by Dean Ing
Tom looked over at him. "How'd we find out about it?"
"One of our whitey members came to town and hung around for a while in bars in the neighborhoods we were interested in. He finally got to talking to this fellow."
They held silence for a while. There was a certain tenseness in waiting for what they knew was to come, the inevitable.
Hamp said, "Oh, oh. Here it is. Road block."
Up ahead were two State Police vehicles barring the way. There were also two police hovercycles. Of the seven officers, two carried automatic Gyrojet carbines; the others, bolstered side arms. There were red lights flashing above the cars.
Hamp said, "Play it cool. No temper, Joe, and no wisecracks." They came to a halt some thirty feet from the barricade.
Two of the police troopers strolled toward them. About twenty feet off, one of them stopped and stood there, his legs parted, his holster unsnapped. The second trooper came up to the driver's window and looked in at them.
Hamp said, his voice modulated, "What's the difficulty, officer?"
The state trooper said, "I'll ask the questions, boy. Now, you three get out of there and line up against the side of this here car. Spread your legs and lean your hands up against it."
Hamp said, his voice still quietly even, "What's the charge, officer?"
Joe had brought a pocket transceiver out, flicked back the cover, activated it, and said, "We have been stopped by police and ordered from our vehicle, evidently to be searched. The police officer's badge number is 358."
The trooper looked at him coldly. He was a rawboned, lanky type, probably in his late twenties. His uniform boasted all the glory of a Hungarian brigadier. He said, "Who you talking to?"
Joe smiled. "A friend."
Hamp repeated, "What is the charge, officer? Isn't a warrant required to search a citizen?"
"Don't smartass me, boy," the trooper said grimly. He dropped his hand to his Gyrojet pistol.
The black said, still mildly, "My name isn't Boy. It's Horace Greeley Hampton. And I consider myself acting under duress."
He opened the door of the hovercar and got out, followed by Tom and Joe, but not until Joe had said into his transceiver, "The police officer called Mr. Hampton 'boy' contemptuously and made a gesture toward his sidearm, reinforcing his demand that we be searched."
The three lined up against the car, as ordered, and the second trooper came up to help in frisking them. They were thorough.
The second state policeman said, as though disappointed, "They're clean, Ranee."
Ranee said, "Go through the car." While the other was obeying, he said to Hamp, Tom, and Joe, "Okay, you three. Let's see your ID."
They handed over their Universal Credit Cards, which performed the functions of identity cards, driver's licenses, and everything else a prole needed for identification.
He looked at them carefully, brought forth a police transceiver, and read off names and identity numbers into it, then asked for a police dossier check of the data banks.
He turned his pale eyes to them. "Horace Greeley Hampton, Tom Horse, Jose Angel Mario Zavalla. Born in Ohio, Colorado, and Texas. All on Guaranteed Annual Stipend." He sneered at that—an overly done, artificial sneer. "What're you doing in this state?"
"We are on our way through," Hamp said, his accent still that of an educated man.
"Where'd you just come from?"
"New Salem."
"Oh, you did, eh? What were you doing there?"
"We went over to see the rally, listen to the governor's opening campaign speech."
"Then what're you doing here?"
"The crowd was so large that we couldn't get anywhere near the speaker's stand. Besides, there had been quite a bit of drinking. Some of the, ah, gentlemen in the crowd didn't seem to like our complexions. At any rate, we decided to return to where we're staying."
"Where's that?"
Joe said into his transceiver, "We're being questioned, although thus far no charge has been made and we have not even been told whether or not we're under arrest. Our vehicle is being searched without our permission and without a warrant."
Ranee glared at him but forced his eyes back to Hamp, who seemed to be the spokesman of this unorthodox trio.
Hamp said, "We're staying at the We Shall Overcome Motel, near Leesville."
The washed out, grayish eyes of the trooper tightened infinitesimally. He looked at Joe and said, "And that's who you're talking to?"
Joe smiled his constant smile. "That's right, Mr. Policeman, sir."
