The Second Mack Reynolds Megapack

by Mack Reynolds

  The Professor, at table’s end, had been beaming benignly, at the discussion. Now he put in, “Gentlemen, we must remember in concocting this game to strike the correct intellectual level. We do not wish something as double-domed as Scrabble, that would eliminate too many potential customers. Nor anything as simple as Parchesi; that is for children and this is an adult fad.”

  Ted Biemiller, as silent thus far as Les Frankle, grumbled, “And nothing as crass as Monopoly. Remember, Joan is a saint. Very high moral tone, that sort of thing.”

  The tweedy type took his pipe from his mouth and said, “We have all that in mind. However, the Pilgrimage is strictly for adults, but Joan is taking on with the kids, too.”

  “Sure is,” someone else muttered. “We flubbed on the mother and daughter Joan of Arc clothes sets. Way behind on orders.”

  “I suggest we bring out a simplified form of the game for children,” the tweedy type said.

  “For children and our simpler adults,” Les Frankle said unhappily.

  “Very well, By George,” the Professor said. “So it is with the Pilgrimage game. Now, could our representative from United Travels report on the Joan of Arc Tours?”

  The travel agent was crisp and needed no notes. “The tours should be expanded, or, perhaps, more than one be exploited, gentlemen. Originally, we had thought in terms of quick rocket trips across to France. A flight to Domremy in Lorraine, where the Maid was born. Then down to Orleans where she fought her most famous battle. Up to Rheims, where she crowned Charles the Seventh. Then to Rouen where she stood trial and was executed.”

  “By George, that sounds like quite a package,” the Professor said approvingly. “What do the marks…that is, what do the ladies pay for such a jaunt?”

  The representative from United Travels looked at him, thoughtfully. “Evidently, not as much as they are willing to pay, Professor. I think your research has underestimated some factors.”

  The Professor puffed out his cheeks as though incredulous, then glared at his three-man brain trust.

  The travel agent said, “Our customers seem more interested in their subject than we had expected from your reports. Our original idea was to hurry them about to the highlight spots in the Maid’s career and then dump them in Paris for a week of shopping and entertainment. Instead, they’re putting up a howl to see such places as the ruins of Chinon castle where she first met the Dauphin, the battlefields along the Loire where she led the French troops, Patay where she displayed her generalship and defeated the British, and Compiegne where the Burgundians captured her.”

  “By George,” the Professor exclaimed.

  “Besides that, they don’t want to waste time in Paris, other than to take in some special lectures at the Sorbonne on the Maid.”

  “What’s this the Maid stuff?” the fat man from California said. “Talking about Joan, aren’t you?”

  Les Frankle spoke up, loud enough to be heard this time. “Well, women belonging to the Jeanne d’Arc Clubs have taken to calling her The Maid of Orleans. Irene says it’s an instinctive reaction toward the virgin principle which dominates—”

  “Who’s Irene?” the tweedy type wanted to know.

  Les Frankle looked at him. “Irene’s my wife,” he said. “Dr. Irene Frankle.” He shifted uncomfortably. “She’s also national president of the Jeanne d’Arc Clubs.”

  “She is?” the Professor blurted. “No wonder we were not able to get a percentage of the dues from those clubs.”

  Somebody else said, “We worked that out two weeks ago. It’d be too obvious if our syndicate tried to get in on spontaneously organized clubs. Too bad, though. Man, they’ve swept the nation!”

  The Professor looked at Les accusingly. “You failed to inform me of Irene’s membership, not to speak of her presidency, By George.”

  “Well,” Les said doggedly, “you know how Irene is, sir. She’s got a regular phobia about joining all these women’s do-gooder outfits and all. She believes that organizations like this syndicate”—he flushed and nodded around unhappily to the table as a whole—“are, well, destroying the nation.”

  The tweedy type blurted, “Just what do you mean by that, young man!”

  Les looked at him apologetically. “Well, that’s what Irene says, sir. Such organizations as Dolittle Research, the other MR outfits and the ad agencies manipulate human motivations and desires and develop a need for products with which the public has previously been unfamiliar, perhaps even undesirous of purchasing. She thinks that’s ultimately turning the country into a nation of idiots, besides wasting natural resources.”

