The Second Mack Reynolds Megapack

by Mack Reynolds

  The Professor turned on him, kindly. “Theodore, my lad, that is where our syndicate comes in. In putting over this fad of ours, and enriching ourselves in the process, we have also built up the strongest team in the fields of motivational research, advertising, psychology applied to sales research, mass behaviorism and related subjects that this great nation has ever seen. By George, it is most inspiring.”

  He waxed eloquent, flourishing a fat, freckled paw in emphasis. “Gentlemen, some fifty percent of the women voters of America are presently influenced by the Joan of Arc fad. Of these, at least thirty millions are deeply involved. Given our organization backing either of the major political parties and we have the next election in the palm of our collective hand.”

  The fat man from California was beginning to get the message. “Why, why…it’s the biggest thing since…since—”

  “Since Didius bought the Roman Empire,” Jimmy Leath murmured.

  They broke into excited jabbering.

  The tweedy type was saying thoughtfully, “We’ll have to line up the star of our original Tri-D movie. Lots of the Joan fans identify her face with the original Joan. Then we’ll have to line up the actors on TV and radio who portray Joan. Then we’ll have to swing our magazines, even the comic books, over to our candidate.”

  “Who’s that?” somebody said stupidly.

  “Who knows, so far?” the Funked Out Kid said reasonably. “You heard the Professor, the dickering is still going on.”

  “We’ll have to really probe this in depth,” Jimmy was muttering, intrigued. “Cover the country like smog. Find out what all these dizzy dames want our candidate to consider the issues of the day. Control the widest blanket of polls, do the greatest number of depth interviews ever seen. Given the Joan fans to begin with, as a lever, we can take this country like Grant—”

  The Professor was beaming still. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I can assure you, By George, that we are not about to sell our service for small return. When all the smoke has cleared, we here in this room will be in the catbird seat.”

  Les Frankle said unhappily, “Irene isn’t going to like this.”

  * * * *

  Warren Dempsey Witherson’s copter-cab floated gently onto the Doolittle Building’s landing ramp and bumped to an easy halt.

  Automatically, his eyes jittered right and left, while he fiddled in his doublet pocket for a slug. He found it, slipped it into the auto-meter slot, secured his change and opened the cab door.

  There were half a dozen pickets, women in shiny corselets, their short swords buckled to their sides. Dr. Witherson ignored the placards they bore and scurried for the lobby, his pince-nez held in hand.

  He had a key to the private elevator now and didn’t bother to check with the receptionist.

  On the top floor, devoted solely to the offices and private quarters of Professor Doolittle himself, he hurried toward the sanctum sanctorum of the motivational research head.

  Walthers did no more than look up from his desk and say, “Good morning, doctor. The Professor is expecting you.”

  Dr. Witherson dithered something that wound up with my boy and was past.

  The Professor, his calm for once vanished with the snows of yesteryear, was bellowing at his three-man brain trust.

  “The police,” he was yelling. “How about the police? A mob can’t just storm a TV station and demolish it!”

  Ted Biemiller, who sat at the Professor’s desk, a phone held to one ear, said, “Professor, it’s a difficult situation. For one thing, this mob isn’t a bunch of juvenile delinquents. Some of it’s composed of the biggest names in the Blue Book. Besides that, they’re all armed with their swords.” His eyes went ceilingwards. “I thought those swords were supposed to be decorative, that they weren’t meant to take a point or an edge. They seem to be able to chop up doors and furniture with them like they were machetes.”

  “They were only decorative to begin with!” the Professor roared.

  Les Frankle said unhappily, “Well, Irene didn’t think that was practical so—”

  “Irene!” the Professor roared. “Don’t ever mention that woman again, Frankle!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dr. Witherson, his eyes popping, blatted at Jimmy Leath, “What’s happened?”

  “Nothing,” Jimmy said. “The country’s gone batty, is all. It’s a revolution.”

  “A revolution!” Witherson spun on the Professor. “I mighta known it. We haven’t been cooling off these marks the way we shoulda!”

  “Shut up, Kid,” the Professor roared. “Confound it, you never were any good in the clutch.”

