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McCall.”
    â€œJack Kozinski, and I’m not your son.”
    McCall watched him stuff the twenty dollars into his wallet, then started the engine. Glancing back he saw that the man he’d hit was back on his feet. “You may not be my son, but you’re not a striker, either.”
    â€œI work at Mann part time, while I’m going to college.”
    â€œStanyon?”
    The young man nodded. “That’s the only one around.”
    â€œIt’s a good place. The Governor of the state was graduated from its law school.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œWho are those other guys?”
    Kozinski relaxed a bit. “The one you hit is Carry Tanner.” He was silent for a moment, then added, “I guess you shouldn’t have done it.”
    â€œOh? Why not?”
    â€œHe’s a tough man to tangle with.”
    â€œI didn’t really have much choice under the circumstances,” McCall pointed out.
    â€œWell, the strike has been long. Feelings are pretty bitter.”
    â€œWhat’s it all about, anyway?”
    â€œDon’t you know? Isn’t that what brought you here?”
    McCall twisted the steering wheel to avoid a tired-looking dog that had wandered into the country road. “I wouldn’t be asking if I knew. My business has no connection with the strike.”
    â€œWell,” Kozinski began, “we’ve got an odd situation at Mann Photo. Most of the men have been there a long time—twenty years or more. They’re experts at film coating and colour-film processing. And they’ve been getting pretty good pay. But lately Mann’s been hiring some blacks, mainly in the packaging and shipping departments. Some of them are making nearly as much as the old-timers, and it’s caused a lot of bitterness.”
    â€œThat’s no odd situation. That’s the way it is these days.”
    â€œMaybe.”
    â€œWhat’s the feeling towards Xavier Mann?”
    â€œNot good. I can tell you that. And Mann knows it. He’s supposed to be meeting this afternoon with the mayor and some of the plant officials.” They had topped a last hill and come into sight of a flat, gently rolling area. The large white house, styled in a pseudo-Colonial manner complete with pillars, was obviously the home of Xavier Mann. A half-dozen cars were parked in the great curving driveway.
    â€œI’ll have to drop you off here,” McCall said. “Can you get back all right?”
    Jack Kozinski nodded. “I can get a bus at the next crossroads. It’s not far.”
    He started to get out of the car, and McCall asked, “One more question. Did you ever hear of a man named Sol Dahlman?”
    â€œDahlman? No, I don’t think I ever did.”
    McCall nodded and climbed out of his side of the car. He watched for a moment as Kozinski set off down the road, then he started up the curving driveway towards Xavier Mann’s front door. The house was almost as large as Governor Holland’s mansion, and compared to that bleak structure this seemed like a thing of true beauty—the sort one saw in motion pictures about the affluent society.
    Just as McCall reached the door it opened unexpectedly and five middle-aged, well-dressed men came out, chatting among themselves. He stepped aside and they passed with only glances in his direction. Two men still stood in the inner hallway, and McCall entered the partly open door. The two men were talking intently, with their heads partly bowed. It was apparent that these were the leaders, the money and brains of Rockview.
    â€œThank you for coming, Mayor,” the one on the right said finally, sensing McCall’s presence. The two men shook hands, and the mayor—a kindly-looking, white-haired man of sixty or so—turned towards the door. The other man, older, fatter, and balder, stared at McCall questioningly.
    â€œMr. Mann? I’m Micah McCall, Assistant to the Governor for