As they got nearer to the building in which the meeting was to be held, the crowd began to manifest itself. There were several police cars, lights flickering above them, a police ambulance, and a contingent of uniformed police stationed across the street from the entrance to the halls. There was also one Tri-Di unit mounted atop a truck, and a couple of hundred curiosity seekers, gawking. Among them were twenty-five or so teenagers of both sexes, each carrying a child's baseball bat. These latter were dressed identically in prole clothing—sweaters and denim shorts.
Hamp said, 'Not much of a turnout when you consider Cos is exposing himself. I'd think there'd be thousands.'
Max said cynically, 'The news media has been given orders to play down the Deathwish Wobbly. They can't ignore him entirely, news being news, and the fact that he might get burned any minute. But they're trying to ease coverage on him and especially this meeting. Every radical organization going, no matter how zany, is on Roy Cos's bandwagon, whether he wants them or not. Everybody's beginning to have second thoughts about whether basic changes ought to be made in the world's socioeconomic systems, even in the Soviet Complex and the People's Republic of China.'
They came up to the entry to the halls, just as two heavy limousines slid quickly to the curb immediately before them.
'Cos,' Max grunted.
Four men, Gyrojets swinging from their hips in quick-draw holsters, sprang from the first vehicle and immediately dashed back to surround the second one, each of them at a corner. Their hands rested on their guns and their eyes were never still as they scanned the crowd, not excluding the police or the Tri-Di crew. Two of the doors of the second limo opened and three more guards erupted. They immediately stationed themselves between the car and the entry, and they too had their hands on pistol butts. The teenagers with the baseball bats pressed closer, between the guards and the building entrance.
Two more men got out of the second limo and looked up and down the street, one apprehensively, the other as though resigned.
Max said, 'Jesus, is that the Deathwish Wobbly? Colorless looking little guy, isn't he?'
Forry Brown was saying, 'Inside. Let's get inside, damn it. I don't like to be out in the open like this.'
Roy Cos grunted and they headed for the door, the guards crowding around them now.
Roy Cos's manager hesitated and looked at one of the kids with the baseball bats. 'Who the hell are you?' he said.
The boy saluted with his bat. 'We're the Junior Wobblies, sir. Come to help protect Comrade Cos.' He wielded the bat as though it was a field marshal's baton.
Roy Cos looked at him. 'Junior Wobblies?' he said. 'There is no such organization. If there was, I would have heard of it.'
The boy wasn't fazed. He looked to be about seventeen— man sized, but with a teenager's awkwardness. 'We've organized on our own, Comrade Cos. We haven't had time to get in touch with the national organization for their approval. There's fifty of us here surrounding the building. If any of these professional mercenaries show up, we'll give 'em hell.'
Ron grunted in disbelief and his hand tightened on his Gyrojet.
But Forry shook his head. 'Let them alone,' he said. 'The Graf doesn't have any teenagers in his outfit. His need is for experienced professionals.' He clapped the boy on the shoulder. 'Carry on, kid.'
'Yes, sir.'
Hamp and Max had joined the Wobbly contingent as they entered the building, three of the guards going ahead.
Max said to Roy Cos, 'We're the delegates from the Anti-Racist League.'
Roy shook hands. 'I suppose you know my name,' he said. 'And this is Forrest Brown, my business manager.'
'Max Finklestein and Horace Hampton,' Max introduced them.
'The meeting's on the third floor,' Forry said nervously. 'Let's get going.'
Ron and Les got into the elevator alone and rode up, to check out the way. The other guards packed around Roy and Forry, waiting.
Roy looked over at Hamp wanly and said, 'A helluva way to live.'
The black nodded. The other was right. The elevator returned.
On the third floor, Ron and Les were waiting. The whole group proceeded to a hall down the corridor from which sounds were emanating. They were evidently a bit late.
Two members of the Synthesis committee were at the door checking credentials. Roy Cos, on the face of it, hardly needed them, but he went through the motions of proving himself a delegate from the Wobblies. Max presented a letter identifying himself and Horace Hampton.
The meeting was a bore, doomed to failure from its inception. The Synthesis group, which had proposed it, was obviously sincere in its desire to unite all the radical elements but, as Hamp whispered to Max Finklestein, sincerity alone was dull as dishwater.
There were perhaps thirty-five present, including the Synthesis committee, the bodyguards, and various delegates. The leading representatives were those from the Wobblies, the Nihilists, the Luddites, and the Libertarians, in addition to the Anti-Racists. The other delegates were from splinter groups and some, splinters from splinters. There was even one representative from an organization evidently unknown to the others, called Technocracy, Incorporated. Going at least a century and a half back, the Technocrats opted for a world government dominated by scientists, engineers, and technicians. He wasn't quite booed down.
A table in front of the hall acted as a rostrum and each delegation was called upon to give the program of its organization. Roy spoke for the Wobblies, Max Finklestein for the Anti-Racist League, a Nils Ostrander for the Nihilists, and a blowsy woman named Bertha Holtz held forth for the Libertarians, who evidently carried high the banner of the new women's lib and that of the gays as well. After these four stars, the splinter groups each had their turn, turns that dealt almost exclusively with hair-splitting.
Hamp and Max had seated themselves next to Roy Cos and Forry Brown, the guards being strategically placed about the room, all standing with their backs to the walls. Hamp spotted Nils Ostrander, who sat next to a younger, very earnest-looking man whose suit was by far the best of any of those present. He also spotted the other person he was looking for, an athletic-looking young fellow in his early twenties. The chairman had introduced him as the sole delegate from one of the smaller organizations back East, of which Hamp had never heard, and suspected that no one else present had either.
By the time each organization had had its say, the chairman was looking distressed; indeed, downright unhappy. He said, 'Did anyone else wish to speak?'
Hamp stood and said, 'I wouldn't mind doing a little summing up.'
He was invited to the table and stood in front of it, rather than behind.
He looked over them, sighed, and said, 'This meeting is a farce and I suspect that by this time most of us realize it. It's been a farce because its purpose is unobtainable. The organizations here can't get together because they don't stand for the same things. I can't figure out what some of you
People's Capitalism and neither is theirs. Neither is it the interest of the Libertarians. In fact, in the ranks of anti-racists are some who are wealthy and have an interest in maintaining the status quo, save on the racial question. You see, none of us stands for the same thing. We can't unite.'
The audience stirred, some muttering among themselves.
Nils Ostrander, the delegate from the Nihilists, was on his feet angrily. 'That's defeatism! Quite a few of us
