The Second Mack Reynolds Megapack

by Mack Reynolds

  Betty looked at him. “Dough?” she said.

  “Money,” Cogswell said impatiently. “Sure, if you have piles of money, you can build swell houses even up in Alaska, and live comfortably. You can live comfortably anywhere, given piles of money. But for most people, who’ve probably lived the greater parts of their lives in some near-slum, in some stinking city, the height of ambition is to get into a warm climate and have a little bungalow in which to finish off the final years.”

  Suddenly, Betty laughed.

  Tracy Cogswell froze up, his face went expressionless. Until this, he’d rather liked the girl.

  Betty indicated the swank villas beneath them. They were flying over Torremolinos now. “Were you under the impression that those people down there had lots of money?”

  That took a time to sink in.

  Cogswell said, “Possibly not by your standards. By mine, yes.”

  Betty said, “None of them have any money at all. Neither have I.”

  That was too much. He gaped at her.

  Betty said, “There is no such thing as money any more. There hasn’t been for quite a while.”

  Cogswell figured he understood now. “Well, it’s the same thing. Credit cards, or whatever the means of exchange.”

  Betty laughed again and there was honest amusement in her voice, not condescension. She said, her voice gentle, “Tracy Cogswell, in all those years you belonged to your movement, in all the years of dedication, did you really think, really inwardly believe, that someday it might come true? That someday the millennium would arrive, Utopia be achieved?”

  The cold went through him.

  He closed his mouth, but continued to stare his disbelief.

  “Tracy,” she said gently, “your movement was successful more than twenty years ago.”

  After a long time he said, “Look, could we go back to the house? I could use a drink.”

  * * * *

  They were amused by his reactions, but it was a friendly amusement and with a somehow wry connotation which Tracy Cogswell didn’t quite get. So many things were bubbling through his head, so many questions to ask, he didn’t have time for complete answers.

  “And the Russkies?” he demanded. “What happened there?”

  Jo Edmonds said, “About the same as everywhere else. Overnight, the contradictions that had built up through the decades of misrule and misdirection finally boiled over. It was one of the few places where there was much violence. The Commies had done too much to too many to have been allowed peaceful retirement.”

  Betty shook her head. “In some places, it was terrible.”

  Tracy Cogswell drew from his own memories pictures of members of the secret police hanging from lampposts by their heels. He had been in Budapest during the 1956 uprising. “Yes,” he said, uncomfortably.

  Then, “But countries like India, the African nations, South America. How do they stand now?”

  Academician Stein was chuckling softly. “These things seem so long ago to us,” he said. “It’s almost unbelievable that they can be news to an intelligent adult. The backward countries? Why, given the all-out support of the most industrially advanced, they were brought up to the common level within a decade or two.”

  “It was a universally popular effort,” Betty added. “Everybody pitched in.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Cogswell blurted. “But, look— look, the population explosion. What happened there?” Jo Edmonds, who was sitting relaxed in an armchair near the fireplace, a drink in one hand, his inevitable piece of jade in the other, said easily, “Not really much of a problem, given world government and universal education on a high level. If you’ll remember, the large families were almost always to be found in the most backward countries, or among the most backward elements in the advanced countries. Education and efficient methods of birth control ended the problem.”

  “Look,” Cogswell said happily, “could I have another drink? This must be the damndest thing that ever happened to a man. Why, why, it’s as though St. Paul woke up in the year, well, say, 1400 A.D. and saw the strength of the Church.”

  All three of them laughed at him and Jo Edmonds went over to the sideboard and mixed him another drink. Tracy Cogswell said, “That reminds me of something else. How about servants? It must take a multitude of maids to run a house like this.”

  Betty made a moue at him. “Nonsense. You aren’t very good at extrapolation. Why, even in your own day in the advanced countries the house was automated to the point where even the fairly well off didn’t have domestic help. Today, drudgery has been eliminated. Anyone can have just about as large a house as they want, and keep it up by devoting only a few minutes a day to its direction.”