Hamp looked over at him and slightly shook his head.
The second trooper emerged from the vehicle. He said, grudgingly, "It's clean, Ranee."
Ranee's police transceiver buzzed and he listened to the report on the police dossiers of the three, his face less than pleased.
Joe said, in his communication device, "We have been checked out in the police data banks and have obviously been cleared; however, we are still being held without charge, without warrant, and…"
Ranee began to go red around his neck. "Take that damned thing away from him," he snapped to the other trooper, who was leaning back against the car, arms folded. He came erect gladly and started in the Mexican-American's direction.
Joe began to retreat backward, saying quickly into his transceiver, "State Police officer Number 358 has ordered my transceiver taken. One of us is a black; notify the nearest Nat Turner Team. One of us is an Amerind; notify the Sons of Wounded Knee. I am a Chicano; get in touch with the Foes of the Alamo. Notify our legal department! Notify Civil Liberties. Alert the Reunited Nations Human Relations…"
The trooper was on him, grabbing the transceiver away. Joe smiled and winked at him.
Hamp, his face very serious, turned to Ranee and said, "You're in the dill now, officer."
The trooper's face was suddenly wan and he was breathing deeply. He looked from Hamp to Tom and Joe, then back again. His tongue came out and licked dry lips.
"All right," he said. "Okay. You can go. We have nothing to hold you on. The governor was shot in New Salem an hour or so ago." He took in a deep breath. "It's our job. No hard feelings, fellas."
Joe smiled, "In that case, fuzzy, how about a donation for the Anti-Racist League?"
"Get the hell out of here," Ranee snarled. He turned to the other trooper, who was looking at him in surprise. "Give them back that transceiver and their IDs."
When the three had left, the second trooper looked at his companion. He said, "What the hell, Ranee. You practically kissed their asses and they were driving right from New Salem."
The other glowered at him. "How'd you like somebody to toss a grenade into your living room? Those bastards never quit, once you're on their list. They don't care if it takes years. Sooner or later they hit you."
Hamp, Tom, and Joe drove along in silence for a time, letting the tension drain away, until Hamp turned to Joe and said, "What in the hell's a Nat Turner Team?"
And Tom Horse added, "Or the Sons of Wounded Knee?"
"Damned if I know," Joe said, grinning. "I made them up as I went along. Same with the Foes of the Alamo. What's the old gag? If there'd been a back door to the Alamo there would never have been a Texas."
The We Shall Overcome Motel was well done. Extending over quite a few acres, it was completely surrounded by a high, heavy, barbed-wire fence. A strong steel gate spanned the dressed stone entrance and, behind it, several public buildings, including a large store, a recreation hall, and a restaurant. An auto-bar clubroom stood off to one side of these, near a good-sized swimming pool, which was crowded with swimmers and sunbathers, mostly of dark complexion but with a scattering of whites.
In the center of the compound was a sizable grove of trees, largely pines. A person could wander into the pine grove, find a bit of a clearing, and spread out on his back, to stare up at clouds or stars and feel, so temporarily, free.
The area around the little forest was devoted to mobile homes and campers of all varieties.
At present, a small mobile town with an art colony theme—some forty homes in all—was temporarily parked en route to Mexico and parts south. Not all proles on GAS crammed themselves into mini-apartments in high-rise buildings in the cities.
Hamp pulled up before the administration building, dropped the vehicle's lift lever, and switched off the engine.
Maximillian Finklestein issued from the office and strolled over toward them. He was a tallish, sparse, stoop-shouldered man of about forty-five. As they emerged from the hovercar he came up and said, "How was the rally, chum-pals?"
Tom shrugged and said, "We didn't stay. Too big a crowd. We heard there was a lot of excitement after we left. Somebody took a shot at the governor."
Finklestein clucked his tongue. "Imagine that. Was he hurt?"
Joe said, "We got the impression he was hit. Didn't you see it on Tri-Di?"
"I was working," Max told him. "Come on in and have a drink; we'll check the news."