  The fat man was on his feet, blustering. “See here! I didn’t come to this conference to be insulted.” He glared at Professor Doolittle. “Who is this young fool, Professor?”

  Doolittle came to his own feet, and lifted his chubby paws placatingly. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, please.” He smiled benignly at Les Frankle, then returned to his confreres seated at the table.

  “You gentlemen are, ah, pragmatic businessmen. My lad, Les, here, is a highly trained double—that is, psychologist from one of the nation’s very top universities. His field is mass behavior, gentlemen, and, By George, he knows it. In discussing mass behavior, gentlemen, you draw on Durkheim in sociology, Korzybski in semantics, Whitehead in symbolic logic—I could go on. How many of you are acquainted with the works of these, ah, to use the idiom, crystal gazers? Gentlemen, if the past couple of decades has taught the businessman anything, it is that we need more whiskers…ah, that is, professors…not fewer. My lads here, Lester, James and Theodore, are top men in their fields, as you are in yours. We need them.” He chuckled as though at a sally. “And they need the money we pay them.”

  He said indulgently, “And now shall we have a report from our publisher? Undoubtedly, you gentlemen are already aware that our biography of Joan is still at the top of the nonfiction best sellers, and two of our novels on her are pushing second and fourth places. Now, this series of children’s books—”

  * * * *

  “Doublets and hose,” the Funked Out Kid said blankly. “Pseudo-mail. What is pseudo-mail?” He pushed his pince-nez glasses back onto the bridge of his nose with his left forefinger and stared at Ted Biemiller.

  “Pseudo-mail is a new type of sweater we’ve brought out for men. It’s practically the only thing selling now in sweaters. The industry is in a tizzy.”

  The Funked Out Kid was still blank. “But what is it?

  Pseudo-mail is a form of weave that makes the sweater look like mail.” Neither of the two older men had yet reacted, so he grunted and added, “Mail was the predominant type of armor used in the days of Jeanne d’ Arc.”

  “Oh,” Warren Dempsey Witherson beamed. “And we’re to publicize it, eh? My boy, from what you say, it doesn’t need much publicizing.”

  “No, sir. It seems to have swept the country, whether men want it or not. Our research shows that women, ultimately, buy, or influence to the decisive point, the buying of approximately eighty-five per cent of male clothing.

  Well, how about these tin shirts the women are wearing?”

  Ted ran a hand back through his hair in irritation. “Well, that’s another thing. We didn’t start that. It was spontaneous and other manufacturers got in on it before we could dominate the field.”

  “What’s this, By George?” the Professor interjected, indignantly. He had been sitting there quietly.

  “Corselets,” Ted growled. “They’re making them largely out of aluminum, but sometimes the lighter steel alloys. God knows, you’ve seen enough of the Joan of Arc illustrations we’ve put on the calendars and such. The popular idea is that in combat she wore a corselet. It’s body armor, the breastplate and the back piece together.”

  The Funked Out Kid was staring at him. “You mean, some grifter not on our team has managed to con the marks into wearing—”

  The Professor interrupted indulgently. “What the good doctor is saying, Theodore, is that it seems unlikely that a mode
rn, style conscious woman would be seen in public in such a contraption.”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Ted growled. “The way they’ve done them up, they look rather cute. Besides, it wasn’t until just lately they wore them in public, especially for evening wear. At first, it was just at their club meetings. You know, something like the Shriners in their Arab outfits, or the American Legion, or the Boy Scouts.”

  “Club meetings, eh?” the Professor said thoughtfully. He flicked his hand over an eye-button on his desk and said into empty air, “Walthers, send in Mr. Frankle.”

  While they waited, he said to Ted, “What’s this about doublets and hose?”

  Ted snorted. “That’s another one that Jimmy Leath seemed to underestimate in his depth research. He figured there’d be a small market for Fifteenth Century costume for masquerades. What we didn’t figure on is the pressure these women seem to be able to put to bear once they get on the Joan of Arc kick. That and the fact that men haven’t had any really basic change in their clothes since the Civil War. We’re, still wearing the same basic coats, vests and long trousered pants Lincoln did.”