  It was still all but inconceivable to him. “And everybody, just everybody can afford a place like this?”

  It was Stein’s turn again. As they’d all been doing, he prefaced his explanation with a laugh. “Given automation and cheap, all but free, power and what is the answer? Ultra-abundance for everyone. Surely the signs must have been present in your day. That was the goal of your organization, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Cogswell said, shaking his head. “Yes, of course.” Then he added, his voice very low, “I’ll be damned.”

  They all laughed with him.

  Jo Edmonds brought the new drink and Cogswell finished it in one swallow. He considered for a minute. “Look,” he said. “I don’t suppose anyone remembers what happened to a fellow named Dan Whiteley.

  “Whiteley,” Stein scowled.

  “He was a member of the organization.”

  “Dan Whiteley,” Betty said. “I read somewhere about him. Let me see, he was a Canadian.”

  “That’s right. From Winnipeg.”

  “Did you know him?” Betty said, her voice strange.

  He said slowly, “Yes, yes I knew him quite well.” Unconsciously, he stroked his left elbow. The others had been in favor of leaving him behind. Dan had carried him, one way or the other, half the night. Toward the morning the police had brought up dogs and thev’d been able to hear them baying only half a mile or so behind.

  Betty said gently, “The Commies got him when he was trying to contact some of their intellectuals and get your movement organized in China. He succeeded, but later was caught and shot in, I believe, Hankow. He’s now sort of a minor martyr. Students of the period know about him.”

  Tracy Cogswell took a deep breath. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s the way Dan would have ended. Could I have another drink?”

  Stein said, “You’re not overdoing, are you?”

  “No, of course not. Look, how about cancer, and space flight, and how about interracial problems and juvenile delinquency?”

  “Hold it!” Jo Edmonds laughed. Somehow there was a strained quality in the laugh that Cogswell couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  Stein said, “You can imagine how long any of the old diseases lasted once we began to devote the amount of time to them that our scientists had formerly put into devising methods of destroying man.”

  Betty said, “Oh, we have observatories and various laboratories on the moon. And...”

  Joe Edmonds brought the drink and Tracy Cogswell took a long swallow and then shook his head.

  Walter Stein was quickly on his feet. “See here,” he said, “you’re pale. We’ve allowed you to push yourself too far.” He clucked unhappily. “Betty was premature this morning. We hadn’t expected to allow you so much excitement for several days yet. Now, back to bed for you.”

  “I feel a little tired and a little tight,” Cogswell admitted.

  In bed, just before he dropped off, he gazed up at the ceiling. What did he feel like? Somewhat as he had when a kid, back there in Baltimore. When tomorrow was going to be Christmas.

  He was drifting into sleep before a worrying thought wriggled lip from below. He never quite grasped it all.

  However, his subconscious worked away.

  * * * *

  They were waiting f
or him when he emerged for breakfast in the morning. All three of them, dressed as usual in the most imaginative clothes possible. Cogswell had already come to the conclusion that fashions and styles were a thing of yesteryear; people dressed in the most comfortable way they damn well pleased. He supposed that when it had been followed, fashion had largely been a matter of sales promotion.

  For the first time since his awakening, he felt really fit, both mentally and physically alert. After they’d exchanged good mornings and questioned him on his wellbeing, Tracy Cogswell got to the point.

  “Yesterday, I was pretty well taken up in enthusiasm. I doubt if many men live to see their own idea of Utopia achieved. In fact, looking back I doubt I know of a single example. But anyway, now I’d like to get some basic matters cleared up.”

  Edmonds finished his coffee, leaned back, and began fiddling with his piece of jade. “Fire away,” he said, but he, like the others, seemed to have a faint element of tension.

  Cogswell said, “As I understand it, through a method devised by Stein, here, you were able to send his mind back to my time, hypnotize me, and force me to take the steps that resulted in my being—well, deep-frozen.”

