Bat Hardin was on friendly enough terms with the retired corporation manager but found no real warmth in the man. In theory, Dean Armanruder dabbled in painting, but in actuality such real professionals as Diana Sward had to repress their shudders if they were unlucky enough to see his latest product.
Armanruder was a phenomenon that has been known to the art colony down through the ages, the outsider who loves to associate with Bohemians#longdash#whatever a Bohemian is, Bat thought sourly.
But then again, who was he to talk? He himself, no artist, had come to New Woodstock to enjoy the Bohemian atmosphere and to associate with artists such as Diana Sward and Jim Blake, and aspiring writers such as Ferd Zogbaum. The only difference between him and Dean Armanruder was that he, Bat Hardin, lived on his Negative Income Tax, while Armanruder probably had to pay enough taxes to support a round number of such as Bat Hardin.
The Armanruder home was one of the few in New Woodstock that boasted an identity screen in the door. Bat activated it and stood there waiting for the door to open.
It did and Armanruder’s voice came through the screen at the same moment. “Come in, Hardin. Good evening. We’re in the salon.”
“Good evening,” Bat said and entered and made his way down the short corridor to where Dean Armanruder and his secretary, Nadine Paskov, were relaxing before the Tri-Di screen which was built into the end wall of the room, taking up most of it. It was the largest screen in New Woodstock and inwardly Bat Hardin was of the opinion that it was too damn large since the Armanruder salon wasn’t big enough for you to get far away enough to view it most effectively.
When set up, the mobile mansion had a second floor which telescoped down into the bottom one when underway. The top floor was devoted to sleeping quarters, dressing rooms, closets and baths. Bat had never seen it. The ground floor was living quarters, library, dining room, a surprisingly extensive kitchen for a mobile home, storage space, a large office and a smaller one for Miss Paskov. Nadine Paskov was really a secretary though some snide elements in the colony preferred to doubt that. She also obviously doubled as Dean Armanruder’s mistress, and slept around with just about anybody else in New Woodstock who wore pants. She was possibly the most beautiful woman in town, unless Diana Sward held that honor. The difference between Di and Nadine was largely grooming; the latter’s every pore was in place and the former always looked like a slob so far as makeup and dress were concerned. However, for his money Bat Hardin would take the artist any day.
Dean Armanruder touched a control on the arm of his overgrown chair and the lights went up sufficiently for them to see each other with more ease.
“Sit down, Hardin,” he said. “Could I have Manuel bring you a drink?” He touched another control.
That was the Armanruder style. No automatic bar for him nor even an old-fashioned one which he would have to operate himself. Of course not. When he wanted a drink he didn’t stir from his chair, even though the beverage in question was only a half-dozen steps away. No, he summoned Manuel who was seemingly on duty twenty-four hours a day and could really rest only when his boss was asleep.
Cool it, cool it, Bat told himself. What business of his was it? Armanruder had earned his comforts. You didn’t become manager of a corporation these days because your father owned most of the stock. The wealthy might inherit a concern but few were foolish enough to attempt to operate it themselves. If they did there was a good chance of disaster. You won to the top these days through merit. Armanruder obviously had plenty of it, the type of merit that counted in their ultra-competitive society.
Bat took a chair but said, “No thanks. I’m going to be up half the night and a drink would probably make me that much more groggy.” He nodded to Nadine Paskov, ever the beauty queen, who this evening wore one of the new Cretan Revival gowns, the breasts bared, the nipples painted, red. She looked as though bored by his arrival. He said, “Good evening, Miss Paskov.”
“Hi Bat,” she said, disinterestedly. She finished the drink in her highball glass.
Manuel entered but for the moment Dean Armanruder ignored him. The small, dark-complexioned servant wore a white jacket now. During the day, while driving one of the Armanruder units, he wore a dark suit and a chauffeur’s cap.
Armanruder said to Bat, “How do you mean, you’ll be up tonight?”
Bat told him the day’s developments and the older man was obviously disturbed. “Why in the world did you two have to go into town?”
“I told you that. We sensed a sullen quality and wanted to check up on it. We certainly weren’t looking for trouble and would have avoided it if we could.”
“From what you said, that ne’er-do-well, young Zogbaum, precipitated the fight.”
“Not really. You could feel it in the air. Had we known, of course, we wouldn’t have gone into town. But we didn’t. I don’t think it’s too important, especially since we’ll be pulling out tomorrow. Nevertheless, it won’t hurt for a couple of us to patrol the town tonight.”
“I suppose so,” the other said, then looked at his butler cum chauffeur. “Two more of the same for Miss Paskov and me, Manuel. Mr. Hardin isn’t drinking.”
“Yes, sir.” The Spanish American turned to go. If Bat had it correctly, Manuel and his wife, Concha, had come from New Mexico or Arizona. Their Spanish would be invaluable on this move down to South America.
Bat looked after the slightly built servant and must have had an element of questioning on his face.
Dean Armanruder misunderstood it. He said, “You’re wondering why Manuel would take a job like this in these days of NIT? It’s a fact that servants are few indeed in the States any more. Only the truly wealthy can afford them. But it’s not that with Manuel and Concha; I pay them little more than they would get in the way of NIT.”
Bat Hardin was mildly surprised at the other. What business was it of Bat’s?
Armanruder chuckled and said, “Poor Manuel is over a barrel. He’s not eligible for NIT.”
“Oh? I was under the impression that he was an American citizen.”
Armanruder chuckled again. “Yes. But not all citizens are eligible for NIT. You see, friend Manuel was caught at falsifying his income tax. He and his wife were collecting their NIT but working on the side to augment their fortunes. Very, very bad. When the computers check you out and catch you, you’re no longer eligible for NIT and in this day and age of unemployment you have your work cut out finding a position.”
Bat said, “Actually, that wasn’t what I was thinking, though. The thought went through my mind, there but for luck go you or I.”
Nadine Paskov said in bored impatience, “Oh, good heavens.”
But Armanruder shook his head. “Speak for yourself, perhaps, Hardin, but not for me. Luck is not involved. Manuel Chauvez and I come from different strata in society. It was fated that he occupy his position and I, mine. At his birth he was slated to be a servant or the equivalent, I to be among the top one percent of our system.”
He settled back in his chair, made a dome of his fingers and his tone became slightly pompous. “The fact of the matter is, Hardin, that our present Meritocracy doesn’t differ as much as all that from previous socio-economic systems. Down through recorded history the real developments of the human race have been made by about one percent of the population.