"What do they want, as compared to you Wobblies?"
"To reform People's Capitalism, or Meritocracy. We want to end it and establish a new system. They want more GAS for everybody, better education, better everything. They're reformers, not revolutionaries." He looked out the small porthole. "Hey, we're coming in." Then, in a lower voice: "Did you notice that the man who was following us is on our shuttle?"
"I noticed."
They walked down the shuttle's ladder, their small luggage in hand, and headed for the customs hall. Customs was the merest of formalities; the twelve packs of illegal cigarettes went through unseen.
Passed by customs, they headed for the exit and were immediately accosted by two young men, one in prole garments, the other in a fairly presentable sportsman's garb. The prole was big and square and on the rugged side, the other was trimmer. Both were in their early twenties and both wore grim expressions.
Forry looked at them warily but Roy said, smiling and extending his hand, "Hi, Ron. Hi, Les. I knew you'd make it." As usual, a smile worked wonders on the face of the
Wobbly organizer. "Forry, these are the Wobblies I told you about. Ronald Ellison, Lester Bates, meet Forrest Brown."
Forry nodded as he shook. "Glad to see you fellas. We're being followed."
"I spotted him," the husky youth, Ron, said. "I thought this contract thing didn't start until tomorrow morning."
Forry said, "It starts at midnight. But meanwhile they'll be wanting to know where Roy is going, where he'll be when the contract does go into effect. Did you get a car?"
Les, the better dressed one, nodded. "Right."
They left the administrative building and started out into the large parking area.
"Where's the car?" Forry said.
"Not in the parking lot," Ron" told him. "We thought there might be somebody waiting for you to land. Just follow me."
Mystified, Roy and Forry let the other two lead the way. They walked to the far end of the shuttleport's administration building, then entered a narrow alley between it and a huge hangar. The drab narrowness gave the passage a sinister quality.
The little ex-newsman said in protest, "What the hell?" He looked at their two guides suspiciously and then at Roy.
Roy said, "It's all right. If they say it's okay, then it is. Lead on, Les."
They hadn't gone fifty feet down the deserted alley before two others entered it. One of them was the unknown who had tailed them from the time they had left the c^ices of Oliver Brett-James in Nassau. The other was a stranger. They were pretending to be in deep discussion, as if unaware of the four ahead of them in the narrow alleyway.
Les, Ron, Roy, and Forry continued on their course, the newsman nervous about their followers.
And then two more huskies entered the alley behind those followers.
Ron said, with grim satisfaction, "Here we go." He and Les turned and watched expectantly as though ready to return.
The need didn't materialize. The action that took place was brutal and brief. One of the new arrivals had a short truncheon in his right hand; the other seemed to have something metallic over the knuckles of his right fist. With no prelimi-naries whatever, they attacked. In fifteen seconds, the two who had been following Roy Cos were down on the alley floor, arms over their heads in a futile attempt to protect themselves. The newcomers lashed into them with heavy shoes, kicking at ribs, stomachs, and kidneys.
"Jesus," Ron said in admiration. "If Billy doesn't look out he's going to kill those funkers."
"Couldn't happen to nicer guys," Les growled.
Forry looked over at Roy Cos. "You are an organizer," he said in awe.
Roy said, "I have my moments."
Leaving their unconscious victims behind, the two additional guards came up, grinning as though embarrassed.
The first one said, "If either of those bastards are out of the hospital in less than two weeks, I'll turn in my merit badge in mugging."
Roy said, "Forrest Brown, meet Richard Samuelson and Billy Tucker."
Forry said, even as he shooF, "You gentlemen take your work seriously, don't you?"
Dick Samuelson and Billy Tucker were in the same age group as Ron and Les, both six-footers, both around two hundred pounds. They greeted Roy Cos warmly after they shook hands with the little newsman.
"Holy smog," Forry muttered. "If all you Wobblies are like this, why didn't you put over your damned revolution years ago? Let's get out of here before somebody else shows up."
The six of them hurried on up the alley.
"Glad I made it in time," Billy said. "I had to come all the way from Denver. Had a meet there."
Forry looked at him. "What kind of a meet?"
"Wrestling."
The alley debouched on a small parking area. For all but a few, private cars were a luxury.
They came up to the limousine Ron indicated, and Forry began to get into the driver's seat, saying, "I'm the only one who knows where we're going to ground."
But Roy shook his head. "Les is a racing driver," he said simply.
The ex-newsman looked at Les Bates thoughtfully and then nodded. "Fine," he said, getting into the back seat instead. "Get out on the highway and turn right, Les." He said to Billy, "I saw you give those two characters in the alley a quick frisk after they passed out. Did you get anything?"
"A shooter," Billy said, satisfaction in his voice.
"Well, as soon as we get out into the countryside, you ought to ditch it. We can't afford to be found by the police with an unlicensed gun. If they coop Roy up in some banger, the Graf's men will figure out how to get to him within hours. If any of the rest of your boys are heeled, think about that."
They looked at him respectfully even as Les, obviously expert at the wheel, took them out onto the highway. Dick Samuelson said, "Yes, sir," meek as a mouse, and brought out a compact black automatic, holding it in a gloved hand to be tossed out a window.
Billy dipped his hand into the side pocket of his prole denim jacket reluctantly and came out with a Gyrojet pistol. "It's a beauty," he said with regret. "Whoever those cloddies were, they didn't skimp on equipment."
"They're probably employees of the Graf," Forry said sourly.
Dick Samuelson hissed between his teeth. "Then Roy wasn't just whistlin' Dixie when he said that most likely we'd be in thick soup, eh? I've heard about the Graf."
Ron said, "There's a car behind. I think it's a tail."
Les grinned gently and snicked his gear selector. "I picked out this pile of iron myself," he said. "Belt up, boys."
Billy said to Forry, "You still think we ought to toss these shooters out?"
"Absolutely," the newsman said. "The first time we turn a comer, so they can't see you do it. For all we know, they're police. We don't want to take on a carload of fuzzies."
"Okay," Billy said. "Get our asses out of here, Les. Graf's men or fuzzies, they're sure to be heeled."
Shaking their pursuers was child's play for Lester Bates. He was not only a racing driver but a very smooth one, powering through the apex of every turn, using every inch of the road.
It was only after there could be no doubt that they had lost their pursuers that Les turned to Forry. "Where do you want to go?"
Forry gave directions and then, after a time, said, "That tavern, there. Pull in behind it."
Roy looked at him. "You don't mean we're hiding out in a roadside bar?"
The little man grunted amusement. "Hardly. That's just where we drop this car. You know what's happened by this time? Whoever was following us has noted our license number and relayed it to either the police or some of their own organization. So we switch. I have a car stashed here; the owner's an old drinking buddy who can keep his mouth shut."