The Second Mack Reynolds Megapack

by Mack Reynolds

  There was an element of respect in the SupCom’s tone. “Your course must be rugged.”

  General Bentley wiped his forehead with a snowy handkerchief even as he shook it negatively. “It was the first time any such thing happened. I tell you, sir, since Mitchie Farthingworth has been at the academy things have been chaotic. Fires in the dormitories, small arms exploding, cadets being hospitalized right and left. We’ve just got to expel that boy!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” the SupCom growled. “He’s the apple of his old man’s eye. We’ve got to make a hero out of him if it means the loss of a battle fleet. But I still don’t get this. You mean the Farthingworth kid is committing sabotage?”

  “It’s not that. We investigated. He doesn’t do it on purpose, things just happen around him. Mitchie can’t help it.”

  “Confound it, stop calling him Mitchie!” Bull Underwood snapped. “How do you know it’s him if he doesn’t do it? Maybe you’re just having a run of bad luck.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Bentley said, “until I ran into Admiral Lawrence of the Space Marines Academy. He had the same story. The day Mitchie—excuse me, sir— Michael Farthingworth set foot in Nuevo San Diego, things started happening. When they finally got him transferred to our academy the trouble stopped.”

  It was at times like these that Bull Underwood regretted his shaven head. He could have used some hair to tear. “Then it must be sabotage if it stops when he leaves!”

  “I don’t think so, sir.”

  The SupCom took a deep breath, snapped to his secretarobot, “Brief me on Cadet Michael Farthingworth, including his early life.” While he waited he growled under his breath, “A stalemated hundred-year war on my hands with those Martian makrons and I have to get things like this tossed at me.”

  In less than a minute the secretarobot began: “Son of Senator. Warren Farthingworth, Chairman War Appropriations Committee. Twenty-two years of age. Five feet six, one hundred and thirty, blue eyes, brown hair, fair. Born and spent early youth in former United States area. Early education by mother. At age of eighteen entered Harvard but schooling was interrupted when roof of assembly hall collapsed killing most of faculty. Next year entered Yale, leaving two months after when 90 percent of the university’s buildings were burnt down in the holocaust of ’85. Next attended University of California but failed to graduate owing to the earthquake which completely…”

  “That’s enough,” the SupCom rapped. He turned and stared at General Bentley. “What the hell is it? Even if the kid was a psychokinetic saboteur he couldn’t accomplish all that.”

  The academy commander shook his head. “All I know is that, since his arrival at the Terra Military Academy, there’s been an endless series of casualties. And the longer he’s there the worse it gets. It’s twice as bad now as when he first arrived.” He got to his feet wearily. “I’m a broken man, sir, and I’m leaving this in your hands. You’ll have my resignation this afternoon. Frankly, I’m afraid to return to the school. If I do, some day I’ll probably crack my spine bending over to tie my shoelaces. It just isn’t safe to be near that boy.”

  * * * *

  For a long time after General Bentley had left, SupCom Bull Underwood sat at his desk, his heavy underlip in a pout. “And just when the next five years’ appropriation is up before the committee,” he snarled at nobody.

  He turned to the secretarobot. “Put the best psychotechnicians available on Michael Farthingworth. They are to discover…well, they are to discover why in hell things happen around him. Priority one.”

  Approximately a week later the secretarobot said, “May I interrupt you, sir? A priority-one report is coming in.”

  Bull Underwood grunted and turned away from the star chart he’d been studying with the two Space Marine generals. He dismissed them and sat down at his desk.

  The visor lit up and he was confronted with the face of an elderly civilian. “Doctor Duclos,” the civilian said. “Case of Cadet Michael Farthingworth.”

  “Good,” the SupCom rumbled. “Doctor, what in the devil is wrong with young Farthingworth?”

  “The boy is an accident prone.”

  Bull Underwood scowled at him. “A what?”

  “An accident prone.” The doctor elaborated with evident satisfaction. “There is indication that he is the most extreme case in medical history. Really a fascinating study. Never in my experience have I been—”

  “Please, Doctor. I’m a layman. What is an accident prone?”

  “Ah, yes. Briefly, an unexplained phenomenon first noted by the insurance companies of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. An accident prone has an unnaturally large number of accidents happen either to him, or less often, to persons in his vicinity. In Farthingworth’s case, they happen to persons about him. He himself is never affected.”

  The SupCom was unbelieving. “You mean to tell me there are some persons who just naturally have accidents happen to them without any reason?”

  “That is correct,” Duclos nodded. “Most prones are understandable. Subconsciously, the death wish is at work and the prone seeks self-destruction. However, science has yet to discover the forces behind the less common type such as Farthingworth exemplifies.” The doctor’s emphatic shrug betrayed his Gallic background. “It has been suggested that it is no more than the laws of chance at work. To counterbalance the accident prone, there should be persons at the other extreme who are blessed with abnormally good fortune. However...”

  SupCom Bull Underwood’s lower lip was out, almost truculently. “Listen,” he interrupted. “What can be done about it?”

  “Nothing,” the doctor said, his shoulders raising and lowering again. “An accident prone seems to remain one as a rule. Not always, but as a rule. Fortunately, they are rare.”

  “Not rare enough,” the SupCom growled. “These insurance companies, what did they do when they located an accident prone?”

  “They kept track of him and refused to insure the prone, his business, home, employees, employers, or anyone or anything connected with him.”

  Bull Underwood stared unblinkingly at the doctor, as though wondering whether the other’s whole explanation was an attempt to pull his leg. Finally he rapped, “Thank you, Doctor Duclos. That will be all.” The civilian’s face faded from the visor.

  The SupCom said slowly to the secretarobot, “Have Cadet Farthingworth report to me.” He added sotto voce, “And while he’s here have all personnel keep their fingers crossed.”

