Deathwish World

societies always seem to provide for the future by accident. Ever consider that maybe this bland food is preparing us for a dull future?'

Roy frowned at his plate. 'It is kind of tasteless. You mean we're getting ourselves ready for an era of the blahs?'

The little newsman said, 'A slow dissolution, maybe.' He nodded agreement with himself. 'Without necessarily deliberate planning, society provides for the future. In this case, a future in which over ninety percent of the population became proles. The big difference between proles and slaves is that the slaves had to work to maintain the upper classes. But now machinery does practically all of the work and proles are real drones, absolutely worthless.'

Roy said, scowling, 'How do you mean society provided for my future? I didn't ask to become a complete drone. It was foisted on me.'

The newsman nodded again and put down his fork, giving up the food for which neither of them had found enthusiasm. 'You're an exception. But over a century ago society was already preparing for the day of the prole. Most kids at that time were already spending more time watching TV than they were spending in school. Oh, there were good schools in the United States, such as MIT, Johns Hopkins, Berkeley, Caltech, and so on. And the good schools turned out possibly five percent of the college graduates of the time. But the rest of the school system was a shambles. Kids got out of grammar school unable to read and write. Hell, many of them graduated from high school unable to function as adults—couldn't make out an application, couldn't keep up a checkbook. Their reading was confined to comic books or strips in the newspapers, or painfully wading through the sports pages. They got their news, to the extent they were interested at all, from TV commentators.'

'I still don't see how that leads to society preparing for the future,' Roy said, scowling still. This wasn't gospel as laid down by the Wobbly movement.

'Our people were being prepared for becoming proles, unemployables. In modern society you've got to have a good education to hold down a job. Fine, the five percent needed today got a good education. It's not necessary that the ninety percent have one. In fact, it's a disadvantage. An educated man, unemployed, is a potentially dangerous man. He can think, and question, and act on the answers he comes up with. Our educational system was weaning our youth away from an aggressive approach to life, taking the guts out of them, preparing them for their future as proles.'

Roy said softly, still in rejection, 'So what's our future? What lies ahead for us!'

'Probably more of the same. And the upper class will continue to get richer and smaller, as it eliminates the lower levels of its own class, who are thrown down into the ranks of the proles if their fortunes are lost by whatever means— including being pissed away.'

The Wobbly looked at him, thoughtfully. He said, his voice slow, 'You're more interested in these things than you've admitted, aren't you, Forry? How come you picked a Wobbly on this project of yours? Why not a Luddite, or Neo-Nihilist, or possibly a Libertarian? And why meT'

Forry Brown tossed his napkin to the table and looked at his wrist chronometer. 'We have to get going,' he said, bringing his card from his pocket. 'You weren't my first choice, Roy. I approached another National Organizer of the Wobblies before you. He evidently wasn't cut out to be a martyr. He turned me down.'

Chapter Seven: Lee Garrett

Gary McBride entered the Nuits St. Georges restaurant, his eyes on his wrist chronometer. He looked around hurriedly, frowned, and then went into the bar lounge.

Lee Garrett sat at a small table, a glass before her. She seemed not at all impatient.

He came up to her, his smile just slightly drawn. 'Ms. Garrett, of course?' he said. He took in the glass with its light golden contents. 'By George,' he said. 'Not a drink before eating the specialties of Burgundy?' He took the table's second chair. 'I'm Gary McBride.'

She smiled brightly at him, her almost unbelievably blue eyes taking in his male fashion model appearance. Not only was Gary McBride handsome, in the best upper class tradition, but he was dressed for the part. His suit, shirt, and shoes were exactly what the youthful senior executive in Manhattan was wearing, not just this year, but probably this week.

She said, after shaking hands, 'Only a sherry.'

'Tio Pepe, I should hope,' he said. 'Anything stronger or less dry would play havoc with one's palate.'

She did a little laugh, as though he were joking. 'Tio Pepe is so dry it gives me heartburn.'

'Then not another sip of that,' he told her severely. 'Andre would be desolate. Shall we go to our table?'

He took her arm and led her to the dining room. Lee was dressed in green Irish tweeds which would have denigrated any figure less superb than her own. She looked very businesslike, her simple white blouse and low heels very sincere.

The maitre d' greeted them unctuously and led them to a table tucked intimately away in a small nook. The decor was early French bistro: reproductions of Toulouse Lautrec's posters, aged advertisements of Ricard, Pernod, and a Rheims champagne. The room was moderately full of prosperous diners.

Andre put menus before them, brought forth a pad and stylo, and looked inquiringly, politely, and most earnestly at Gary McBride.

Gary McBride said to Lee, 'The menu is in French. Shall I order?'

'Please do,' she said, putting down her own carte.

Consulting with the headwaiter as he went, very seriously indeed, Gary McBride ordered as their first course Oeufs en Cocotte Bourguignonne, with a Meursault '48 to accompany it. When the wine arrived, Andre again presided pouring a small amount into McBride's tulip-shaped glass. He sipped it carefully, after he tested the bouquet, and thoughtfully pursed his lips.

Andre murmured, 'Le vin est a votre gout?'

'Excellent,' Gary McBride nodded, and the headwaiter filled both glasses two-thirds full.

Eggs a la Bourguignonne turned out to be poached in red burgundy, and for a moment, both were silent as they sampled. Gary McBride said, 'A pity to discuss business while eating, my dear, but I understand that you were contacted, as planned, by a member of the Anti-Racist League.' Lee nodded. 'Yes,' she said. 'I'm afraid I muffed it.'

'Not to worry, my dear. What went wrong?'

'I underestimated him. He was a black; well-educated. What tipped him off, I have no idea, but he saw through me. I suppose it was rather humorous. He pretended to get somewhat tipsy and, ah, pretended to make a rather crude play for me.'

His eyebrows went up.

t rape, and revealed that I wasn't truly material for the Anti-Racists. He told me off very efficiently, greatly amused.'

'I see. Then your cover is blown, so far as the Anti-Racist League is concerned.'

'I'm afraid so.'

'Not to worry,' he said again. 'Ah, the duck.' The Canard a L'Orange arrived with the Richebourg '65

he had ordered, and again went through the wine-tasting ceremony.

When the waiter had retired he said, 'You were not alone. The Foundation has several, ah, agents making the same attempt to penetrate the Anti-Racist League. You were but one. Others, it is to be assured, will be more successful.'

She said, 'I wasn't told a great deal about the purpose of my mission. Actually, in spite of my silly scene with Horace Hampton, I am not particularly prejudiced so far as minorities are concerned. I was rather surprised that the Race Research Foundation was interested in infiltrating his organization. I thought its research would be along other lines.'

'It is but one ramification of a much broader project. You see, Lee, the Anti-Racist League is a racist organization itself.'

'I don't understand.'

'In much the same way that the Zionists were.'

She frowned slightly at him. 'I'm not anti-Semitic, either.'

'Nor am I, nor is the Foundation. We're far above such ridiculous postures. But there are most pertinent