O'Leary turned away. It was astonishing, he thought, what a different
perspective he had on those helicopter bombers from inside Block O.
Once he had cursed the warden for not ordering at least tear gas to be
dropped.
He said harshly: "Nothing. Just that the 'copters have the place
surrounded."
"Does it make any difference?"
He shrugged. Does it make a difference? The difference between trouble
and tragedy, or so it now seemed to Captain O'Leary. The riot was
trouble. They could handle it, one way or another. It was his job, any
guard's job, to handle _prison_ trouble.
But to bring the GIs into it was to invite race riot. Not prison
riot--race riot. Even the declassed scum in the Jug would fight back
against the GIs. They were used to having the Civil-Service guards over
them--that was what guards were for. Civil-Service guards guarded.
What else? It was their job--as clerking was a rigger's job, and
machines were a greaser's, and pick-and-shovel strong-arm work was a
wipe's.
But the Armed Services--their job was to defend the country against
forces outside--in a world that had only inside forces. The cons
wouldn't hold still under attack from the GIs. _Race riot!_
But how could you tell that to a girl like this Bradley? O'Leary
glanced at her covertly. She _looked_ all right. Rather nice-looking,
if anything. But he hadn't forgotten why she was in E-G. Joining a
terrorist organization, the Association for the Advancement of the
Categoried Classes.
Actually getting up on street corners and proposing that greasers'
children be allowed to go to school with GIs, that wipes inter-marry
with Civil Service. Good Lord, they'd be suggesting that doctors eat
with laymen next!