Collected Short Fiction

by C. M. Kornbluth

  “Everything you’ve got,” Adams said promptly. “And then it wouldn’t be enough. The Chief wouldn’t like it if we came back without the lady.”

  “Do you know who I am?” the old man asked.

  “Sure,” Haines answered. “Everybody knows, even me. Barrios, SMRC. Mister SMRC, you might say. Ain’t that right?”

  “Yes,” said Barrios sadly. “I have here—” His hand dipped into his breast pocket. The gun made a sudden alarmed jerk in his direction and then subsided as Barrios drew out a flimsy sheet of pink paper, folded. “I have here the fruit of my last fifteen years of work. The world thought I was a dodderer whom the parade has passed by. But summarized on this sheet is a practical method of multiplying the output of S.M.P. Domes ten times. Think about it a minute and see if you still think it’s not enough to pay for a girl’s life.”

  “That changes the picture,” Adams admitted grimly, reaching out his hand. “Hand it over.” And then he gasped. Barrios had darted the paper toward the candleflame, twitching it back with a wisp of smoke curling from one corner. Adams stared for a moment at the curl of smoke, and then his eyes swung back on Sloane and Miss Vanderpoel.

  “Why didn’t you sell this thing long ago?” he demanded suspiciously.

  Barrios sighed. “I long ago lost ambition; I long ago lost my illusion that men would use metal for anything but making war. Ten times more metal, ten times as much death and agony. I would have given it to the world if I thought it was any use. But now there is a reason. It’s yours . . . for the lady’s life.”

  Adams was watching Sloane and the woman. His friend was staring at Barrios. He muttered: “He was a big shot—”

  “You are hesitating,” said the triple Nobelist, with a touch of the old resonance in his voice. “Very well. The world does not know how to use it and you do not want it. Let it burn!”

  He crumpled the paper in his hand and tossed it at the fire that twinkled in the grate.

  “Get it, Chuck!” shrieked the replica, diving for the grate, and so did Adams, clawing at the coals.

  Sloane landed on the small of Adams’ back with both feet. The other killer snatched up Adams’ dropped gun and rolled over, spraying bullets at full-automatic until a priceless wrought-iron fire poker smashed his hand. Miss Vanderpoel said to him as he screamed: “Lie there unless you want it in the head next.” She twirled the poker.

  “Lord,” said Sloane, white-faced. “I killed him.” He rolled Adams over, shrinking from the touch, and found the ball of flimsy pink paper crushed under his chest, only charred at the edges.

  “We saved it, Professor!” he said triumphantly turning to the club chair. But Barrios was slumped far down with blood throbbing from his chest. He was making a curious chuckling noise and Sloane bent low to hear.

  “Glad you came,” he said, slowly but distinctly. “I was bored.” Then he died. Sloane thrust the crumpled ball of paper into his pocket and turned to the gunman.

  “You killed him,” he said.

  The man groaned and clutched his mashed hand.

  “Who’s your boss, fella?” Sloane said grimly. “I want to know who sends people like you out to kill people like us—and him.”

  The man groaned louder.

  “I won’t ask you twice,” Sloane said. He took the wrought-iron tongs and thrust them into the heart of the fire. Miss Vanderpoel’s face writhed, but she didn’t speak.

  FIVE MINUTES and three seconds later Haines was screaming: “I don’t know his name! He’s a tall fat guy who works for the Gov’ment! He meets me in the Dupont Circle Bar! He’ll get me killed if he knows about this! He’ll send his greasers with their knives! I sear I don’t know his name!”

  Sloane said thoughtfully: “Lots of tall, fat men work for the Government. I can think of one who was in a position to break your incognito. I can think of one whom I told about getting a letter from Professor Barrios. I can think of one who’s in a position to seed Latin-American sympathizers through the entire S.M.P.C. and botch things as thoroughly as they’ve been botched.”

  He thrust the cooling tongs back into the fire, and the man screamed again at the thought..

  “No more!” said Miss Vanderpoel, compulsively.

  “Perhaps not . . . does you boss swear a lot? Blue-eyed? Sandy hair with a widow’s peak in front that he combs over a bald crown? Big square front teeth? Like grey suits? Extra-big chronometer wrist-watch?”

