"They're not all crackpots," Ron said. "And it takes time to make a good Wobbly. A lot of study. A lot of background."
"No, they're not all crackpots," Roy said. "Some are undoubtedly IABI men ordered to infiltrate us and act as agents provocateurs. Some are probably in the pay of the Graf, getting in where they can do the most damage. What's the old Russian adage? When four men sit down to talk revolution, three are police spies and the other a damn fool." He was still looking at Forry Brown. "You and your story about Sacco and Vanzetti."
Forry lit another cigarette from the butt of his old one. "They wanted to get over their message. By being idealists.
The American people heard their message but rejected it, which is undoubtedly what they should have done. Anarchy didn't fit the country's needs. All right, you wanted to have the chance of getting over the Wobbly program. You're doing it. Now it's up to the program. If the majority of the people think it's good, they'll support it. If they don't, they won't. What's your beef, Roy?" His tone was sour. Roy nodded, tired still. "They haven't accepted it." Ron said, "They haven't had time, Roy! For Chrissakes, it's only been a couple of weeks or so."
His chief ignored that, saying, "You know what the trouble is? Always in the past when there was a fundamental change in the working, the people were driven to it, usually by hunger and despair—the French Revolution, the Russian Revolution, the Chinese before that, all the way back to the slave revolts in Rome led by Spartacus. But we don't have any hunger now, in the Welfare State. GAS takes care of everybody. Not on a very high level, but nobody starves, nobody goes unsheltered or unclothed, and medical care is free. The proles today are largely what Marx used to call the lumpen proletariat. He expected them to side with the enemy when the chips were down. And our lumpen proles are lumpen indeed. Go into any autobar in the slummiest part of town and say anything against the government and you'll have a fight on your hands. One of the platitudes they have is their slogan, it was good enough for Daddy and it's good enough for me.
Ron said uncomfortably, not at his ease in arguing with the older man he admired so much, "You knew all that before we ever started, Roy. It's admittedly a long road, but if we're right, sooner or later we'll win."
"So far as I'm concerned, and maybe Dick, it'll be later," the Deathwish Wobbly said bitterly.
Chapter Twenty: Jeremiah Auburn
When Jerry Auburn awakened, it was to find Lee Garrett next to him, up on one elbow. She was frowning puzzlement.
He grinned, his eyes glinting amusement, and said, "Did I put up a valiant enough battle for my honor? I wouldn't want the word to get out that I was an easy lay."
"What?"
He said, "When you raped me last night."
She was frowning still, ignoring his sally of humor. "I'm still wondering where I've met you before. At first I thought it was just your voice, but now I seem to find facial resemblances to someone I've met somewhere. Have we?"
He laughed. "Yes, for a short time. But not under such circumstances that I ever expected to wind up in your bed, honey. In fact, I lied to you. Told you I didn't think blondes were…" He chuckled again. "Someday, maybe, I'll tell you about it. Right now, you wouldn't believe me anyway."
"Don't be cryptic, Jerry."
But he dropped it and his voice became serious. He said, "I'm going to be leaving today, Lee. I've got some things to do in the States. Besides that, I don't think I'd win high marks in a Roman popularity contest right now. After that attempt in the restaurant, I'd rather be on my own turf."
She nodded at that. "I heard a few rumors last night that you haven't been exactly ingratiating yourself among some elements in the World Club but then, of course, you were a little drenched."
"No," he told her definitely. "I knew what I was doing and I was doing it deliberately. I don't like the present drift of the World Club and I want to bring certain things to a decision. At any rate, I want you to get in touch with Mendel Amschel and Fong Hui and let them know that if it comes to a vote on a new Central Committee member to get in touch with me, through you. I'm going to give you the number of my tight beam transceiver. You're not to tell Sheila, or anyone else, about this."
"But I work for Sheila Duff-Roberts. I can't…"
He interrupted her. "And she works for the Central Committee, and Amschel and Fong and I are members of that committee, so you work for us, above and beyond your obligations to Sheila."
"I suppose you're right." She hesitated, then said, "Jerry, what happened to Pamela McGivern, the girl who preceded me?"
"I don't know," he said grimly. "It's one of the things I intend to find out.''
He got out of bed and went to where he had so hastily disrobed the night before. He gathered up his clothes and headed for the bathroom, Lee looking after him thoughtfully. It occurred to her that though she'd had several brief affairs, she'd never before met a man with whom she might have considered a more permanent relationship. But then she snorted in self-amusement. He was Jeremiah Auburn, for years the leading igniter of the Rocket Set. Obviously, if he'd gotten to his age without more prolonged alliances, he wasn't interested in one. She wondered, all over again, where she could possibly have met him before—as he had now admitted.
His decision made to return to the States, Jerry Auburn faded out of Rome as inconspicuously as he had appeared. He didn't even bother to pack a small bag. All his requirements could be met on his personal air yacht.
He drove out the Appian Way to the International Shuttleport and directly to his king-size airliner. On the way, he had alerted the captain of his arrival and the fact that he wanted to be airborne immediately. A skeleton crew was always aboard, so that ordinarily he could have taken off immediately. However, the balance of the crew of eighteen, including the stewards, was undoubtedly quartered at the shuttleport's International Hotel and would be aboard as soon as he was.
The flight was uneventful. He sat in the main lounge, staring unseeingly out one of the larger ports at the sea, far beneath. What he had told Lee wasn't exactly correct. It wasn't just a matter of wanting to bring things to a decision. They were coming to very basic decisions, and Jeremiah Auburn was a high-survival type. He wished to be out in front directing matters along the path he favored.
He had a steward call ahead and have one of his limousines available when they landed, and to alert customs to pass him through without the necessity of his going to the administration building. It was his standard procedure. VIPs such as Jeremiah Auburn could be met on their private aircraft and not be bothered with the inconveniences suffered by the common herd. In such respects the 21st century differed not at all from the centuries before it; wealth and power had their privileges.
The limousine sped him to Manhattan and through its deserted streets, arrogantly remaining on the surface rather than taking the underground highway. They pulled up before the minor entrance on the side street behind the towering office building which was his destination. He entered the building, fishing in his pockets for his key ring and the small silver key for his private elevator.
The elevator sped him up to the high-level floor he used for his personal offices and living quarters while he was in residence. He emerged into the reception room and nodded at the dazzlingly smiling girl at the desk.
"Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Auburn," she gushed, rising. "We've been expecting you, sir."
"Wizard," he told her brusquely. "Tell Barry Wimple I'll see him in my quarters in five minutes."
"Yes, Mr. Auburn," she simpered.
For Christ's sake, he thought inwardly, let's not be too damned effervescent, as he pushed his way through to the office behind. It was staffed with two neatly suited accountant types and two gorgeous, efficient-looking women who could have landed Tri-Di parts portraying brisk secretaries of upper-echelon corporation executives. They were all deftly at work when he entered; whether make-work or not, he didn't know. They all stood and chorused smiled greetings, and he nodded back while striding across the room.