“Now, as I was starting to say, we are a coalition of mercenaries. Our current employers are the people you refer to as the C-Block.”
Fred felt his flesh turn cold. Commies! They were being held at gunpoint by a pack of Commies!
“We are relaying a proposal to you from our employers. What we are offering you is a lasting world peace. Now let me elaborate on that before everyone panics. In the past, when someone offers world peace, it's usually on their terms. 'Do things my way and nobody will get hurt!' Well, this isn't what we're saying. We aren't saying the free world should convert to communism, or that the Communists should go imperialistic. We are proposing a method by which both ideals can be left free to pattern their lives according to the dictates of their conscience and traditions.”
Neat trick if you can do it. Fred was nonetheless interested.
“One of the purposes of this Council is to determine how much support you feel you should give the governments in the way of taxes. Part and parcel with this is an appraisal of how much they really need. We would suggest that the governments of the world can cut a major portion of their expense by disbanding their armed forces.”
A murmur rippled through the delegates which quickly subsided as they remembered they were under the guns.
“What we propose to replace the multitude of individual armies with is one worldwide army of hard-core professionals, mercenaries if you will, paid equally by the corporations and the C-Block. It would be their job to maintain world peace, moving to block any country or group who attempted a forceful infringement on their neighbors. This was tried unsuccessfully once by the United Nations. It failed for two reasons. First, the nations still kept their armed forces, giving them a capacity for attacking each other; and second, the UN forces were not given adequate power to do their job. May I assure the assemblage that if we say we will stop a conflict, it will be stopped.”
He smiled grimly at them. Not a person in the room doubted him.
“Now, there are several automatic objections which would be raised to such a force. The most obvious is the fear of a military takeover. In reply, I would point out that right now we could kill everyone in this room. The question is why? Any such army which abused its power would rapidly be confronted by several things. The first would be an armed uprising of the general populace. If every time we killed someone, five other people got upset and we had to kill them, eventually there would be no one left in the world but soldiers. We are not that kind of madmen. By definition, we are soldiers, not farmers or storekeepers. We are dependent on you for our livelihood. You don't kill the goose that lays the golden egg, and a sane man doesn't shoot his boss.”
He paused. There was a thoughtful silence in the room.
“It might be pointed out that we have been operating in the C-Block for a number of years now in this capacity. They needed all available manpower for their rebuilding, so they cannibalized the army and turned the job of security over to us. It was a desperation move, but it's worked. The arrangement has proven beneficial to all concerned. I might add that to date there have been no attempted military takeovers. The only lingering fear is of a takeover attempt from outside the C-Block, which is why we are here. We offer you a cheap and lasting peace by subscribing to our services. There is no threat of invasion if there is no armed, organized invasion force.”
His words hung in the air. Fred found himself trying to imagine a world without a threat of war.
"There is another, less pleasant objection which might be raised to this plan. I'm sure that as businessmen, it has occurred to you. War is good business. It can provide a vital shot in the arm to a sagging economy. Do we really want to eliminate war?
“Before I answer that question, let me point out another problem. How do we keep in training? If we are successful, if war becomes obsolete, if there is no enemy for us to train for, what is to keep us from becoming fat, lazy, and useless leeches?”
He smiled at the room.
“You in this room have given us an answer to both problems. For the last two years in the C-Block, we have been using your kill-suits in our training. Our main purpose was to provide hard training for our troops, but it had a surprising side product. Military maneuvers in kill-suits have emerged as a spectator sport of astounding popularity. We have developed various categories of competition and regular teams have formed, each with their followers and fans. Apparently, once the populace becomes accustomed to the fact that no real injuries or deaths are incurred, they find it far more enjoyable than movies or television. Certain of our mercenaries have become minor celebrities and occasionally have to be guarded from autograph-seeking fans.”
There was a low buzz of conversation going as he continued.
“Now this means that not only does the military industry continue, but that there is an unexpected windfall of a new spectator sport. I am sure I do not have to elaborate for this assemblage the profits latent in proper handling of a spectator sport.”
This time he actually got a low ripple of laughter in response to his joke. Even Fred found himself chortling. Don't teach your grandmother to steal sheep, sonny.