  Les said mildly, “It’s not a revolution…exactly. Irene says—”

  The Professor scowled blood and destruction at him. Les flushed and said, “That is, what’s really happening is that it’s been a long time since women have got up on their high horse about something. It’s been almost a century since the temperance movement. And women’s suffrage, of course, all came about, so there’s been no more suffragettes for as long as anybody can remember.”

  Jimmy was frowning. “Those that had a cause complex could always go into regular politics.”

  Les said, “Well, yes, but according to Ire…that is… women have never got very far in ordinary politics. They, uh, haven’t been able to understand them very well—at least, up until now.”

  Ted Biemiller, still at the phone, growled. “Neither have men.”

  The Professor glared at him. “This is no time for levity, Theodore.” He spun back to Les. “Go on, confound it. What’s happened? You’re supposed to be our mass behavior expert.”

  Les said doggedly, “Well, sir, it was something women could understand. Something they could get riled up about. Being beaten over the head with sales propaganda that had them scrapping their last year’s refrigerator because it was white instead of pink. Or changing their perfectly acceptable brand of soap for something twice as expensive, because it was a status symbol to use a new brand containing super-lanolin. When you hit a woman in the pocketbook, you hit her where it counts.”

  “SO!” the Professor bellowed.

  “Well, sir, all they needed was a banner under which to unite.”

  “You mean the Joan of Arc fad!”

  “Well, yes, sir. You see, the original Joan was a reformer. Well, more than that. An actual rebel, according to— Well, anyway, she was a nonconformist and revolted against society as she found it. Well, sir, your syndicate made her the country’s ideal. And once the women really got involved in her image, they wanted to, uh, emulate her. So they had to look around for something to rebel against, sir.”

  * * * *

  Dr. Warren Dempsey Witherson, who had been taking in only about half of this, spending most of his time and attention at the window, whined, “What’s that big crowd gathering down there?”

  “Shut up, Kid,” the Professor growled. “I got to think.” Jimmy Leath said reasonably, “All the thinking has been done.”

  The Professor, his rage ebbing up again, pointed a shaking finger at him, then spun and leveled it at Les and Ted. “You three. You sold us out. You could have figured this through, eight months ago. You’re fired, understand!”

  “Well, yes, sir,” Les nodded unhappily. “We kind of figured we would be. As a matter of fact, the Saint Joan Democratic-Republicans Party has approached us. It looks as though we’ll be taking a job with them.”

  “The what!”

  The Professor’s rage broke. His hands came up, palms upward. “Lads,” he said. “How could you do it? You were my team.”

  Ted ran his hand through his hair, uncomfortably. “Not exactly, sir. Like you’ve said, over and over, you just hired our brains. There wasn’t anything ever said about loyalty. When Les first brought up the suggestion about using Joan of Arc as our heroine, we could have given it a whirl, given it a trial run, compiled some sample depth interviews, put it on the computer. In fact, any one of us three probably could have pretty well g
uessed what was going to happen.”

  “Then why, why, lads, didn’t you warn me!”

  Jimmy said, as unhappy as his colleague, “Well, it was rather fascinating, the whole thing. You see, you kept talking about the money you paid us and how you were buying our brains, but the fact was all three of us were more interested in observing the working mechanics of your organization, than anything else. Fascinating, sir. Absolutely. I’m no engineer, but I continually get a picture of an enormous machine slipping its clutch, or belt, or however they say it, and going wild.”

  Witherson whimpered, “Professor, they’re beginning to stream into the building. They’re waving swords!”

  Les walked over to the window beside him and peered down. “There’s Irene,” he said, shaking his head. “Out in front.”

  Witherson whirled and caught the Professor’s doublet sleeve. “Listen, we gotta get out of here. We’re warm! You must have some back way, if I know you, Professor. It’s your building, you had it built.”

  The Professor shook him off.

  He said to his ex-brain trust, pleadingly, “Listen, lads, By George. There must be some angle. Some way of saving this situation.”

  Les was shaking his head earnestly. “Well, I don’t think so, sir. Jimmy and Ted and I put it on the computers last night.”