  He didn’t need the tongs again. The man answered the right questions right and the catch questions right.

  “Call that National number,” he told her. “We have enough for a pick-up order on Hennessey.”

  She went to the ball and he heard the murmur of her voice at the phone.

  Only when she came back did he remember the crumpled ball of paper in his pocket. He smoothed it open and found that it was a past-due laundry bill.

  l

  It was a lovely ceremony on the lawn of the African Embassy in the crisp fall air. The African Home Secretary for Science, Leila ‘al-Mekhtub Waziri Huyler-Ngomo (after the Learner spy roundup she had been able to shed her ineffectual incognito) was a favorite target of the press photographers. She pinned the African Diamond Star, First Class, on Dr. Lev Sloane for courageous and selfless service to United Africa and made a little speech. Dr. Sloane spoke also, briefly, and concluded with the African salutation salaam aleikum, touching his brow, lips and breast with a graceful inclination of his head. The African guests were obviously moved by his sincerity, and the North American guests were obviously somewhat alarmed. Some of them murmured uneasily about Sloane’s recent practice of dipping into the Sayings of the Ma’di at odd moments.

  A lawn buffet followed, with couscous, Barbary sheep, antelope kebabs, plantain, scrambled ostrich eggs—two of them—curries in the style of the Durban Hindus and a rijstafel in the style of the Afrikanders.

  Sloane had tasted the rijstafel, and hidden behind a transplanted jujube bush when he saw the Home Secretary for Science coming that way.

  He saw her draw near and was about to come out when she too, simultaneously saw someone near and imperiously hailed him: “Mr. Kalamba! Come here if you please!”

  Mr. Kalamba, tall, young and worried-looking, did so.

  “Salaam,” he said nervously.

  “Mr. Kalamba, I’m very displeased with you. Strictly you are not under my direction, but you are science attache to the embassy and I feel that this gives me a right to speak. Frankly, it has become notorious that you are running around with young North American persons.”

  Mr. Kalamba mumbled something. “Tommyrot, my dear boy! You know perfectly well that I don’t refer to legitimate contacts in the way of embassy business. I refer to your drinking beer and eating hamburgers with youngsters from the Commerce department, and Agriculture, and such.”

  “They’re good chaps,” muttered Mr. Kalamba.

  “I dare say, but we must draw the line. Answer this question truthfully: would you want your sister to marry one?”

  Lev Sloane didn’t wait for Mr. Kalamba’s answer.

  The Adventurer

  For every evil under the sun, there’s an answer. It may be a simple, direct answer; it may be one that takes years, and seems unrelated to the problem. But there’s an answer—of a kind . . .

  President Folsom XXIV said petulantly to his Secretary of the Treasury: “Blow me to hell, Bannister, if I understood a single word of that. Why can’t I buy the Nicolaides Collection? And don’t start with the rediscount and the Series W business again. Just tell me why.” The Secretary of the Treasury said with an air of apprehension and a thread-like feeling across his throat: “It boils down to—no money, Mr. President.”

  The President was too engrossed in thoughts of the marvelous collection to fly into a rage. “It’s such a bargain,” he said mournfully. “An archaic Henry Moore figure—really too big to finger, but I’m no culture-snob, thank God—and fifteen early Morrisons and I can’t begin to tell you what else.” He looke
d hopefully at the Secretary of Public Opinion: “Mightn’t I seize it for the public good or something?”

  The Secretary of Public Opinion shook his head. His pose was gruffly professional. “Not a chance, Mr. President. We’d never get away with it. The art-lovers would scream to high Heaven.”

  “I suppose so . . . Why isn’t there any money?” He had swiveled dangerously on the Secretary of the Treasury again.

  “Sir, purchases of the new Series W bond issue have lagged badly because potential buyers have been attracted to—”

  “Stop it, stop it, stop it! You know I can’t make head or tail of that stuff. Where’s the money “going?”

  The Director of the Budget said cautiously: “Mr. President, during the biennium just ending, the Department of Defense accounted for 78 per cent of expenditures—”

  The Secretary of Defense growled: “Now wait a minute; Felder! We were voted—”

  The President interrupted, raging weakly: “Oh, you rascals! My father-would have known what to do with you! But don’t think I can’t handle it. Don’t think you can hoodwink me.” He punched a button ferociously; his silly face was contorted with rage and there was a certain tension on all the faces around the Cabinet table.

