“Discoveries, inventions, breakthroughs, new arts and sciences, the things that count in the advancing of the race. Under all social systems, not just Meritocracy, the elite came to the top and directed, planned or developed.”
Bat was feeling perverse. He said sourly, “Or, at least, they could claim they were and who was in a position to argue?”
The older man shook a finger at him negatively. “No, you’re incorrect. Hardin, the human race has been on Earth for something like a million years. Up until about eight thousand years ago it progressed very slowly indeed under a system of what you might call primitive communism, community ownership of such property as existed and largely democratic institutions based on family and clan. It wasn’t until the advent of class divided society and private ownership of the means of production that the race began to forge ahead. Obviously, no single person invented the institution of chattel slavery but if one had he should have been listed as one of the greatest benefactors the race has had.”
Bat Hardin’s eyebrows went up but he let the other proceed.
Armanruder went on pontifically. “If anyone was to have the leisure time#longdash#leisure from primary labor, that is#longdash#to develop the sciences and arts, it meant that the overwhelming majority of people in a society must sacrifice themselves so that a small minority could be free. Say, five percent of the population. And that five percent must be the elite, and was. But even among them, the slave-owning class, only about one percent made the great advances.”
“Once again,” Bat said dryly, “how do you know they were really elite, that they had the best brains and abilities?”
The former corporation manager shook his finger again. “Because if they weren’t, the true elite emerged and displaced them.”
“Always?”
“Always. Under the older socio-economic systems, slavery, feudalism, classical capitalism, it might take time, but sooner or later those with the true abilities took command.” He thought about it for a moment, then added, “Admittedly, it sometimes took quite a while to depose the incapable and you usually had to shoot them out. No ruling class or caste will give up its position of power and wealth without resistance. That’s one point where the Meritocracy is superior over past systems.”
“How do you mean?” Bat said. He was antagonized by the other’s pomposity but the subject fascinated him, since it struck so near to home.
The older man said, “Under the Meritocracy you seek and reach your level. It’s a system that fits the human race because it’s one that is stratified, because people are. It’s a highly disciplined society, as the universe is. It’s a society in which individuals can freely move from one level to another but only by their own abilities. Nothing counts except your own individual achievements.”
“Oh, Lord, all this is boring me spitless,” Nadine Paskov said.
Bat Hardin came to his feet. He had a few arguments in his mind but he said, “I should be getting on my rounds.” He added wryly, “I suppose the manner in which we do the little governing that is needed in these mobile towns is the last of the old time democracy.”
Armanruder chuckled. “Yes. And do you see who our fellow townsmen elected to the executive committee? We who, before retirement, were most successful in our positions in society. You don’t find men like your impetuous friend Zogbaum on the executive committee.”
VII
As Bat Hardin walked back to his own home, with the intention of getting a little sleep before relieving Al Castro, he muttered, “No. And you don’t see me on the executive committee either.”
It came to him that high intelligence wasn’t the only requirement to get to the top in this each-man-for-himself-and-the-devil-take-the-hindmost world. You had to have the push and aggression of a Dean Armanruder. A lazy genius isn’t one. When Armanruder had first come to the mobile art colony, he had begun operating, volunteering his services, taking over responsibilities. Most of the town’s members did a minimum of participating in its required community work. Oh, there were few complete shirkers but the average citizen was too taken up with his art work, his family, the maintenance of his mobile home, to find time for lengthy committee meetings, the handling of accounts, the making of decisions involving the community.
Within a month, Dean Armanruder had been elected to the executive committee and within two months was dominating it. Not that Bat Hardin was complaining. The other was efficient, intelligent, farseeing. It was seldom that he took a stand with which Bat disagreed. Had New Woodstock been under a town manager, as was the case with many of the larger mobile towns and cities, Bat’s vote would have gone for Dean Armanruder.
He relieved Al Castro at ten o’clock and patrolled the town with Luke Robertson, a tall, lanky, slow-moving fellow who did sculpturing in iron and who seemed to have an inordinate affection for Bat Hardin, as did his wife, for that matter. Bat wasn’t quite sure why. But when somebody likes you, for whatever reason, you have a tendency to like him in return. In actuality, Bat had to admit that he didn’t appreciate Luke’s work, in fact, it was exactly the sort of abstract, meaningless#longdash#to Bat Hardin#longdash#sort of thing that he actively disliked. Bat’s tastes went to the representational art forms, even free verse left him with a taste in his mouth. Of course, he had never mentioned that to Luke Robertson.
Al Castro and young Tom Benton had reported their four-hour watch uneventful. They had immediately#longdash#Al yawning mightily#longdash#taken off for their respective homes as soon as their relief had taken over.
The hours between ten and two were equally free of any signs of disgruntled locals. In fact, Bat was beginning to wonder if he hadn’t made a fool of himself by taking these precautions.
Al and Tom relieved him and Luke again at two, and having copied Al’s contagious yawn, Bat made his way back to his trailer. In the living room, he scowled momentarily at his bar. But no, the hell with it. Tomorrow was going to be one long day and he couldn’t afford to be even a bit woozy.
He turned out the light and began unbuttoning his shirt as he made his way back to the bedroom.
VIII
At dawn, Bat made a sudden decision. He checked the power packs which he had charged during the night, activated the car and started up. He picked up his phone and said, “New Woodstock, Dean Armanruder.”
But it was Nadine Paskov’s face which faded onto the screen. She was obviously in bed and for once the glamorous secretary was less than her best, even though she slept nude and was bare to her waist.
She looked at him sleepily#longdash#and indignantly#longdash#and said, “What in the damn world do you want at this time of the damned night?”
Bat said mildly, “Sorry. I wanted to let Mr. Armanruder know I was going to take a quick scout along the route we’re taking today. I assume that I’ll be back before the town takes off. If not, I’ll rejoin along the route.”
“I couldn’t care less,” she said snippishly and making with a yawn that would have done credit to Al Castro, the expert.
“Please tell Mr. Armanruder,” Bat said. “Sorry again.”
She muttered something nasty and flicked off.
It wasn’t necessary to enter Linares proper to continue on along the highway, for which Bat Hardin was thankful, although he rather doubted the town would be awake this early. Mexicans are seldom early risers he had found out from his previous visits. Perhaps it went back to the old days when they were without means of heating their homes and remained in bed until the sun had warmed the world.