  The Professor, now beginning to allow the Funked Out Kid to pull him toward the door, demanded, “Well, how did they ever get rid of that original Saint Joan of—” Then he stopped and his eyes narrowed. “They burnt her at the stake, didn’t they?”

  Les nodded, and spoke above the roar that suddenly was coming from the outer offices. “Yes, sir. They had to do that to shut her up, sir. But sir, well, I don’t think it’d be so easy to burn Irene.”

  The Professor and the Funked Out Kid had made it down the secret elevator, out the back, and into a copter-cab.

  Even as the Professor dialed a destination, with a shaking hand, the Kid was whining. “On the lam again, after all these years.”

  “Don’t be silly, Kid,” the Professor said, with shaky joviality. “We’ve got enough of a taw stashed away to live happily ever after over in Spain or Switzerland. I’ve had it all planned for years. A hideout apartment here in town where we can disguise ourselves. A vehicle to take us to the Canadian border. Lots of funds in a safe deposit box to grease our way. We’re as safe as in our mother’s arms, Kid. Remember, the fuzz isn’t after us, just a bunch of hysterical dames. It was all legit, so far as John Law’s concerned.”

  They pulled up before an imposing edifice.

  “What’s this?” the Kid whined apprehensively.

  “Bank. My safe deposit box. Let’s hurry, Kid.”

  The Funked Out Kid fumbled for a coin, stuck it into the copter-cab’s slot and reached for the door handle.

  It was then that the cab’s lights began flicking red, a siren began to ululate from its hood.

  The Funked Out Kid wrenched at the door, which held tight.

  And a voice from the cab speaker said, “You are under arrest for utilizing other than legal tender, and face a five-year imprisonment for counterfeiting. This is a police decoy cab of the Bureau of Transportation. You will remain seated until an officer of the law has arrived.”

  The Professor turned a beady eye on the Funked Out Kid.

  “By George,” he said.

  SPACEMAN ON A SPREE

  AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION

  After this story was published in 1963, Frederik Pohl, who then edited Galaxy, If, and Worlds of Tomorrow (in which it appeared), wrote me, saying: “...You’re about the only science-fiction writer active now who shows any indication of thought about economic subjects. I keep running into economists and management types, like Robert Theobald, John Diebold and so on, whose ears perk up when I tell them about your stories involving Variable Basic, and so on...” Fred then went on to request a whole series of yarns based on socioeconomics and, of course, I was glad to comply.

  —Mack Reynolds

  * * * *

  I

  They gave him a gold watch. It was meant to be symbolical, of course. In the old tradition. It was in the way of an antique, being one of the timepieces made generations past in the Alpine area of Eur-Asia. Its quaintness lay in the fact that it was wound, not electronically by power-radio, but by the actual physical movements of the bearer, a free swinging rotor keeping the mainspring at a constant tension.

  They also had a banquet for him, complete with speeches by such bigwigs of the Department of Space Exploration as Academician Lofting Gubelin and Doctor Hans Girard-Perregaux. There was also somebody from the government who spoke, but he was one of those who were pseudo-elected and didn’t know much about the field of space travel nor the significance of Seymour Pond’s retirement. Si didn’t bother to remember his name. He only wondered vaguely why the cloddy had turned up at all.

  In common with recipients of gold watches of a score of generations before him, Si Pond would have preferred something a bit more tangible in the way of reward, such as a few shares of Variable Basic to add to his portfolio. But that, he supposed, was asking too much.

  The fact of the matter was, Si knew that his retiring had set them back. They hadn’t figured he had enough shares of Basic to see him through decently. Well, possibly he didn’t, given their standards. But Space Pilot Seymour Pond didn’t have their standards. He’d had plenty of time to think it over. It was better to retire on a limited crediting, on a confoundedly limited crediting, than to take the two or three more trips in hopes of attaining a higher standard.

