racist than the old man. He managed the investments—some land in the so-called Great American Desert really paid off—but didn't spend much of it on himself. During his lifetime the Civil War took place, but it didn't take any genius to see that the freed blacks weren't much better off than they had been as slaves. And there was still no organization that seemed fit to turn the money over to. Those were the boom times of industrialization, and the money was still largely in railroads. It grew. It grew still more under his son. And along here somewhere, it became obvious that not spending any of it no longer made sense. The fortune needed full-time management—office employees and so forth. The next son dropped railroads and went into automobiles."
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."