Mack Reynolds - Rolltown

Back in his parents’ day being black or even mulatto had its definite disadvantages but that had been a couple of generations ago. Today, under the Meritocracy, you found your level through your own abilities and the man that sat at the desk next to you might just as soon be a Black or an Oriental as not. The fact that the old-time stastistics indicated that the Black race was less educable and less intelligent than the White were proving less and less valid.

He reentered his mobile house and took up a folding chair and, carrying it, went back to the center of the site.

Others were already setting up their own chairs in a large horseshoe-like semicircle.

It came to him that this was a present-day equivalent of the old Town Meeting of New England, or, possibly, something like the governing of the Swiss Confederation of cantons. It was a working democracy in which every adult had his say because the governing unit was small enough so that power and responsibility didn’t have to be delegated.

By and large, it worked. It wasn’t the only method utilized to govern mobile cities and towns, of course. New Woodstock was small enough to put it over but the really large cities had city payrolls and full-time officials. However, some of the towns, usually ones that were even smaller than New Woodstock, sometimes had governments ranging from pseudo-communism to out-and-out anarchy#longdash#in short, no government at all. Bat had to smile inwardly when he realized that the other mobile town he had lived with, the one composed largely of archeology buffs, had in actuality been one of the anarchy types. It had been a madhouse when some decision had to be made.

The executive committee and Nadine Paskov, who had a portable TV phone before her, sat behind a table facing the assembly of town adults. Bat took his chair and sat it to one end of the table in view of the fact that undoubtedly he’d be called on frequently.

When all except a few straggling latecomers had found places, Dean Armanruder opened the meeting by pounding with the gavel of the executive committee’s senior member.

He came immediately to the point. “Mr. Hardin has requested a convening of the assembly on the grounds that the community has been threatened with physical danger and must decide whether or not to continue this move to South America. Mr. Hardin.”

Bat was moderately surprised. He had expected the retired corporation manager to sum up the situation. In actuality, Bat Hardin had had little experience in public speaking and was a victim of both stage fright and inarticulateness. However, he did as well as he could and sat down as quickly as he could, feeling a little ashamed of himself. In his time he had charged full into automatic weapon fire with less quailing than this.

When he had finished, stunned silence met his words for a moment.

Dean Armanruder cleared his throat. “The question before us, citizens of New Woodstock, is whether to proceed, or whether to return to the United States. The floor is open to discussion.”

For a long moment, no one requested permission to speak.

Finally, “The chair recognizes Mr. Jeff Smith.”

Smith stood next to his folding seat and looked about him deliberately. “I think the first thing to consider is whether this whole story is a lot of crap.”

There was another moment of shocked silence and then a muttering, then a jabbering, only part of it in indignation.

Dean Armanruder rapped them to silence.

He looked at Jeff Smith, still standing, a defiant smirk on his face. The senior executive committee member said evenly, “Mr. Smith, you have either said too much or too little. Please elucidate.”

Jeff Smith rapped, “For the first part of this story we have only the word of Hardin and Zogbaum, from whom we haven’t as yet heard, but I assume he’ll back his fellow barroom brawler. They say they went into town and the Mexicans started a fight. That’s what they say. Evidently, the Linares chief of police sees it otherwise.”

“You’re damn right I back Bat Hardin,” Ferd Zogbaum called.

Dean Armanruder rapped with his gavel. “That will be all at this time, Mr. Zogbaum. We follow Robert’s Rules of Order here. Continue, Mr. Smith.”

Jeff Smith went on. “The second part of the story has nothing to back it whatsoever and on its face is a pretty fanciful tale. Mexico is a civilized country. Armed vigilantes don’t attack peaceful tourists. What Hardin’s purpose is, I wouldn’t know. For some reason he evidently doesn’t want to see New Woodstock continue to our destination, South America. He wants to turn back. Possibly he’s afraid of the long trip ahead and would rather remain in the States where life is admittedly easier, especially for the town’s peace officer.”

The assembly buzzed again and Armanruder rapped for silence.

He looked at Bat Hardin and said, “Do you have anything to say to this, Mr. Hardin?”

“No,” Bat said.

Armanruder looked back at Jeff Smith. “And what is your proposal, Mr. Smith?”

“I propose, first, that we go on, as planned. And secondly that we depose this alarmist and elect a new police officer.”

Armanruder said, “It is not the most desirable among the town’s volunteer positions, Mr. Smith. Whom would you suggest as an alternative to Mr. Hardin?”

“Anyone. His now deputy, Al Castro, could certainly do better.”

Al Castro called, “No thanks. Bat’s the man, so far as I’m concerned. I’m happy to stay on as his deputy but I wouldn’t take his job as long as he wants it.”

Armanruder rapped with his gavel. “Please ask for recognition by the chair before stating your opinions, Mr. Castro.”

But Al added, his voice loud and clear, “I’ve never heard Bat Hardin tell a lie as long as I’ve known him.”

Armanruder gave another double rap. “Go on, Mr. Smith.”

Smith said, “If no one else will volunteer for the job, I make the following motion. That Hardin be dismissed and that I be made town police officer.”

There was silence for a moment.

Finally, Jim Blake said, “For the sake of bringing it to the vote, I’ll second that motion. And I’ll also vote for Bat Hardin being retained.”

Armanruder said, “Motion has been moved and seconded. Bat Hardin to be replaced by Jeff Smith as police officer of New Woodstock. Miss Paskov, you are tied into the computer for voting?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dean Armanruder looked at the assembly. “To simplify, if there is no objection, cast your vote for either Mr. Smith or Mr. Hardin.”

There was little hesitation. Each member of the assembly put his or her pocket phone to mouth and cast the vote.

“Have all voted?” Armanruder said.

No one spoke up.

He said, “Miss Paskov?”

Nadine Paskov said dryly, “There were two votes for Mr. Smith.”

A laugh tittered through the assembly.

Jeff Smith flushed angrily and sat down.

Bat Hardin, obviously, was gratified. However, he knew that there were various persons in the town who weren’t particularly friendly toward him. He wondered if his victory was a matter of the lesser of two evils. Though they might not think him the best of all possible cops, they were pretty sure that Jeff Smith would be a damned sight worse. He also wondered vaguely who had cast the second vote for Smith, who had obviously voted for himself.

Armanruder was saying, “We have all, except two, evidently accepted the truthfulness of Mr. Hardin’s story, that he was kidnapped and the town threatened. How large an element has threatened us, we cannot say, but a threat has been made. Further comments before we put to a vote whether or not we should retreat?”

Ferd Zogbaum raised his hand and was recognized.