  Walter Stein shrugged. He still reminded Cogswell of Paul Lucas, playing the part of an anxious scientist. “That’s a sufficient explanation.”

  Cogswell looked at him questioningly. “What was all that about the monument, and the tomb beneath?”

  Stein said, “We had to have some place to leave your body where it wouldn’t be discovered for decades. A cave beneath a holy man’s tomb was as good a bet as any. Even today, such monuments are respected.”

  “I see,” Cogswell said. “I’ve got some mind-twisting questions I want to ask about what seem to me some strange paradoxes, but they can wait. First, what happened after I’d gone? What do the records say about my disappearance? What did the International Executive Committee do? What kind of a report was given out about me to the membership of the movement?” His voice tightened as he spoke.

  Betty took up the ball. She said, “Remember, Tracy, when I told you yesterday that Dan Whiteley had become a minor martyr?”

  He waited for her to go on.

  “You are also so known. Tracy Cogswell, the dependable, the organization man plus ultra.” She spoke as though reciting. “Fought in Spain as a boy. Friend of George Orwell. Spent three years in Nazi concentration camps before escaping. Active in overthrowing Mussolini. Fought on the side of the revolutionists in the Hungarian tragedy of 1956. Helped Djilis get out of Yugoslavia. Finally, was given post of international secretary, coordinating activities from Tangier.” She took a breath, then went on. “Captured by Franco police and smuggled into Spain. Died under torture without betraying any members of the organization.”

  Tracy Cogswell was on his feet. His voice was strained. “But…but Dan Whiteley was there, at the end. He knew that last wasn’t true. I appropriated almost twenty thousand dollars of the movement’s funds. It must have been practically the whole international treasury.”

  Edmonds said with sour humor, “Evidently, your organization needed a martyr more than it needed the money. You’ve gone down in history as Tracy Cogswell, the Incorruptible, the Dependable, the perfect organization man.”

  Cogswell slumped back into his chair. At least, that way, a hundred friends had never known his final act of betrayal. Beyond him to resist, but still betrayal.

  He said, “All right. Now we come to the question that counts.” He looked from one face to another. They knew what he was about to ask. “Why?”

  Jo Edmonds, for once, slipped his piece of jade into a pocket. He opened his mouth to speak but Stein quieted him with a shake of his head. “Let me do this, Jo. How we put this now means success or failure of the whole project.”

  “What project, damn it?” Cogswell snapped.

  “Just a minute,” Stein said, flustered a bit. “Let me give you some background.”

  “I’ve been getting background for days. Tell me why I’m here!”

  “A moment, please. Tracy, man was an aggressive, hard-fighting animal from the time he emerged from the mists of antiquity. Physically weak, as predatory animals go, he depended on brain and cunning to subjugate his fellow beasts. Only those clever enough to outwit the sabertooth, the cave bear, the multitude of other beasts more dangerous than man, physically, survived.”

  “I don’t need this,” Cogswell growled.

  “A moment, please. Even when his fellow beasts were conquered, man still had nature to combat. He still must feed, clothe, and shelter himself. He must free himself of the seasons. Of cold and the night, of flood and storm, of draft and pestilence. And step by step he beat out his path of progress. It wasn’t always easy, Tracy.”

  “It was never easy,” Tracy Cogswell said impatiently.

  “All along the way,” Stein pursued, “man fought not only as a species but as an individual. Each man battled not only nature, but his fellow man, since there was seldom sufficient for all. Particularly when we get to the historic period and the emerging of the priest and warrior, and finally the noble, man pitted himself against his fellows for a place at the top. There was room for only a fraction.”

  The academician shook his head. “Survival of the fittest,” he said. “Which often meant the most brutal, the most cunning, the conscienceless. But it also meant the strengthening of the race. When a ruling class was no longer the most aggressive and intelligent element of a people, it didn’t long remain the ruling class.”

