But Diana didn’t return immediately to her own trailer.
Her sexual binge with Ferd Zogbaum had been possibly the most satisfying she had ever known. It wasn’t just that her lover had been tireless, though heavens knew he was possibly the only man she had ever slept with who had truly satiated her. It was also that they were in rapport. He obviously liked her, was attracted to her, as much as she was to him. It is difficult to prevaricate in bed, in a sexual relationship, or, at least, she had always thought so. She knew, instinctively, that he adored her body. She also knew, from the easygoing association she had had with the aspiring writer over the past weeks, that he was intellectually compatible with her.
Now she approached his camper and knocked at the door. She made no effort at all to be stealthy. Not in New Woodstock. Nobody could have cared less if she was having an affair with the popular Ferd Zogbaum. In fact, if anybody discovered the development they undoubtedly would have been happy for them both. Probably half of the so-called married folk in town were actually living in what was once known as sin.
She knocked at the door.
He opened and looked at her and made a humor face and said, “Oh, no, not again.”
“Oh yes,” she said. “Stand aside, young man. We’re going to play yes and no once more.”
“I surrender.”
She said, “Oh, darling, whatever is going to happen to us?”
“Yes.”
“But it can never be a normal relationship. Not with you continually having to be on guard with everything you say to me.”
“No.”
“I love you, Ferd Zogbaum.”
There was no answer. They kissed again, hotly.
“There is no answer, is there, darling?”
“No.”
“Even if it was possible for us to have a… permanent relationship, they wouldn’t allow it, would they? I’m an alien, an off-beat artist, a Bohemian#longdash#”
“Yes.”
“You mean they wouldn’t allow it?”
“Yes.”
She slumped a bit in his arms. “All we can have is this?”
“Yes.”
“Or they’ll drag you back to prison#longdash#or to more brain surgery?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s get undressed.”
They were resting between bouts.
She said, “Ferd, can you answer yes or no questions about this conspiracy to commit subversion against this government of yours?”
He hesitated for a long moment before saying cautiously, “Yes.”
“They can’t monitor your thoughts as such, eh? Just the words you think and if you get emotionally upset by committing violence.”
He hesitated again.
She said, “There’s more to it then that, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I don’t suppose I’d understand it even if you could explain. Brain surgery isn’t exactly my strong point. Did you belong to an organization in the States?”
Hesitation. Then, “Yes.”
“Whose purpose was to start a new kind of government?”
“Yes.”
“Was it a very large organization?”
“No.”
“Do you think someday it will win out?”
Ferd hesitated still once again before saying, “Yes.” It was an extremely difficult manner in which to learn much about what he believed in. She knew perfectly well that he would have preferred to answer in more detail, to have qualified some of his yes and no answers.
She would have liked to find out just what this organization of Ferd’s foresaw as a more desirable socio- economic system than Meritocracy. But it was too complicated a question under the circumstances.
Something came to her. “Could you write out answers to questions I asked you?”
“No.”
“Hmmm. That’s one hell of a complicated electronic bug they’ve planted in your bonnet, friend.”
“Yes.”
XV
Bat Hardin had been right. New Woodstock was slow to get underway the following morning. It was almost eleven o’clock before they began to roll.
Dean Armanruder was impatient with Bat but yielded to his demand that the mobile town remain in tight convoy again this day.
Bat led the way down the Pan American Highway, about a kilometer in advance of the town proper. Al Castro, driving today rather than his wife Pamela, was in Bat’s usual place immediately ahead of the column. Luke Robertson brought up the rear. They were utilizing the same system as they had the day before. On the town phone system, Bat had once again emphasized the need for no one dropping out.
All went without incident for the first 120 kilometers, then ahead of him Bat spotted an official-looking car, two uniformed men next to it. There was a crossroads, and a barrier blocked the highway they were proceeding along. The sign on the barrier read
Bat pulled up and one of the uniformed Mexicans came over and touched the peak of his hat in an informal salute.
Bat Hardin said, “What’s up?” not knowing whether or not the other spoke English.
“Desviacion,” the other told him in passable English.
“What you call a detour, Senor. The road is being worked upon a couple of kilometers ahead.”
The Mexican brought forth a road map from his hip pocket and traced on it with a finger. “It is not much difference in distance. You go over here toward Dolores Hidalgo and then turn south to San Miguel de Allende. Then you come out at Queretaro, here.” He shrugged. “Actually, Senor, it is a much more beautiful drive than this one, although, admittedly, the road is not so good.”
Bat shrugged too. “Okay.” he said. “A detour’s a detour and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
The other turned and went back to his own car.
The mobile art colony was beginning to catch up with him. He raised Al Castro on his phone and said, “There’s a slight detour. We turn right.”
“Okay as she goes,” Al yawned. “Sure is hotter than hell today. I hate heat.” Al also hated cold, when it was cold and rain when it rained, as Bat Hardin recalled.
Bat flicked him off and proceeded.
He dialed the local road map and checked out the route of the detour. As the Mexican had said, it didn’t lengthen their trip by very much. The road, as the other had told him, wasn’t nearly as fine as the Pan American Highway, but it was adequate. There seemed to be no traffic whatsoever, which mildly surprised him. But then, of course, there weren’t nearly the number of vehicles in Mexico as there were in the States and this was a by- way.
Before reaching the historic Dolores Hidalgo which, Bat vaguely recalled, was the town where the Mexican