  Witherson hacked thoughtfully a few times and then said, “I’ll put the boys to work on it. Maybe we can get the president to give his next press conference in this new outfit. Doublet and hose, eh?”

  Ted winced but said, “It’s no use our trying to pick it up now. Every men’s clothing manufacturer in the country is switching. In a week or so, you’ll be out of style wearing a suit.”

  * * * *

  Les Frankle, worried of expression, came in and said, “Yes, sir.”

  Doolittle picked up a report from his desk. “You wouldn’t know anything about this complaint from the French vintner concern that handles the Jeanne d’Arc Lorraine wines, the Saint Joan Rheims champagne and Joan of Arc Three Star Cognac?”

  “Well, no, sir,” Les said. “Not much. I’ve been looking into this gold and diamond charm bracelet project with the top designers from Tiff—”

  The Professor interrupted easily. “Before I forget, you had better drop that charm with Joan being burnt at the stake. The one with the chip rubies for fire. A bit on the bad taste side, lad. By George, this fad must be kept on the highest moral level. Is that not so, doctor?”

  Dr. Witherson cleared his throat. “Our only motivation,” he beamed.

  “Now, these riots in Kansas by the members of the Jeanne d’Arc Clubs. This dashing into bars and liquor stores, breaking up bottles with those swords of theirs. Really, By George, what is up?”

  “Well, sir, from what Irene says, the newspapers have the wrong idea. It’s not a Carrie Nation sort of thing at all.”

  “Irene!” the Professor blurted.

  “Who’s Carrie Nation?” Ted Biemiller growled.

  Les said, “A feminist back in the Victorian period. She was a temperance leader. Used to go into saloons with a hatchet and break up the place.”

  “You mean,” the Professor demanded, “that these Kansas riots aren’t of a temperance nature?”

  Les said uncomfortably, “Well, no, sir. Not according to Irene. She says they’re a spontaneous rebellion against those French wine companies using the Jeanne d’Arc name. It seems as though United Consumers reported on the Jeanne d’Arc wines and cognacs and found them unacceptable buys. Uh, I believe dishwater was the descriptive term.”

  “United Consumers!” the Professor blurted. “That consortium of subversives.”

  “Well, yes, sir,” Les said, flushing. “It seems as though the clubs have a ruling that all members have to subscribe to the monthly United Consumers reports. Uh, Irene kind of rammed that requirement through.”

  Witherson was indignant. “This should be actionable. How could these Frog…ah, that is, French vintners possibly turn out a first-grade product when you consider the score we rake off before—”

  “Ah, doctor,” the Professor said placatingly. “We’ll consider the matter in executive council, later.”

  Les said, “I think we’re going to have trouble on that sports car deal, too. That air cushion model that looks vaguely like an armored horse, and has the head of the Maid on—”

  “Trouble?” Witherson bleated. “Why the take we were to get on that...”

  “Doctor, doctor,” the Professor said. He turned a pompous eye on Les Frankle. “I suppose you have further inside information from Irene?”

  “Well, in a way. She mentioned, kind of in passing, at dinner last night, that the clubs were going to boycott the car. Too big and heavy for average use, too expensive to run, and most likely the style will be obsolete within a year. Besides that, she says half the cost went into its silly decorations. According to Irene, it’s time for the women of the country to put their feet down in regards to the kind of cars we’re buying.”

  The Professor’s eyes went to Ted Biemiller. “Well, Theodore, my lad, do you have any ideas? Both the French wine deal and the lineup with the Saint Joan sports car were sizable amounts.”

  Ted grunted sourly. He said, “We’re putting out three different Jeanne d’Arc magazines now, one for upper lowers, one for the lower middles and one for the quality market. We might suggest to the concerns involved that they step up their advertising and at the same time we’ll do some free articles pushing their products.”

  The Professor pursed plump lips. “Now, Theodore, we begin to get somewhere.”

