Billy and Les ran for him, grabbed him by the arms, and pulled him back toward the penthouse, bending double to present as small a target as possible. Ron upended a heavy wrought-iron patio table and knelt behind it, steadying his Gyrojet on its edge. He traversed the roof opposite with rapid fire, emptying the clip with one burst. He slapped the side of the gun so that the magazine fell away and fumbled in a pocket of his prole jacket for another.
Dick's two rescuers hauled him into the living room, where the others were standing to each side of the windows out of the line of fire. Billy and Les dragged their fallen companion to a couch and got him onto it. Billy, his face pale, snapped, 'He's hit bad! Doctor!'
Mary Ann, her usual prim efficiency slipping, squealed and dashed for the phone on her desk. She banged the activating stud and screamed, 'Doctor! Doctor! Immediately in the penthouse. Emergency, emergency!'
Ron, bending double as his companions had, came hurrying back from the rooftop garden. 'He's gone, I think,' he blurted. Breathing deeply, he stared at Dick, sprawled on the couch. Roy, Forry, Billy, and Les were all hovering above him, trying to get his jacket off, trying to staunch the flow of blood. He said, 'It must've all been a put-up. That chopper came over to draw us out. The guy on the roof was waiting. Dick's about the same size as Roy and, of course, we all dress the same.'
'Where the hell's that doctor!' Forry grated.
One of the new guards opened the door and stuck his head in. 'What the hell's going on?' he said, his eyes bugging when he saw Dick. 'There's a doctor out here.'
'Let him in, for Christ's sake,' Roy said. 'Dick's been hit. He's bleeding all over the place.'
The doctor came hurrying in. He was in a white jacket and carrying the standard physician's black bag. He was a dignified-looking type, gray of hair, weary of face.
As he headed for the fallen man, those gathered around Dick Samuelson made way for him. Even as he crossed the room, he snapped his bag open and began to fish in it. Billy roared, 'He's no damned doctor,' and made a flying tackle.
The newcomer dropped his bag and smashed into the floor, hitting full on his face. The wrestler swarmed onto him, expertly, snagged an arm and pressed it behind and up the back.
Ron scooped up the bag and stared down into it. He reached inside and brought out a small Gyrojet hideaway gun. 'Holy smog,' he said, 'a shooter.'
The other guards came pressing in from the corridor, guns at the ready.
Billy hauled the fake doctor to his feet and slugged him mercilessly in the face, shattering his glasses and bringing blood.
'Another doctor,' Forry blurted at Mary Ann, who had abandoned her phone and was standing, both fists to her mouth, her eyes popping in distress. 'Have the manager come, accompanying the regular hotel doctor. Goddammit, Dick's still pumping his life out.'
She got back on the phone.
Forty said to Billy, in disgust, 'How in the hell did you know he wasn't a doctor?'
Billy Tucker, who was still manhandling his victim, aided now by Les, who was no gentler, looked slightly embarrassed. 'I don't know,' he admitted. 'Just instinct, I guess.'
They all looked at him. The wrestler said uncomfortably, 'He got here too soon. Besides, he looked too much like a doctor.'
Forry closed his eyes in weariness. 'Give me strength,' he muttered.
Roy, who had settled down in his chair behind his desk, said emptily, 'Take him down to the lobby, Billy. You go too, Les. Turn him over to the fuzzies. Same story as that photographer.'
Ferd Feldmeyer was over at the bar, pouring himself a fresh drink. He said, 'We'd better call the press boys back. This makes a bigger story.'
'To hell with publicity,' Roy snapped. 'Take care of poor Dick first.'
A half hour later, the place was reasonably cleaned up. The faithful guard, Dick, had taken a side wound. Happily, the slug hadn't been explosive, as was so usual these days, and had gone completely through. According to the hotel doctor, there was little fear for his life—only a protracted stay in the hospital.
Forry said, 'He'll continue on the payroll like everybody else.'