  Panels slid down abruptly in the walls, revealing grim-faced Secret Servicemen. Each Cabinet officer was covered by at least two automatic rifles.

  “Take that—that traitor away!” the President yelled. His finger pointed at the Secretary of Defense, who slumped over the table, sobbing. Two Secret Servicemen half-carried him from the room.

  President Folsom XXIV leaned back, thrusting out his lower lip. He told the Secretary of the Treasury: “Get me the money for the Nicolaides Collection. Do you understand? I don’t care how you do it. Get it.” He glared at the Secretary of Public Opinion. “Have you any comments?”

  “No, Mr. President.”

  “All rights then.” The President unbent and said plaintively: “I don’t see why you can’t all be more reasonable. I’m a very reasonable man. I don’t see why I can’t have a few pleasures along with my responsibilities. Really I don’t. And I’m sensitive. I don’t like these scenes. Very well. That’s all. The Cabinet meeting is adjourned.”

  They rose and left silently in the order of their seniority. The President noticed that the panels were still down and pushed the button that raised them again and hid the granite-faced Secret Servicemen. He took out of his pocket d late Morrison fingering-piece and turned it over in his hand, a smile of relaxation and bliss spreading over his face. Such amusing textural contrast!

  Such unexpected variations on the classic sequences!

  The Cabinet, less the Secretary, of Defense, was holding a rump meeting in an untapped corner of the White House gymnasium.

  “God,” the Secretary of State said, white-faced. “Poor old Willy!”

  The professionally gruff Secretary of Public Opinion said: “We should murder the bastard. I don’t care what happens—”

  The Director of the Budget said dryly: “We all know what would happen. President Folsom XXV would take office. No; we’ve got to keep plugging as before. Nothing short of the invincible can topple the Republic . . .”

  “What about a war?” the Secretary of Commerce demanded fiercely. “We’ve no proof that our program will work. What about a-war?”

  State said wearily: “Not while there’s a balance of power, my dear man. The Io-Callisto Question proved that. The Republic and the Soviet fell over, themselves trying to patch things up as soon as it seemed that there would be real shooting. Folsom XXIV and his excellency Premier Yersinsky know at least that much.”

  The Secretary of the Treasury said: “What would you all think of Steiner for Defense?”

  The Director of the Budget was astonished. “Would he take it?”

  Treasury cleared his throat. “As a matter of fact, I’ve asked him to stop by right about now.” He hurled a medicine ball into the budgetary gut.

  “Oof!” said the Director. “You bastard. Steiner would be perfect. He runs Standards like a watch,” He treacherously fired the medicine ball at the Secretary of Raw Materials, who blandly caught it and slammed it back.

  “Here he comes,” said the Secretary of Raw Materials. “Steiner! Come and sweat some oleo off!”

  Steiner ambled over, a squat man in his fifties, and said: “I don’t mind if I do. Where’s Willy?”

  State said: “The President unmasked him as a traitor. He’s probably been executed by now.”

  Steiner looked grim, and grimmer yet when the Secretary of the Treasury said, dead-pan: “We want to propose you for Defense.”

  “I’m happy in Standards,” Steiner said. “Safer, too. The Man’s father took an interest in science, but The Man never comes around. Things are very quiet. Why don’t you invite Winch, from the National Art Commission? It wouldn’t be much of a change for the worse for him.”

  “No brains,” the Secretary for Raw Materials said briefly. “Heads up!”

  Steiner caught the ball and slugged it back at him. “What good are brains?” he asked quietly.

  “Close the ranks, gentlemen,” State said. “These long shots are too hard on my arms.”

  The ranks closed and the Cabinet told Steiner what good were brains. He ended by accepting.

  The Moon is all Republic. Mars is all Soviet. Titan is all Republic. Ganymede is all Soviet. But Io and Callisto, by the Treaty of Greenwich, are half-and-half Republic and Soviet.

