'All right,' he said. 'Okay. You can go. We have nothing to hold you on. The governor was shot in New Salem an hour or so ago.' He took in a deep breath. 'It's our job. No hard feelings, fellas.'
Joe smiled, 'In that case, fuzzy, how about a donation for the Anti-Racist League?'
'Get the hell out of here,' Ranee snarled. He turned to the other trooper, who was looking at him in surprise. 'Give them back that transceiver and their IDs.'
When the three had left, the second trooper looked at his companion. He said, 'What the hell, Ranee. You practically kissed their asses and they were driving right from New Salem.'
The other glowered at him. 'How'd you like somebody to toss a grenade into your living room? Those bastards never quit, once you're on their list. They don't care if it takes years. Sooner or later they hit you.'
Hamp, Tom, and Joe drove along in silence for a time, letting the tension drain away, until Hamp turned to Joe and said, 'What in the hell's a Nat Turner Team?'
And Tom Horse added, 'Or the Sons of Wounded Knee?'
'Damned if I know,' Joe said, grinning. 'I made them up as I went along. Same with the Foes of the Alamo. What's the old gag? If there'd been a back door to the Alamo there would never have been a Texas.'
The We Shall Overcome Motel was well done. Extending over quite a few acres, it was completely surrounded by a high, heavy, barbed-wire fence. A strong steel gate spanned the dressed stone entrance and, behind it, several public buildings, including a large store, a recreation hall, and a restaurant. An auto-bar clubroom stood off to one side of these, near a good-sized swimming pool, which was crowded with swimmers and sunbathers, mostly of dark complexion but with a scattering of whites.
In the center of the compound was a sizable grove of trees, largely pines. A person could wander into the pine grove, find a bit of a clearing, and spread out on his back, to stare up at clouds or stars and feel, so temporarily, free.
The area around the little forest was devoted to mobile homes and campers of all varieties. At present, a small mobile town with an art colony theme—some forty homes in all—was temporarily parked en route to Mexico and parts south. Not all proles on GAS crammed themselves into mini-apartments in high-rise buildings in the cities.
Hamp pulled up before the administration building, dropped the vehicle's lift lever, and switched off the engine.
Maximillian Finklestein issued from the office and strolled over toward them. He was a tallish, sparse, stoop- shouldered man of about forty-five. As they emerged from the hovercar he came up and said, 'How was the rally, chum-pals?'
Tom shrugged and said, 'We didn't stay. Too big a crowd. We heard there was a lot of excitement after we left. Somebody took a shot at the governor.'
Finklestein clucked his tongue. 'Imagine that. Was he hurt?'
Joe said, 'We got the impression he was hit. Didn't you see it on Tri-Di?'
'I was working,' Max told him. 'Come on in and have a drink; we'll check the news.'
Hamp said, 'Your invitation appeals to me strangely, especially the drink part, but I want to stretch my legs a little first.'
'Me, too,' Tom said. 'A little stroll before the firewater.'
The three of them, accompanied by Max, set out leisurely for the wooded area.
They entered the trees, for the time holding silence. After a couple of hundred feet they reached a small clearing, the ground well covered by pine needles and leaves. Then, in silent agreement, they all stretched out on their faces in a starlike arrangement, their heads close together. Their faces were to the ground, partially into the needles and leaves. Even the best shotgun mike would play hell listening to them now.
Max said softly, 'What happened?'
'Plumb center,' Tom whispered. 'The capslug shattered right on his chest and splattered red goo all over his shirt. I could see his face go pale and his eyes pop. He fainted.'
The motel manager growled, 'The loudmouth bastard'll know it could have been the real thing. Might even rethink his racist campaigning if he's smarter than he is bigoted. How tough were the fuzzies?'
Hamp took over the report, also whispering into the leaves. 'About as expected. They hated it, every minute of it, and they hated us and our uppity ways, but they weren't about to stick their necks out. They'll toss it all into the laps of the IABI. They've heard all the silly rumors about how tough we are. They had no intention of becoming martyrs for a state cop's pay.'
Finklestein said, 'I've already got instructions for you. You three will be under special observation. The IABI isn't completely dull. They might not dig up proof but they'll strongly suspect you of the burlesque assassination. Your dossiers will tell them you're members of the Anti-Racist League. You were admittedly present in New Salem and Governor Teeter was an anachronism, the last of the really all-out rabid politician racists. They know it was just a matter of time before we zeroed in on him. They'll probably be surprised we didn't actually bump him off.'
'Swell,' Tom said into the leaves, a note of extreme weariness in his voice. 'So what do we do now?'
'You break up as a team. None of you will continue to operate in this section.' Max fished in a jacket pocket. 'Tom, you go to southern Illinois. You're an unknown there. Go to a town named Zeigler and report to the section leader. Here's the address.' He handed the paper over.
Tom looked at it and said, 'What do I do there?'
Max seemed surprised at the question. 'I haven't the vaguest idea,' he told the Indian. 'I understand that it's a pretty backward part of the country: fundamentalists, high illiteracy rate—you've seen it all before. But I don't know what they'll have you doing. You might as well take off. No need for you to know where Hamp and Joe are assigned.'
'Yeah,' Tom said, scrambling to his feet and stuffing the address into his shorts pocket. He looked down at the other two, hesitated for a moment, then said gruffly, 'Hang loose, chum-pals.'
They both looked up from the leaves and nodded. The team hadn't operated together for very long, but they'd been more than unusually compatible.
'So long, Redskin,' Joe said softly.
When the other was gone, the remaining three returned their lips to the pine needles and leaves.
Max said, 'Joe, you head south for Mexico City. Here's your contact.' He handed another note to the Chicano.
'Mexico?' Joe said. 'I've never been down there. What do I do?'
'No need for me to know. But the way I understand it, there seems to be an unlikely situation, particularly in the big centers like Mexico City and Monterrey, where all the best positions wind up in the hands of whites of Spanish descent. Next in the highest job and power echelons are those with a high percentage of Spanish blood. Mestizos, they call them. And, surprise, surprise! Guess who's the low man on the totem pole?'
'The full-blooded Indian,' Hamp growled. 'How do they get around the computers supposedly selecting the best citizens for whatever job comes up?'
Max grunted at that. 'Undoubtedly, the same way they do here. The rumors continue that sometimes the data banks are jimmied, rigged. But the programmers know angles. And that will probably be one of Joe's tasks.'
Joe sighed. 'Same old story,' he said. 'Fuck the colored races. What's my cover?'
'The obvious one, most nearly the truth. You're on GAS and can't find a job up north. So, since you're bilingual, you head south hoping to use your two languages to advantage in getting work.' Max hesitated a moment before adding, 'You'd better get underway, too. You never know. The IABI could show at any time to pick you three up.'
Joe came to his feet. He smiled at Hamp, warmer than his usual humorless smile. 'Nice knowing you, Blood.'
Hamp said, 'Feeling's mutual, companero. Luck.'
Joe left.
The two remaining readdressed themselves to the ground.
Hamp said, 'What about me?'
Max said, 'Your request for a leave of absence has been okayed.' He looked over at the black from the side of his eyes. 'How come, Hamp? There's a hell of a shortage of top men and, from what I understand, you're continually taking leaves.'
