Mack Reynolds - Rolltown

“The Romans never drew the color line and they occupied England for half a millennium. How can you be sure that you are as lily-white a Caucasian as all that? Are you sure none of your ancestors didn’t marry one of those Romans who’d been touched with the tar brush?” Bat laughed his contempt.

“Why, you black bastard.”

Ferd Zogbaum, as disgusted as his friend was, growled, “As far as that goes, Bat’s complexion isn’t much darker than your own.”

“Keep out of it, Zogbaum,” Smith snapped. It was hard to tell, at this point, who his primary antagonist was.

Bat said, conversationally, “For that matter, I wonder just what percentage of your Southerners have African blood in them. For two centuries and more you had your black slaves. For all that time, your men forced themselves on the more attractive girls. What was the old saying among your young fellows? You’re not a man until you’ve had a nigger? And don’t forget the old custom in towns like New Orleans where young aristocrats set up apartments in the French Quarter for their quadroon or octaroon mistresses. You know what the children of an octaroon look like, Smith? They look white and they move to another town and pass as white. Did you labor under the illusion that the famed Creole beauties of Louisiana were solely of French descent?”

Bat was suddenly fed up with the argument and with himself for bothering to get into it. He turned to Ferd and said, “Could I talk to you a minute? It’s important.”

“Sure, why not?” Ferd said, ignoring Jeff Smith. He took Bat’s arm and headed around the camper, leaving the feisty smaller man to glare after them.

Bat said, when they were out of earshot, “What was all that?”

Ferd shrugged it off. “Christ only knows. Evidently, Jeff has delusions of being a great lover, or something. He’s got a thing#longdash#wants to lay Diana so bad, he can taste it. She wouldn’t get into bed with him on a bet.”

“Well, I don’t blame him. She a darn nice girl and a damn beautiful one.”

“Sure. But unfortunately for Jeff, she doesn’t have a thing for him. What’d you want to see me about?”

“Did you see anybody go into my trailer this morning while I was gone?”

“I didn’t even know you were gone, but no. Something stolen, or something? We don’t have much in the way of petty thievery around New Woodstock. I’d hate to see it start.”

“Not that. As a matter of fact, it’s the other way. Somebody put something back.”

Ferd took him in, and Bat made a quick rundown of the morning’s happenings, including the return of the pocket phone.

Ferd hissed a whistle.

Bat said, “In actuality, it was damned decent of them to return it. They didn’t have to and there must have been some risk involved. These vigilantes aren’t really bad people and in a way I can see their beef.”

“Sure. Great,” Ferd said in deprecation. “But that’s not going to do you much good when they start sniping away at us from the top of some hill as we go driving by.”

Bat said, “Well, keep it under your hat for the time being. I’ll see what Dean Armanruder has to say first, and then we’ll have to bring it up before the executive committee.”

Bat stood before the identity screen of the Armanruder home and activated it.

Nadine Paskov’s voice said impatiently, “You again? I thought you said you were driving up the road to check it.”

Bat said patiently, “I’m back. I’d like to see Mr. Armanruder.”

“He’s having his breakfast.”

“It’s of the greatest importance, Miss Paskov.”

“Just a minute.”

Within that time the door opened and Bat stepped through and started down the corridor to the dining room.

“Good morning, Hardin,” the retired magnate said, looking up from his meal. “Coffee? Sit down.”

Nadine Paskov wasn’t present but a dirty cup and plate indicated where she had taken her own breakfast. The Armanruder establishment was one of the few in New Woodstock that didn’t utilize disposable plates and utensils but, then, it was also the only home that had servants to clean up.

Bat accepted the coffee and launched into his story. By the time he had finished, Dean Armanruder was bug-eyeing him.

He banged his cup down, came to his feet and said, “Come with me,” and led the way to his office.

He sat at his desk and activated the TV phone screen. “The police station in Linares,” he snapped.

A Mexican face faded in.

Armanruder snapped, “Do you speak English?”

The other said evenly, “For all practical purposes, all educated Mexicans speak English. It is currently a required subject in our institutions of higher learning. May I ask who you are and what you wish?”

“I am Dean Armanruder, senior member of the executive committee of the mobile town of New Woodstock. I might add that I have had the pleasure of attending various business and social functions with the president of your country. We have many mutual friends and associates.”

The other didn’t seem overly impressed. He said, “And I am Miguel Avila DeLeon, captain of police of the city of Linares. What can I do for you, Senor?”

“This morning our town patrolman, Bat Hardin, was kidnapped by armed men on the road to San Roberto. He was forced to accompany them to some spot where he was confronted by a group that demanded New Woodstock turn back to the United States.”

The captain of Mexican police frowned disbelief but said courteously, “Who were these men?”

Bat came over and stood next to Armanruder. “I wouldn’t know. I was blindfolded. However, one who was obviously an older man was addressed as Don Caesar and the one who kidnapped me was called José.”

“Both rather common names in Latin countries,” the captain said. “They turned you loose?”

“Yes, of course, here I am.”

“Unharmed?”

Bat took a deep breath. “Yes.”

The captain had a few other questions as to where the kidnapping had taken place, whether or not anything had been taken from the American, or if he had in any manner been injured. Bat aswered everything to the best of his ability but there seemed to be a strange something in the police head’s manner.

Finally it came out. He said, “Senor Hardin, if I am not mistaken you are the gentleman who, in company with another Norte-americano, provoked a drunken brawl#longdash#”

“We weren’t drunk!”

Captain DeLeon went on, “… in one of the cantinas here in Linares, severely battering several of the citizens. My men took measures to see that none of your victims carried the matter further but it would seem that some of them, working behind our backs, took their revenge by playing a bit of a prank on you.”

Bat said flatly, “The men who kidnapped me had no relationship to those in the bar. My kidnappers were educated men who spoke excellent English. Those in the bar were town bums.”

“I am sure you are mistaken, Senor Hardin, however, I will look into the matter.”

Armanruder said harshly, “What are you going to do about it?”

The captain shrugged a most Latin shrug and pursed his lips in regret. “I doubt if there is anything I can do about it, but, as I say, I shall investigate. Have you decided to turn back?”

“No, we haven’t!” Armanruder snapped, nicking off the set.

He sat and glared in Bat’s direction, but not at him.

Bat said musingly, “The captain’s voice. I’ve heard it before, or, at least, I think I have. It was one of the voices when I was blindfolded.”

“Are you sure?”

“No, not sure, but I think it was.”

Dean Armanruder steamed for a moment, then flicked on the set again. He said, “John Fielding, President of United Mobile Cities Association of America, New Denver, Colorado.”