Hamp said, "Your invitation appeals to me strangely, especially the drink part, but I want to stretch my legs a little first."
"Me, too," Tom said. "A little stroll before the firewater."
The three of them, accompanied by Max, set out leisurely for the wooded area.
They entered the trees, for the time holding silence. After a couple of hundred feet they reached a small clearing, the ground well covered by pine needles and leaves. Then, in silent agreement, they all stretched out on their faces in a starlike arrangement, their heads close together. Their faces were to the ground, partially into the needles and leaves. Even the best shotgun mike would play hell listening to them now.
Max said softly, "What happened?"
"Plumb center," Tom whispered. "The capslug shattered right on his chest and splattered red goo all over his shirt. I could see his face go pale and his eyes pop. He fainted."
The motel manager growled, "The loudmouth bastard'll know it could have been the real thing. Might even rethink his racist campaigning if he's smarter than he is bigoted. How tough were the fuzzies?"
Hamp took over the report, also whispering into the leaves. "About as expected. They hated it, every minute of it, and they hated us and our uppity ways, but they weren't about to stick their necks out. They'll toss it all into the laps of the IABI. They've heard all the silly rumors about how tough we are. They had no intention of becoming martyrs for a state cop's pay."
Finklestein said, "I've already got instructions for you. You three will be under special observation. The IABI isn't completely dull. They might not dig up proof but they'll strongly suspect you of the burlesque assassination. Your dossiers will tell them you're members of the Anti-Racist League. You were admittedly present in New Salem and Governor Teeter was an anachronism, the last of the really all-out rabid politician racists. They know it was just a matter of time before we zeroed in on him. They'll probably be surprised we didn't actually bump him off."
"Swell," Tom said into the leaves, a note of extreme weariness in his voice. "So what do we do now?"
"You break up as a team. None of you will continue to operate in this section." Max fished in a jacket pocket. "Tom, you go to southern Illinois. You're an unknown there. Go to a town named Zeigler and report to the section leader. Here's the address." He handed the paper over.
Tom looked at it and said, "What do I do there?"
Max seemed surprised at the question. "I haven't the vaguest idea," he told the Indian. "I understand that it's a pretty backward part of the country: fundamentalists, high illiteracy rate—you've seen it all before. But I don't know what they'll have you doing. You might as well take off. No need for you to know where Hamp and Joe are assigned."
"Yeah," Tom said, scrambling to his feet and stuffing the address into his shorts pocket. He looked down at the other two, hesitated for a moment, then said gruffly, "Hang loose, chum-pals."
They both looked up from the leaves and nodded. The team hadn't operated together for very long, but they'd been more than unusually compatible.
"So long, Redskin," Joe said softly.
When the other was gone, the remaining three returned their lips to the pine needles and leaves.
Max said, "Joe, you head south for Mexico City. Here's your contact." He handed another note to the Chicano.
"Mexico?" Joe said. "I've never been down there. What do I do?"
"No need for me to know. But the way I understand it, there seems to be an unlikely situation, particularly in the big centers like Mexico City and Monterrey, where all the best positions wind up in the hands of whites of Spanish descent. Next in the highest job and power echelons are those with a high percentage of Spanish blood. Mestizos, they call them. And, surprise, surprise! Guess who's the low man on the totem pole?"
"The full-blooded Indian," Hamp growled. "How do they get around the computers supposedly selecting the best citizens for whatever job comes up?"
Max grunted at that. "Undoubtedly, the same way they do here. The rumors continue that sometimes the data banks are jimmied, rigged. But the programmers know angles. And that will probably be one of Joe's tasks."
Joe sighed. "Same old story," he said. "Fuck the colored races. What's my cover?"
"The obvious one, most nearly the truth. You're on GAS and can't find a job up north. So, since you're bilingual, you head south hoping to use your two languages to advantage in getting work." Max hesitated a moment before adding, "You'd better get underway, too. You never know. The IABI could show at any time to pick you three up."
