O'Loy.
'Who makes the roads roll?'
The speaker stood still on the rostrum and waited for his audience to answer him.
The reply came in scattered shouts that cut through the ominous, discontented murmur of the crowd.
'We do! We do! Damn right!'
'Who does the dirty work 'down inside'—so that Joe Public can ride at his ease?'
This time it was a single roar: 'We do!'
The speaker pressed his advantage, his words tumbling out in a rasping torrent.
He leaned toward the crowd, his eyes picking out individuals at whom to fling his words. 'What makes business? The roads! How do they move the food they eat? The roads! How do they get to work? The roads! How do they get home to their wives?
The roads!' He paused for effect, then lowered his voice. 'Where would the public be if you boys didn't keep them roads rolling? Behind the eight ball, and everybody knows it. But do they appreciate it? Pfui! Did we ask for too much? Were our demands unreasonable? 'The right to resign whenever we want to.' Every working stiff in any other job has that. 'The same Pay as the engineers.' Why not? Who are the real engineers around here? D'yuh have to be a cadet in a funny little hat before you can learn to wipe a bearing, or jack down a rotor? Who earns his keep: The gentlemen in the control offices, or the boys down inside? What else do we ask? 'The right to elect our own engineers.' Why the hell not? Who's competent to pick engineers? The technicians—or some damn dumb examining board that's never been down inside, and couldn't tell a rotor bearing from a field coil?'
He changed his pace with natural art, and lowered his voice still further. 'I tell you, brother, it's time we quit fiddlin' around with petitions to the Transport Commission, and use a little direct action. Let 'em yammer about democracy; that's a lot of eyewash—we've got the power, and we're the men that count!'
A man had risen in the back of the hall while the speaker was haranguing. He spoke up as the speaker paused. 'Brother Chairman,' he drawled, 'may I stick in a couple of words?'
'You are recognized, Brother Harvey.'
'What I ask is: What's all the shootin' for? We've got the highest hourly rate of pay of any mechanical guild, full insurance and retirement, and safe working conditions, barring the chance of going deaf.' He pushed his antinoise helmet farther back from his ears. He was still in dungarees, apparently just up from standing watch.
'Of course we have to give ninety days' notice to quit a job, but, cripes, we knew that when we signed up. The roads have got to roll—they can't stop every time some lazy punk gets tired of his billet.
'And now Soapy'—the crack of the gavel cut him short—'Pardon me, I mean Brother Soapy—tells us how powerful we are, and how we should go in for direct action. Rats! Sure, we could tie up the roads, and play hell with the whole community—but so could any screwball with a can of nitroglycerin, and he wouldn't have to be a technician to do it, neither.
'We aren't the only frogs in the puddle. Our jobs are important, sure, but where would we be without the farmers—or the steel workers—or a dozen other trades and professions?'
He was interrupted by a sallow little man with protruding upper teeth, who said:
'Just a minute, Brother Chairman, I'd like to ask Brother Harvey a question,' then turned to Harvey and inquired in a sly voice: 'Are you speaking for the guild, brother—or just for yourself? Maybe you don't believe in the guild? You wouldn't by any chance be'—he stopped and slid his eyes up and down Harvey's lank frame—'a spotter, would you?'
Harvey looked over his questioner as if he had found something filthy in a plate of food. 'Sikes,' he told him, 'if you weren't a runt, I'd stuff your store teeth down your throat. I helped found this guild. I was on strike in '60. Where were you in '60? With the finks?'
The chairman's gavel pounded. 'There's been enough of this,' he said. 'Nobody that knows anything about the history of this guild doubts the loyalty of Brother Harvey. We'll continue with the regular order of business.'' He stopped to clear his throat.' 'Ordinarily, we don't open our floor to outsiders, and some of you boys have expressed a distaste for some of the engineers we work under, but there is one engineer we always like to listen to whenever he can get away from his pressing duties. I guess maybe it's because he's had dirt under his nails the same as us.
Anyhow, I present at this time Mr. Shorty Van Kleeck—'' A shout from the floor stopped him. 'Brother Van Kleeck—' 'O.K., Brother Van Kleeck, chief deputy engineer of this roadtown.' 'Thanks, Brother Chairman.' The guest speaker came briskly forward, and grinned expansively at the crowd. He seemed to swell under their approval. 'Thanks, brothers. I guess our chairman is right. I always feel more comfortable here in the guild hall of the Sacramento Sector— or any guild hall for that matter—than I do in the engineers' clubhouse. Those young punk cadet engineers get in my hair. Maybe I should have gone to one of the fancy technical institutes, so I'd have the proper point of view, instead of coming up from down inside.
'Now, about those demands of yours that the Transport Commission just threw back in your face—Can I speak freely?' 'Sure you can, Shorty! You can trust us!'
'Well, of course I shouldn't say anything, but I can't help but understand how you feel. The roads are the big show these days, and you are the men who make them roll.
It's the natural order of things that your opinions should be listened to, and your desires met. One would think that even politicians would be bright enough to see that.
Sometimes, lying awake at night, I wonder why we technicians don't just take things over, and—'
'Your wife is calling, Mr. Gaines.'
'Very well.' He flicked off the office intercommunicator and picked up a telephone handset from his desk. 'Yes, darling, I know I promised, but— You're perfectly right, darling, but Washington has especially requested that we show Mr.
Blekinsop anything he wants to see. I didn't know he was arriving today.... No, I can't turn him over to a subordinate. It wouldn't be courteous. He's Minister of Transport for Australia- I told you that.... Yes, darling, I know that courtesy begins at home, but the roads must roll. It's my job; you knew that when you roamed me. And this is part of my job
That's a good girl. We'll positively have breakfast together. Tell you what, order horses and a breakfast pack and we'll make it a picnic. I'll meet you in Bakersfield—usual place. Good-by, darling. Kiss Junior good night for me.'
He replaced the handset, whereupon the pretty but indignant features of his wife faded from the visor screen. A young woman came into his office. As she opened the door, she exposed momentarily the words painted on its outer side: 'Diego-Reno Roadtown, Office of the Chief Engineer.' He gave her a harassed glance.
'Oh, it's you. Don't marry an engineer, Dolores, marry an artist. They have more home life.'
'Yes, Mr. Gaines. Mr. Blekinsop is here, Mr. Gaines.'
'Already? I didn't expect him so soon. The Antipodes ship must have grounded early.'
'Yes, Mr. Gaines.'
'Dolores, don't you ever have any emotions?'
'Yes, Mr. Gaines.'
'Hm-m-m, it seems incredible, but you are never mistaken. Show Mr. Blekinsop in.'
'Very good, Mr. Gaines.'
Larry Gaines got up to greet his visitor. Not a particularly impressive little guy, he thought, as they shook hands and exchanged formal amenities. The rolled umbrella, the bowler hat, were almost too good to be true. An Oxford accent partially masked the underlying clipped, flat, nasal twang of the native Australia.
'It's a pleasure to have you here, Mr. Blekinsop, and I hope we can make your stay enjoyable.'
The little man smiled. 'I'm sure it will be. This is my first visit to your wonderful country. I feel at home already. The eucalyptus trees, you know, and the brown hills—'
'But your trip is primarily business?'
'Yes, yes. My primary purpose is to study your roadcities and report to my government on the advisablity of trying to adapt your startling American methods to our social problems Down Under. I thought you understood that