  He’d had plenty of time to figure it out, there alone in space on the Moon run, there on the Venus or Mars runs. There on the long, long haul to the Jupiter satellites, fearfully checking the symptoms of space cafard, the madness compounded of claustrophobia, monotony, boredom and free fall. Plenty of time. Time to decide that a one room mini-auto-apartment, complete with an autochair and built-in autobar, and with one wall a TV screen, was all he needed to find contentment for a mighty long time. Possibly somebody like Doc Girard-Perregaux might be horrified at the idea of living in a mini-auto-apartment…not realizing that to a pilot it was roomy beyond belief compared to the conning tower of a space craft.

  No. Even as Si listened to their speeches, accepted the watch and made a halting little talk of his own, he was grinning inwardly. There wasn’t anything they could do. He had them now. He had enough Basic to keep him comfortably, by his standards, for the rest of his life. He was never going to subject himself to space cafard again. Just thinking about it, now, set the tic to going at the side of his mouth.

  They could count down and blast off, for all he gave a damn.

  * * * *

  The gold watch idea had been that of Lofting Gubelin, which was typical, he being in the way of a living anachronism himself. In fact, Academician Gubelin was possibly the only living man on North America who still wore spectacles. His explanation was that a phobia against having his eyes touched prohibited either surgery to remould his eyeballs and cure his myopia, or contact lenses.

  That was only an alibi so far as his closest associate, Hans Girard-Perregaux, was concerned. Doctor Girard-Perregaux was convinced Gubelin would have even worn facial hair, had he but a touch more courage. Gubelin longed for yesteryear, a seldom found phenomenon under the Ultrawelfare State.

  Slumped in an autochair in the escape room of his Floridian home, Lofting Gubelin scowled at his friend. He said, acidly, “Any more bright schemes, Hans? I presume you now acknowledge that appealing to the cloddy’s patriotism, sentiment and desire for public acclaim have miserably failed.”

  Girard-Perregaux said easily, “I wouldn’t call Seymour Pond a cloddy. In his position, I am afraid I would do the same thing he has.”

  “That’s nonsense, Hans. Zoroaster! Either you or I would gladly take Pond’s place were we capable of performing the duties for which he has been trained. There aren’t two men on North America—there aren’t two men in the world!
—who better realize the urgency of continuing our delving into space.” Gubelin snapped his fingers. “Like that, either of us would give our lives to prevent man from completely abandoning the road to his destiny.”

  His friend said drily, “Either of us could have volunteered for pilot training forty years ago, Lofting. We didn’t.”

  “At that time there wasn’t such a blistering percentage of funkers throughout this whole blistering Ultrawelfare State! Who could foresee that eventually our whole program would face ending due to lack of courageous young men willing to take chances, willing to face adventure, willing to react to the stimulus of danger in the manner our ancestors did?”

  Girard-Perregaux grunted his sarcasm and dialed a glass of iced tea and tequila. He said, “Nevertheless, both you and I conform with the present generation in finding it far more pleasant to follow one’s way of life in the comfort of one’s home than to be confronted with the unpleasantness of facing nature’s dangers in more adventurous pastimes.”

  Gubelin, half angry at his friend’s argument, leaned forward to snap rebuttal, but the other was’ wagging a finger at him negatively. “Face reality, Lofting. Don’t require or expect from Seymour Pond more than is to be found there. He is an average young man. Born in our Ultrawelfare State, he was guaranteed his fundamental womb-to-tomb security by being issued that minimum number of Basic shares in our society that allows him an income sufficient to secure the food, clothing, shelter, medical care and education to sustain a low level of subsistence. Percentages were against his ever being drafted into industry. Automation being what it is, only a fraction of the population is ever called up. But Pond was. His industrial aptitude dossier revealed him a possible candidate for space pilot, and it was you yourself who talked him into taking the training…pointing out the more pragmatic advantages such as complete retirement after but six trips, added shares of Basic so that he could enjoy a more comfortable life than most and the fame that would accrue to him as one of the very few who still participate in travel to the planets. Very well. He was sold. Took his training, which, of course, required long years of drudgery to him. Then, performing his duties quite competently, he made his six trips. He is now legally eligible for retirement. He was drafted into the working force reserves, served his time, and is now free from toil for the balance of his life. Why should he listen to our pleas for a few more trips?”