Joe came to his feet. He smiled at Hamp, warmer than his usual humorless smile. "Nice knowing you, Blood."
Hamp said, "Feeling's mutual, companero. Luck."
Joe left.
The two remaining readdressed themselves to the ground.
Hamp said, "What about me?"
Max said, "Your request for a leave of absence has been okayed." He looked over at the black from the side of his eyes. "How come, Hamp? There's a hell of a shortage of top men and, from what I understand, you're continually taking leaves."
"Wizard," Hamp said in deprecation. "But we'll have fewer field men than ever if you wear us down to the point where we lose efficiency. I've been in the trenches too often in the past couple of months. I need a breather. I think I'll spend some time in New York. Where do I report when I'm unwound?"
Max handed him a note. "To me. As usual, I haven't the vaguest idea of what your next assignment will be. However, there's one item of business on your way back east, a new contact. A Lee Garrett, who lives in Greenpoint, Pennsylvania."
"A new contact?" Hamp said, moderately indignant. "Have I sunk to the level where you're using me for elementary propaganda?"
"Headquarters seems to think that this one is a better prospect than usual. A whitey. Not on GAS. Better than usual education. Our local section isn't too top-level, so they want a good agent to make the initial contact with Garrett." Max handed the black another note.
"Wizard," Hamp said, coming to his feet and brushing pine needles from his shorts and jacket. "Do I leave now, like Tom and Joe?"
Max stood, too. "Why don't you come over to my place and we'll talk some shop and have a couple of quick ones. Tom and Joe never did get that drink I promised them."
"They're dedicated," the other snorted. "Both of them hardly touch the stuff. Lead me to it. As a matter of fact, I've got some good French brandy in my luggage. We can crack that."
Max Finklestein wondered vaguely how the other could afford a bottle of imported brandy. It would take a month of GAS credits to buy such a potable.
Chapter Two: Franklin Pinell
When the two corrections officers from the prison handed Franklin Pinell over to the court bailiffs in the Justice Department Building, he was still handcuffed to the heavier-set, tougher-looking guard. While the second officer was getting a bailiff to sign the receipt for their charge, the prisoner was freed of his cuffs. The guard dialed the appropriate number on the shackles and then put his thumbprint on the
tiny screen. The titanium alloy handcuffs came away.
"There he is," he said, obviously bored. "Frank Pinell. Supposed to be tough. Haven't you got cuffs for him?"
"No," the bailiff said. "We don't usually use them."
The prison guard looked the two court officers up and down. The older one was pushing sixty, much overweight, and the second didn't look much more competent.
"He's supposed to be tough," the guard repeated. "A killer. You fellas heeled?"
"We don't usually carry guns," the other said.
Frank Pinell stood there rubbing the wrist that had been confined. He looked at the prison guards emptily as they turned to leave. "Be seeing you," he said.
The one to whom he had been handcuffed snorted tack over his shoulder. "Not where you're going, chum-pal."
When they were gone, Pinell looked at the bailiffs.
"This way, son," the older one said, and then added gruffly, "Tough luck. I've got a son your age."
The three of them ascended marble stairs to the second floor and then proceeded to the left down the wide corridor.
The younger bailiff said, "Those types see too many crime Tri-Di shows. What good do they think it would do you to escape? Without a credit card you couldn't buy a stick of chewing gum, or a ride on the metro, not to speak of a meal.
You have no home and it's a felony for any friend to take you in."
"Stop it, stop it," Pinell said without tone. "You're breaking my heart."
He was twenty-five years of age, looked surprisingly athletic as proles went, was medium tall, clean and neat even in less than top quality garb, and his bearing would have passed muster in any upper class gathering. His dark brown hair was worn full and combed directly back. His eyes were a dark green and his rather long face had a Scottish cast. In less plebeian dress he might have been typed as a graduate student or a junior executive.
"Okay, son," the older one said. "Here we are." He opened half of a heavy double door and the bailiffs led their charge through before them.