Mack Reynolds - Rolltown

And by the looks of things the end was not yet in sight. Certainly, a city of fifty thousand was no longer maximum. Each year that went by they became larger until sometimes Bat Hardin wondered if the whole nation would take to wheels.

But that of course was ridiculous. The high rise pseudo-cities were also on the increase, inhabited by people who desired urban life of the old type. Persons who wanted the theatres, the restaurants and nightclubs, the museums, the more extensive shopping facilities that mobile towns could never enjoy. Not all Americans by any means had the travel itch. Many a present-day American had descended from ancestors who had come from the ancient, crowded medieval cities, not to speak of the ghettos, of Europe and, under pressure, came to the New World only to immediately duplicate their former environment.

Bat headed in the direction of Sam Prager’s home and repair shop.

Sam was seated, sprawled rather, before his vehicles, in the same folding chair he had occupied at the assembly shortly before. He was scowling in thought.

Bat said, “Having second thoughts about going on?”

The other stirred. “No, not really. But I must say, I didn’t expect to run into a hassle such as this, so soon, anyway.”

“Nor did I,” Bat admitted. “I didn’t know you were a Canadian, Sam.”

“No particular reason to mention the fact. There’s precious little difference between a Canadian such as myself and a Yankee such as you, these days.”

Bat had to laugh. “Calling me a Yankee is on the side of stretching a point. I’m getting called just about everything today, starting with gringo this morning. But I’m somewhat surprised that you’re not with one of the Canadian mobile towns.”

Sam shrugged. “Easier to find work in a Yank town. No competition. Not many of you have to work. You have NIT. We haven’t come to that, as yet at least, in Canada. Knock on wood.”

Bat looked at him questioningly. “You don’t approve of NIT?”

“Nope. Makes bums of people. Man was created to make his bread by the sweat of his brow.”

Actually, Bat Hardin largely agreed with him, but he said, “The thing is, man doesn’t eat bread much, any more. We’re calorie conscious.”

Sam snorted at him. “You know what I mean.”

“Yes, and I read an interesting discussion on it the other day. The idea was that man has taken his full career to get to the point where he can produce an abundance with a minimum of labor. It took the whole human race a million years and more to get here. Along the line, hundreds of thousands, millions of our ancestors contributed. Fire was discovered by some, agriculture by others, domestication of animals by others, ceramics, the use of metals, the first simple sciences by still others. Over the centuries, this ancestor and that added his contribution, great or small, to man’s accumulating knowledge. Finally, we’ve arrived at the point where we have abundance. A man who works today, sitting before some unbelievably complicated automatic machinery, supposedly producing hundreds of thousands of units of this commodity or that, isn’t actually producing all that product himself. It is the human race, back through the centuries, that is producing it. And thus the product is the common heritage of us all. If we have gotten to the point where all of us need not work, are unneeded, it is not the fault of the individual that he doesn’t participate in our agriculture or industry. But still, at least a basic living is his heritage.”

Sam took him in sceptically. “It’s a great theory. Do you believe it?”

Bat said, grinning sourly, “Well, no. Actually, I think you’re right. A man should work. Which brings us to the point. Did you finish repairing my phone screen?”

Sam stood up and turned toward the door of his combined home and shop. “Yeah. I had to put in an entire new unit, Bat. You going to pay for it, or should I bill the town?”

“Just to speed things up, I’ll pay you. I’ll take the bill to Armanruder later. He’s too busy now. I know you work on a limited budget and can probably use the credit right away.”

“That I can. Come on in, Bat.”

Bat Hardin followed the electronic repairman into his shop. Edith Prager didn’t seem to be around; probably up in the living quarters, Bat decided, getting ready to leave.

Sam Prager had a licensed credit exchanger attached to his TV phone screen as a result of his trade. Bat Hardin put his pocket phone, credit card on the screen and his thumbprint on the square at the screen’s side and looked at Sam.

Sam said, “Twenty-three pseudo-dollars and fifty cents.”

Bat said into the screen, “Please credit to Sam Prager twenty-three pseudo-dollars and fifty cents from my balance.”

The screen said, “Transaction completed.”

Bat took up his phone and returned it to his pocket. He said to Sam, “Do you have a gun?”

Sam said, “Yes. A carbine. I thought we’d possibly be running into deer, wild pig and that sort of thing down in Central and South America.”

“Does Edith drive?”

“Sure.”

“I suggest that when we take off, you let her drive and you sit next to her with the carbine.”

Sam hissed a low whistle. “You really expect trouble, don’t you, Bat?”

Bat didn’t want to overly alarm the town. He said, “Not necessarily, but there’s no harm in being ready. If anybody does take a shot at us, I’d like to see an immediate response big enough to set them back on their heels. If you had to take the time to stop your car and hustle back into the interior of your home to find your gun, then load it, then dash to some point where you could return the fire, the whole thing might be over before you got into the action. If you’re sitting up there in front, gun on lap, you’ll blast back at him before the echo of his own shot has faded.”

“Makes sense,” Sam nodded.

“See you, Sam.”

“So long, Bat.”

Bat started in the direction of Dean Armanruder’s home, thinking about it. The instructions he had just given Sam Prager had come to him on the spur of the moment but the more he considered it, the more he liked the idea.

Armanruder was standing before his mobile mansion talking to Doc Barnes. Bat came up and stood off a few yards until the two older men became aware of his presence.

Barnes said, “Bat?”

Bat came forward and said, “I think it might be a good idea if you’d give me carte blanche on organizing the line of march tomorrow.”

“How’s that, Hardin?” the former magnate said.

“Well, I’ve got a double motive. First, I think common sense dictates that we take off from Linares as ready for trouble as we can be, even though it doesn’t materialize. We want no stragglers, for one thing. I’m of the opinion that if a mobile home breaks down between here and the Pan American Highway, which should be safe, it should be abandoned and its inhabitants taken up to go on with us.”

Doc Barnes said slowly, “I doubt if many of our people would simply leave their homes right next to the highway, Bat.”

Bat fixed his eyes on him. “Doc, I feel so strongly that nobody should be left behind that I suggest that if it becomes necessary to abandon one of our homes, or even more, that the owners be recompensed out of the New Woodstock town funds.”

Dean Armanruder puffed up his cheeks. “That becomes quite a drain on the treasury, Hardin. And it’s already bare as a result of having to pay off the hundred homes that are turning back for their share of the community property.”

Bat said doggedly, “Under the circumstances, we can’t let anyone fall behind. Probably, we’ll all get through to the Pan American Highway. But a breakdown can always happen and I’m certainly not in favor of all of us stopping and remaining indefinitely until repairs are completed. Our best chance is to push on as fast as possible. If we stopped, up there in the hills, we’d be sitting ducks for any snipers, or whatever.”