  Down the main street of the, principal settlement on Io runs an invisible line. On one side of the line, the principal settlement is known as New Pittsburgh. On the other side it is known as Nizhni-Magnitogorsk.

  Into a miner’s home in New Pittsburgh one day an eight-year-old boy named Grayson staggered, bleeding from the head. His eyes were swollen almost shut.

  His father lurched to his feet, knocking over a bottle. He looked stupidly at the bottle, set it up right, too late to save much of the alcohol, and then stared fixedly at the boy. “See what you made me do, you little bastard?” he growled, and fetched the boy a clout on his bleeding head that sent him spinning against the wall of the hut. The boy got up slowly and silently—there seemed to be something wrong with his left arm—and glowered at his father.

  He said nothing.

  “Fighting again,” the father said, in a would-be fierce voice. His eyes fell under the peculiar fire in the boy’s stare. “Damn fool—”

  A woman came in from the kitchen. She was tall and thin. In a flat voice she said to the man: “Get out of here.” The man hiccupped and said: “Your brat spilled my bottle. Gimme a dollar.”

  In the same flat voice: “I have to buy food.”

  “I said gimme a dollar!” The man slapped her face—it did not change—and wrenched a small purse from the string that suspended it around her neck. The boy suddenly was a demon, flying at his father with fists and teeth. It lasted only a second or two. The father kicked him into a corner where he lay, still glaring, wordless and dry-eyed. The mother had not moved; her husband’s handmark was still red on her face when he hulked out, clutching the money bag.

  Mrs. Graysop at last crouched in the corner with the eight-year-old boy. “Little Tommy,” she said softly. “My little Tommy! Did you cross the line again?”

  He was blubbering in her arms, hysterically, as she caressed him. At last he was able to say: “I didn’t cross the line, Mom. Not this time. It was in school. They said our name was really Krasinsky. God-damn him!” the boy shrieked. “They said his grandfather was named Krasinsky and he moved over the line and changed his name to Grayson! God-damn him! Doing that to us!”

  “Now darling,” his mother said, caressing him. “Now, darling.” His trembling began to ebb. She said: “Let’s get out the spools, Tommy. You mustn’t fall behind in school. You owe that to me, don’t you, darling?”

  “Yes, Mom,” he said. He threw his spindly arms around her and kissed her. “Get out the spools. We’ll show him. I mean
them.”

  President Folsom XXIV lay on his death-bed, feeling no pain, mostly because his personal physician had pumped him full of morphine. Dr. Barnes sat by the bed holding the presidential wrist and waiting, occasionally nodding off and recovering with a belligerent stare around the room. The four wire-service men didn’t care whether he fell asleep or not; they were worriedly discussing the nature and habits of the President’s first-born, who would shortly succeed to the highest office in the Republic.

  “A firebrand, they tell me,” the A. P. man said unhappily.

  “Firebrands I don’t mind,” the U.P. man said. “He can send out all the inflammatory notes he wants just as long as he isn’t a fiend for exercise. I’m not as young as I once was. You boys wouldn’t remember the old President, Folsom XXII. He used to do point-to-point hiking. He worshipped old F.D.R.”

  The I.N.S. man said, lowering his voice: “Then he was worshipping the wrong Roosevelt. Teddy was the athlete.”

  Dr. Barnes started, dropped the presidential wrist and held a mirror to the mouth for a moment. “Gentlemen,” he said, “the President is dead.”

  “O.K.,” the A.P. man said. “Let’s go, boys. I’ll send in the flash. U.P., you go cover the College of Electors. I.N.S., get onto the President Elect. Trib, collect some interviews and background—”

  The door opened abruptly; a colonel of infantry was standing there, breathing hard, with an automatic rifle at port. “Is he dead?” he asked.

  “Yes,” the A.P. man said. “If you’ll let me past—”

  “Nobody leaves the room,” the colonel said grimly. “I represent General Slocum, Acting President of the Republic. The College of Electors is acting now to ratify—”

  A burst of gunfire caught the colonel in the back; he spun and fell, with a single hoarse cry. More gunfire sounded through the White House. A Secret Serviceman ducked his head through the door: “President’s dead? You boys stay put. We’ll have this thing cleaned up in an hour—” He vanished.