“Well, I feel I have used up enough of your time on the proposal. I'd ask that you discuss it among yourselves and with your superiors. We will be back in a week, at which time we will be ready to answer any and all questions you might have. I would like to apologize for the tactic of holding you at gunpoint, but we were not certain what your initial reaction would be to our appearance. I will pay you the compliment of telling you the guns are loaded. We are more than slightly afraid of you. You are dangerous men. Thank you.”
He stepped down from the podium and started for the door, gathering his men as he went.
Gutsy bastard! thought Fred, and started to clap. Others picked it up, and by the time the mercenaries reached the door, the applause was thunderous. They paused, waved, and left.
“Sorry I couldn't tell you sooner, Steve, but orders are orders.”
“No problem.”
“I want to tell you I rate drawing down on you as one of the nerviest things I've done in my life. Oh, I have a contract offer for you from the coalition.”
“Kind of hoped you would. Come on, I'll buy you a drink.”
“Hey, thanks. I need one after that.”
They walked on in silence for a while. Finally Tidwell broke the reverie.
“Autograph-seeking fans?”
“Hey, wait till it happens to you. It's spooky.”
They both laughed.
“Say, tell me, Clancy-what's it like working for the C-Block?”
“Do you want the truth? I couldn't say this back there for fear of being torn apart, but there's no difference. Call it the United Board of Directors or the Party. A fat cat string-puller is a fat cat string-puller, and anyone in a position of power without controls has the same problems. The phrasing is different, but they both say the same thing. Keep the workers happy with an illusion of having some say so they don't tear us out of our cushy pigeonholes. That's what makes our job so easy. People are people. They shy away from violence and stuff their faces with free candy whenever they can. And nobody but nobody acknowledges their base drives like greed. We do, so we have the world by the short and curlys.”
Tidwell waved a hand.
“That's too heavy for me. Speaking of base drives, I still want that drink. Where are we going?”
“Aki's found a little Japanese restaurant that serves a good Irish whiskey. The whole crew hangs out there. ”'
“You're on. Autograph-seeking fans, huh?”
The two mercenaries walked on, laughing oblivious to the curious and indignant stares directed at them.
The Cold Cash War
-24-
Thomas Mausier was extremely busy. Ever since the C-Block's curtain of silence had been lifted, his business had almost tripled. All the questions that had backlogged so long without answers were suddenly live again. His
agents were having a field day.
The biggest problem confronting Mausier currently was determining if this was merely a wave that would die back down to normal levels, or if he should expand his operations to handle the new volume. He had already had to add a second shift just to process the items pouring in 'round the clock, and he hadn't had time to pursue his hobby in nearly a month. Not bad for a little business he had started to escape the gray flannel rat race.
At one point he had been worried about his business collapsing in the wake of the new order, but he should have known better. Information doesn't answer questions, it raises new ones. As long as there was money and people at stake, he'd be in business.
The light on the closed circuit television screen on his desk glowed to life, and he keyed it on.
“Yes, Ms. Witley?”
“Two men in the outer office to see you. They say it's important.”
As she spoke, she subtly manipulated the controls and the two men appeared in a split-screen effect.
They looked like corporate types, and their visit was uncomfortably close to lunch. Then he remembered his first visit from Hornsby.
“Bring them back.”
A few moments later they appeared. Ms. Witley did a quick round of introductions and left. Mausier slyly tripped the videotape recorders as he shook their hands. He'd gotten into the habit of taping all of his private conferences for later review.
“Now then Mr. Stills, Mr. Weaver. Are you buying or selling?”
They looked at him blankly. He felt a spark of annoyance.
“Buying or selling...?”
“Information. I assume that's why you're here. We don't deal in anything else.”
“Oh! No! I'm afraid you've got the wrong idea about why we're here. You see, Mr. Weaver and myself are here representing the United Board of Corporations.”
Mausier suddenly thought of his gun. It was at home, hanging in the bedroom closet. He hadn't worn it in weeks.
“I don't understand, gentlemen. Is there some kind of complaint...”
“No, no. Quite the contrary.” Stills's smile was pleasant and reassuring. “There's a matter we'd like to discuss with you that we feel is of mutual benefit. We were hoping you'd let us buy you lunch and we could talk at leisure.”
Mausier didn't return his smile.
“I'm in the habit of working through lunch. One of the disadvantages of working for yourself is that, unlike the corporations, there is such a thing as an indispensable man. In this business it's me. Now if you could state your business, I am rather a busy man.”
The two men exchanged glances and shrugged without moving their shoulders.