Ron looked at him. 'You're damn right he will.'
Ron was the only guard in the room for the time. Billy was out on the roof, on the off chance that either the copter or the sniper might make a return performance. The others were in the corridors or stationed at the entries. Everybody was uptight.
Feldmeyer shook his head until his lardy jowls wobbled. He said, 'What motivates a cloddy like that? Suppose he'd got his gun out and shot Roy? We'd all have been on him like a ton of bricks. He didn't have a chance of making a getaway.'
Forry grunted. 'When the Graf can't find anybody else to take a chance, there's always the John Wilkes Booth type kicking around that you can steam up to do the job. Think of all the international fame that would accrue to anybody who finishes the Deathwish Wobbly. Besides, one way or the other, the Graf will probably have that fake photographer and the phony doctor loose within six months. With his kind of money and muscle, you can do almost anything in this world.'
In spite of all the excitement, Roy hadn't dispelled his earlier despondency. He took a pull at his third drink, though they hadn't had lunch yet.
He said, his voice reflecting his inner despair, 'Dick might have been killed.'
The others were seated around, quiet in their own inner thoughts.
Ron looked over at his chief quickly. He said, rejection there of the other's obvious thoughts, 'Dick knew that. We all knew we were taking a chance when we signed up. You're the only one not taking a chance.' He hesitated, before adding, 'You don't have a chance, Roy, but you're in here pitching. What would you expect us to do? We're just as avid Wobblies as you are.'
Roy Cos shrugged that off. 'It was a mistake,' he said, deep weariness in his voice. 'What good's it done? I don't see the multitudes swarming in to join the Wobblies.'
'There are some,' Mary Ann said, trying to keep obvious compassion for her lover from her voice.
Roy looked at Forry, rather than her. 'Yes,' he said. 'Most of 'em are crackpots trying to get in on the act. We don't need crackpots. We need devoted militants.'
'They're not all crackpots,' Ron said. 'And it takes time to make a good Wobbly. A lot of study. A lot of background.'
'No, they're not all crackpots,' Roy said. 'Some are undoubtedly IABI men ordered to infiltrate us and act as agents provocateurs. Some are probably in the pay of the Graf, getting in where they can do the most damage. What's the old Russian adage? When four men sit down to talk revolution, three are police spies and the other a damn fool.' He was still looking at Forry Brown. 'You and your story about Sacco and Vanzetti.'
Forry lit another cigarette from the butt of his old one. 'They wanted to get over their message. By being idealists.
The American people heard their message but rejected it, which is undoubtedly what they should have done. Anarchy didn't fit the country's needs. All right, you wanted to have the chance of getting over the Wobbly program. You're doing it. Now it's up to the program. If the majority of the people think it's good, they'll support it. If they don't, they won't. What's your beef, Roy?' His tone was sour. Roy nodded, tired still. 'They haven't accepted it.' Ron said, 'They haven't had time, Roy! For Chrissakes, it's only been a couple of weeks or so.'
His chief ignored that, saying, 'You know what the trouble is? Always in the past when there was a fundamental change in the working, the people were driven to it, usually by hunger and despair—the French Revolution, the Russian Revolution, the Chinese before that, all the way back to the slave revolts in Rome led by Spartacus. But we don't have any hunger now, in the Welfare State. GAS takes care of everybody. Not on a very high level, but nobody starves, nobody goes unsheltered or unclothed, and medical care is free. The proles today are largely what Marx used to call the lumpen proletariat. He expected them to side with the enemy when the chips were down. And our lumpen proles are lumpen indeed. Go into any autobar in the slummiest part of town and say anything against the government and you'll have a fight on your hands. One of the platitudes they have is their slogan,
Ron said uncomfortably, not at his ease in arguing with the older man he admired so much, 'You knew all that before we ever started, Roy. It's admittedly a long road, but if we're right, sooner or later we'll win.'