  Les was shaking his head, unhappily. “Club members have been infiltrating the magazine staffs, according to Irene. It seems that it can’t be helped because nobody else is in a position to know what the readers want. Nobody else is up enough on the Maid and her principles.

  “Her what?” Witherson said blankly, pushing his glasses back.

  “Her beliefs,” Les said earnestly. “What she really stood for. Anyway, club members are largely editing the three magazines the syndicate launched and beginning next week they’re not going to take any ads that aren’t absolutely accurate in describing the product advertised. If Jeanne d’Arc wine tastes like dishwater, they just won’t accept the ad.” He added, lamely, “At least, that’s what Irene said.”

  “Lester,” the Professor said, his voice lacking its usual beneficent quality. “Irene seems to have taken an inordinate interest in the affairs of our syndicate.”

  “Oh, no, sir,” Les Frankle said hurriedly. “It’s not that. You see, Professor Doolittle, Irene has had this interest in Joan, the Maid of Orleans, ever since she was a child. It’s a regular phobia with her.”

  * * * *

  It was a full syndicate conference again. The room smoke-filled again. Walthers trotting about with drinks again. Professor Doolittle presiding again, his youthful three-man brain trust to one side, Dr. Warren Dempsey Witherson to his other.

  The Professor kept his own report until the last, beaming benevolently at his colleagues as they reported on Tri-D movies and television, on radio programs and song records and tapes, on games for both adults and children, on textile sales, on swords, armor and the new medieval revival styles, on tours to France and publishing house sales of biographies, novels and comic books.

  The Professor beamed through it all. Save for minor upsets, and intrusions of Johnnies-come-lately who were continually climbing aboard the Joan of Arc bandwagon, the reports were upbeat in nature.

  When at last he came to his own feet, the hush was pronounced. It was not like the Professor to have kept himself from the limelight for so long. Ted Biemiller looked at Jimmy Leath from the side of his eyes, and grunted sourly. Jimmy rubbed his fist over his flat stomach. Les looked apprehensive—as usual.

  The Professor dry-washed his hands, jovially.

  “Well, gentlemen, we now come to the jackpot, By George. Until now, all has been peanuts, as idiom would have it.”

  “Five million net from our Jeanne d’Arc Pilgrimage games isn’t exactly peanuts,” the tweedy type muttered. He was in Donegals today, a curved Peterson shell briar in his mouth.

  “Peanuts,” the P
rofessor cackled indulgently. “Gentlemen, what is the biggest single industry in this great and glorious nation of ours?”

  “Automobiles,” somebody growled. “We already got into that flop of a sports air-cushion car up in Detroit.”

  “A.T. & T.,” the fat man from California said. Of them all, he looked the most ridiculous in doublet and hose. “The biggest single company is Telephone.”

  The Professor waggled a happy finger at him. “The biggest company, perhaps, but not the biggest industry, By George. Gentlemen, the biggest industry in this great nation of ours is government. It hires more people, it spends more money, than any other six groups of industries combined.”

  The Funked Out Kid blinked at him. “You mean we’re going to take over the government, Professor?” He hacked his throat clear, pushed his pince-nez glasses back on the bridge of his nose, nervously.

  The Professor eyed him benignly. “Only in a manner of speaking, my dear Dr. Witherson.”

  He turned his eyes back to the others. “Gentlemen, I have been approached by representatives of both political parties. Both realize the position we occupy. Gentlemen, the way matters are shaping up, the elections this fall could be the nearest thing to a tie our glorious country has seen for many a decade. Yes, By George,” he beamed, “if we should stand idly by and not, ah, perform our duty, the election could well be a tie.”

  The Funked Out Kid cleared his throat again. “Our duty?”

  The Professor’s voice was gentle. “The only term, my dear doctor. To arrive at a decision on just who to support, and then, ah, throw the full resources of the Joan of Arc, ah, movement, into the balance.”

  The tweedy type said, “What decision? Who offered the most?”

  “We are still dickering,” the Professor told him.

  Ted Biemiller growled, “Sir, are we going to be able to deliver the vote of the Joan of Arc fans? That’s the question.”