“Very well. We are authorized by the Board to speak to you about selling out-that is, the corporations are interested in acquiring your business.”
Mausier was stunned. For a moment he was unable to speak.
“Frankly, I think the first way you phrased it was more accurate,” he blurted out at last.
Weaver smiled, but Stills held up a restraining hand.
“Seriously, I phrased that rather poorly. Let me try again. You see, the Board has been investigating your operation for some time. The more they find, the more impressed they are.”
Mausier inclined his head slightly at the compliment.
“Originally, the plan was to build a similar operation for the Board's use. As it turned out, the more they looked into it, the more they realized the difficulties of duplicating your setup. Just building the network of agents you have would take time, and during that time, important things could happen.”
He paused to light a cigarette. Mausier glanced at his equipment but said nothing.
“So anyway, they decided the most efficient way to approach the problem was. to simply acquire your setup and put it to work for them.”
“There's one major drawback to that plan,” Mausier interrupted. “I'm not interested in selling.”
Again Stills held up his hand.
“Now, don't jump to conclusions, Mr. Mausier. I don't think you completely understand what we're proposing. You'd still be in control of the operation. You'd still be carried on the payroll at a hefty salary in addition, of course, to the acquisitions price, which I'll admit I feel is exorbitant. We wouldn't be taking anything away from you; in fact, we're anticipating-we're expecting the operation will expand. With proper pressure, all the corporations will deal through you for information. The way it's looking, you could end up as one of the most powerful men in the corporate world.”
This time it was Mausier who interrupted, rising to his feet and leaning across his desk.
“And I don't think you understand, gentlemen. I don't want to be one of the most powerful men in the corporate world. I don't want to expand my operation. And I don't want to sell my business!”
He was getting excited and losing control, but for once he didn't care.
“I spent enough time in your corporate world to know the one thing I wanted from it was out. I don't like brown-nosing, I don't like operating plans, I don't like performance reviews, I don't like benefits packages, I don't like pointless meetings, I don't like employee newspapers, I don't like office gossip, and I don't like being expendable. In short, gentlemen, I don't like corporations. That's why I started this business. To run it, I work harder than both of you put together and probably make less. But there's one thing I am that I'll bet neither of you has the vaguest conception of-I'm happy. You can't tax it, but it means a lot to me. Do I make myself quite clear?”
The two men languished in their chairs, apparently unmoved by his tirade.
“I don't think you understand, Mausier,” said Stills softly. “We weren't asking you!”
Mausier suddenly felt cold. He sank slowly back into his chair as Stills continued.
“Now, we're being nice and giving you an honest deal, but don't kid yourself about having a choice. In case you haven't been following the news, the corporations are running things now. When they say 'jump,' you don't say 'how high?' You say 'Can I come down now?' That's the way it is whether you like it or not.”
Mausier felt weak.
“And if I don't jump?” he asked quietly.
Stills grimaced.
“Now that would be unpleasant for everybody.”
Mausier raised his eyes to look at them.
“Are you saying they'd actually kill me?”
Stills actually looked surprised.
“Kill you? Hell, man, you read too many spy novels!”
Weaver spoke for the first time.
“Look around you, Mr. Mausier. You're running a very delicate operation here. What happens to it if the phone company refused you service? Or if the people who manufacture all the gadgetry either recall it or refuse to service it? The Zaibatsu have been monitoring your scramblers for years. Suppose they publish a notice in all newspapers that in one week they'll publish a list of names of all agents still on your list of clients? Now, I don't like threats, Mr. Mausier, but if we wanted to we could shut you down overnight.”
Mausier sagged in his chair. The two corporate men waited in respectful silence for him to recover his composure.
“Where do we go from here?”
Stills stood up.
“I've got to report in. Weaver here will stay with you as your new assistant to start learning the ropes. Policy says that all key personnel are supposed to have understudies.”
He started for the door.
“Stills!”
Mausier's voice stopped him with his hand on the knob.
“Is this the way it's going to be?”
Stills shrugged and smiled and left without answering.
The room lapsed into silence as Mausier sat staring into space. Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Weaver.
“Cheer up, Mr. Mausier.” His voice was sympathetic. “It could be worse. You're a valuable man. Just play ball and they'll take care of you. You know, 'go along, get along.'”
Mausier didn't respond. He just kept thinking about the gun in his bedroom closet.
The Cold Cash War Page 15