  Walter Stein hesitated for a long moment. “In short, Tracy, all through his history man has had something to fight against—or for.” He twisted his mouth in a grimace of attempted humor. “It’s the nature of the beast.”

  “Isn’t all this elementary?” Cogswell said. Some of the heat of his impatience was gone but he couldn’t understand what the other was building up to.

  Stein said, uncertainly, “I suppose the first signs of it were evident in your own period. I recall reading of educators and social scientists who began remarking on the trend before the twentieth century was half through.

  What trend?” Cogswell scowled.

  “In the more advanced countries of your period. The young people. They stopped taking the science and engineering courses in school; they were too difficult to wish to bother with. A youngster didn’t have to fight to make his way, the way was greased. The important thing was to have a good time. Find an angle so that you could obtain the material things everyone else had, without the expenditure of much effort. Don’t be an egghead. Don’t stick your neck out. Conform. You’ve got cradle to the grave security. Take it easy. You’ve got it made.”

  Betty Stein, quiet for a long time, added softly, “And the most advanced countries—so far as social progress is concerned—had the highest suicide rates.”

  “That’s the point,” Stein nodded. “They had nothing to fight against and man is a fighting animal. Take away something to work for, to fight for, and he’s a frustrated animal.”

  A horrible understanding was growing within Cogswell. He looked from one to the other of them, all but desperately. “Why did you bring me here?” he said hoarsely.

  Stein ignored him and pressed on. “Since the success of your movement, Tracy Cogswell, there has been world government. Wars have disappeared and racial tensions. There is abundance for all, crime is a thing of the past. Government is so changed as hardly to be recognized from the viewpoint of your day. There are no politics, as you knew them.”

  Jo Edmonds said bitterly, “You asked about space flight, yesterday. Sure, there’s a small base on the moon, but nothing new has been done in the field for a generation. We have lots of dilettantes,” he flicked his beautifully carved bit of jade, “lots of connoisseurs, lots of gourmets—but few of us can bother to become scientists, builders, visionaries.”

  Why did you bring me here?” Cogswell repeated.

  “Because we need your know-how,” Jo Edmonds said flatly.

/>   Cogswell’s eyes went tired. “My know-how?”

  Betty said gently, “Tracy, when we sought back through history for someone to show us the way, we found Tracy Cogswell, the Incorruptible, the Dependable, the lifelong devoted organization man.”

  Tracy Cogswell was staring at her. “Who are you people? What’s your angle?”

  It was Academician Stein who answered, and he said what Cogswell now already knew. “We’re members of the new underground. The human race is turning to mush, Tracy. Something must be done. For decades we’ve had what every Utopian through history has dreamed of. Democracy in its most ultimate form. Abundance for all. The end of strife between nations, races, and, for all purposes practical, between individuals. And, as a species, we’re heading for dissolution. Tracy, we need your experience to guide us. To head the new movement.”

  Jo Edmonds leaned forward and put it in another way. “You—you and your movement—got us into this. Now get us out.”

  PRONE

  AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION

  A couple of decades ago, when Tony Boucher was still editing the Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, he complained that there was too little humor in science fiction. I sat down and wrote this. He bought it. Since then it has appeared variously, here, there and in the other place, including one of Harry Harrison’s anthologies. What gets me is that the background material evidently isn’t invalid. I simply don’t believe these things, but it would seem that accident prones actually do exist! Thank the powers that be, I don’t know any of them.

  —Mack Reynolds

  * * * *

  SupCom Bull Underwood said in a voice ominously mild, “I continually get the impression that every other sentence is being left out of this conversation. Now, tell me, General, what do you mean things happen around him?”

  “Well, for instance, the first day Mitchie got to the Academy a cannon burst at a demonstration.”

  “What’s a cannon?”

  “A pre-guided-missile weapon,” the commander of the Terra Military Academy told him. “You know, shells propelled by gunpowder. We usually demonstrate them in our history classes. This time four students were injured. The next day sixteen were hurt in ground-war maneuvers.”