Deathwish World

has taken over, the people might say, screw that, and vote in something else.'

The questioner laughed and said, 'Well, what is your personal opinion? How would you vote?'

Roy said, 'Yes, I'd be in favor of continuing to use the computers to select who should have what job. However, there are some angles. We don't expect to put all of the population back to work at production. They're not needed to produce all the products and services necessary for society. That's where we differ from the Luddites. They want to destroy technology so that the whole work force can go back to production. That's ridiculous. After a million years or so man has finally solved the problem of producing all the articles we need. Now we can settle back and enjoy our longing for leisure. True leisure is not wasted. It's not only an opportunity to loaf. Man must spend this leisure intelligently, not sitting before Tri-Di screens sucking on trank pills or drinking syntho-beer.'

Another reporter called, 'Sure, but you'd be up against the same trouble we are now. There simply aren't enough jobs to go around. The computers can't find jobs where there aren't any.'

Roy said, a bit impatiently, 'What I just said was that we don't expect to put everybody back to work at production and services. But such jobs aren't the only kind of employment. Everybody physically and mentally capable of working, studying, or participating in the arts and sciences can be found a place. Be you ever so humble, the computers should be able to find something for you to do, the biggest consideration being that it's what you like to do. If you've got a leaning toward one of the arts, then they won't have you cleaning up the environment.'

While Roy continued to field questions, one of the still-photographers sitting on the sidelines waiting his turn yawned and said to his neighbor, 'That's an interesting box you've got there. An old-timer. What is it, a holo or lite?'

'Holo,' the other said.

The first one yawned again and said, 'I don't believe I've ever seen you here before. Who are you working for?'

The other ran his tongue over his lower lip. 'International. The editor sent me over for a few shots for…'

The first photographer's face had frozen. His voice was louder. 'Like shit you are! I'm representing International and I've never seen you before.'

Billy Tucker dropped his gun and lunged across the room, sent Roy Cos sprawling from his chair and landed atop him behind the desk, his arms spread, his huge wrestler's body completely covering the smaller man.

One of the Tri-Di cameramen brought his rig crashing down on the head of the false photographer, who reeled, dropping his camera. Ron Ellison came charging up from where he had stationed himself against a wall, reversed his stubby carbine, and clubbed the man.

Another one of the reporters, in advance of his fellows, stepped in close and drove his fist into the interloper's solar plexus. The others came up, largely getting in each other's way.

'Son of a bitch,' one of them snarled.

Don, the veteran, looked at his Tri-Di photographer, who had sacrificed his camera in the initial attack. 'You stupid cloddy,' he said. 'That's ten thousand pseudo-dollars worth of box. How're we going to explain it to the office?'

Forry Brown, rubbing his thin fist over his scraggly mustache while staring down at the fallen man, said absently, 'The Deathwish Wobbly will pick up the tab, plus a bonus of five thousand.' He then looked at Ron. 'How did this bastard get by you?'

Ron said defensively, 'He's not armed. We shook him down like everybody else, real thoroughly. He hasn't got so much as a pocket knife.'

The photographers were all recording the scene, particularly of the fallen man, the shattered camera beside him, and of Billy Tucker and Roy, now emerging from their place on the floor behind the desk. The hulking Billy looked shamefacedly at the shambles.

Mary Ann said, 'Possibly he's like that girl yesterday. Wanted to see Roy in person. Talk to him. Get his autograph.''

The reporter who had originally started the ruckus by denouncing the now-unconscious intruder said, 'Yeah, possibly. Let me take a look at that damned camera of his. He said it was a holo. He doesn't know his ass from a holo in the ground.'

'I'll pretend I didn't hear that,' Don said as the other scooped up the camera under discussion from the floor.

While all watched, he fiddled with it. The back came away. Whatever the complicated jury-rigged device inside was, it had nothing to do with holo cameras.

'For Crissakes, let me see that,' Forry rasped, taking it from the other's hands. He stared at the insides, turned the instrument over to check the lens.

He said in wonder, 'This isn't a camera. It's a dart gun.

The dart's fired by springs and comes out through the opening where the lens is supposed to be.'

'I'll be damned,' Don said. 'You gotta admit, the Grafs tricky. When all these boys were firing away at Roy, flashing lights and all, this bastard could have fired his dart without anybody noticing it. It might feel like nothing more than an itch, and Roy'd scratch it. And, sure as hell, the poison wouldn't work until our phony photographer, here, was already on his way out of the building, safe as a pig in shit.'

Roy shook his head wearily, sighed, and said to Ron, 'Couple of you boys get him out of here and turn him over to the fuzzies down in the lobby.'

Forry said, 'Tell them that our lawyers will prefer charges. If we can get him to admit he was hired by the Graf, we'll sue Lothar von Brandenburg through the World Court. Not that it'll do any good directly, but it'll be one more bit of damning evidence against the whole establishment.''

Don said, 'We'll do up the releases from that angle, Forry. Come on chum-pals, let's get out of here. This is news!'

When they were gone, Dick said, 'Roy, the party's getting rough—two people in two days penetrating our security. Maybe we ought to go to ground again; hide out somewhere.'

Roy shook his head again. 'In the first place, there's no place to hide. They'd find us, sooner or later. In the second place, there'd be no more broadcasts, no more publicity. We're just beginning to get the message over. We can't stop now.'

Ron said, 'Did you see how those news boys lit into him? They got to him before we could. That slob'll spend a week in the prison hospital, if he's lucky.'

Forry squinted his eyes through the dribbling smoke of his inevitable cigarette. 'It's a good sign,' he said. 'The press has been sympathetic from the first. Hell, it's been first-rate copy since we first made our news releases. But now they're really rallying around.' He chopped out a cynical laugh. 'Can you imagine some of those tough bastards beginning to accept what Roy's saying?'

'It's early in the day for it,' Roy said, 'but how about a drink? I could use one. That dizzard almost accomplished what he came for.'

Mary Ann looked at him in alarm. 'You don't mean that he fired a dart at you!'

'No. But I was nearly squashed to death under Billy, here.'

As Ron went over to the bar to take orders, there came the blat-blat-blat of a copter outside.

Dick Samuelson took up his automatic carbine and went out through the French windows to threaten it off. It wasn't anything new. Since the word had gotten out that the Deathwish Wobbly was stationed in the New Tropical Hotel penthouse, aircraft, undoubtedly hired by rubberneckers, had circled almost daily. Roy's team had decided that the threat of a commando raid on the part of the Grafs men wasn't very likely. The invaders would have been at a considerable disadvantage, now that Roy had augmented his guard to eight well-armed men. They would have been mowed down as they attempted to disembark. Besides, in the Shootout, Roy would have been able to escape, along with Mary Ann and the other noncombatants of the team.

Taking their drinks, they paid little attention to the guard who had gone out on the roof and was shaking his weapon at the aircraft, until Ron blurted, 'Jesus Christ! Dick's down!' The three guards in the living room dropped their drinks to the floor, grabbed up their guns, and headed for the roof garden on die double.

Dick was sprawled out on the terrace in agony. He called weakly, 'Sniper! On the roof opposite!' His face contorted and he passed out.