  * * * *

  The photoelectric-controlled door leading to the sanctum sanctorum of SupCom Bull Underwood glided quietly open and a lieutenant entered and came to a snappy attention. The door swung gently shut behind him.

  “Well?” Bull Underwood growled.

  “Sir, a Cadet Michael Farthingworth to report to you.”

  “Send him in. Ah, just a minute, Lieutenant Brown. How do you feel after talking to him?”

  “Me, sir? I feel fine, sir.” The lieutenant looked blankly at him.

  “Hmmm. Well, send him in, confound it.”

  The lieutenant turned and the door opened automatically before him. “Cadet Farthingworth,” he announced.

  The newcomer entered and stood stiffly before the desk of Earth’s military head. Bill Underwood appraised him with care. In spite of the swank Academy uniform, Michael Farthingworth cut a wistfully ineffectual figure. His faded blue eyes blinked sadly behind heavy contact lenses.

  “That’ll be all, Lieutenant,” the SupCom said to his aide.

  “Yes, sir.” The lieutenant about-faced snappily and marched to the door—which swung sharply forward and quickly back again before the lieutenant was halfway through.

  SupCom Bull Underwood winced at the crush of bone and cartilage. He shuddered, then snapped to his secretarobot, “Have Lieutenant Brown hospitalized…and, ah…see he gets a Luna Medal for exposing himself to danger beyond the call of duty.”

  He swung to the newcomer and came directly to the
point. “Cadet Farthingworth,” he rapped, “do you know what an accident prone is?”

  Mitchie’s voice was low and plaintive. “Yes, sir.”

  “You do?” Bull Underwood was surprised.

  “Yes, sir. At first such things as the school’s burning down didn’t particularly impress me as being personally connected with me, but the older I get, the worse it gets, and after what happened to my first date, I started to investigate.”

  The SupCom said cautiously, “What happened to the date?”

  Mitchie flushed. “I took her to a dance and she broke her leg.”

  The SupCom cleared his throat. “So finally you investigated?”

  “Yes, sir,” Mitchie Farthingworth said woefully. “And I found I was an accident prone and getting worse geometrically. Each year I’m twice as bad as the year before. I’m glad you’ve discovered it too, sir. I…didn’t know what to do. Now it’s in your hands.”

  The SupCom was somewhat relieved. Possibly this wasn’t going to be as difficult as he had feared. He said, “Have you any ideas, Mitchie, ah, that is...”

  “Call me Mitchie if you want, sir. Everybody else does.”

  “Have you any ideas? After all, you’ve done as much damage to Terra as a Martian task force would accomplish.”

  “Yes, sir. I think I ought to be shot.”

  “Huh?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m expendable,” Mitchie said miserably. “In fact, I suppose I’m probably the most expendable soldier that’s ever been. All my life I’ve wanted to be a spaceman and do my share toward licking the Martians.” His eyes gleamed behind his lenses. “Why, I’ve...”

  He stopped and looked at his commanding officer pathetically. “What’s the use? I’m just a bust. An accident prone. The only thing to do is liquidate me.” He tried to laugh in self-deprecation but his voice broke.

  Behind him, Bull Underwood heard the glass in his office window shatter without seeming cause. He winced again, but didn’t turn.

  “Sorry, sir,” Mitchie said. “See? The only thing is to shoot me.”

  “Look,” Bull Underwood said urgently, “stand back a few yards farther, will you? There on the other side of the room.” He cleared his throat. “Your suggestion has already been considered, as a matter of fact. However, due to your father’s political prominence, shooting you had to be ruled out.”

  From a clear sky the secretarobot began to say, “ ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe.”

  SupCom Bull Underwood closed his eyes in pain and shrunk back into his chair. “What?” he said cautiously.

  “The borogoves were mimsy as all hell,” the secretarobot said decisively and shut up.

  Mitchie looked at it. “Slipped its cogs, sir,” he said helpfully. “It’s happened before around me.”

  “The best damned memory bank in the system,” Underwood protested. “Oh, no.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mitchie said apologetically. “And I wouldn’t recommend trying to repair it, sir. Three technicians were electrocuted when I was...”

  The secretarobot sang, “O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”

  “Completely around the corner,” Mitchie said.

  “This,” said Bull Underwood, “is too frabjous much! Senator or no senator, appropriations or no appropriations, with my own bare hands—”

  As he strode impulsively forward, he felt the rug giving way beneath him. He grasped desperately for the edge of the desk, felt ink bottle and water carafe go crashing over.

  Mitchie darted forward to his assistance.

  “Stand back!” Bull Underwood roared, holding an ankle with one hand, shaking the other hand in the form of a fist. “Get out of here, confound it!” Ink began to drip from the desk over his shaven head. It cooled him not at all. “It’s not even safe to destroy you! It’d wipe out a regiment to try to assemble a firing squad! It—” Suddenly he paused, and when he spoke again his voice was like the coo of a condor.

  “Cadet Farthingworth,” he announced, “after considerable deliberation on my part I have chosen you to perform the most hazardous operation that Terra’s forces have undertaken in the past hundred years. If successful, this effort will undoubtedly end the war.”

  “Who, me?” Mitchie said.

  “Exactly,” SupCom Underwood snapped. “This war has been going on for a century without either side’s being able to secure that slight edge, that minute advantage which would mean victory. Cadet Farthingworth, you have been chosen to make the supreme effort which will give Terra that superiority over the Martians.” The SupCom looked sternly at Mitchie.

  “Yes, sir,” he clipped. “What are my orders?”

  The SupCom beamed at him. “Spoken like a true hero of Terra’s Space Forces. On the spaceport behind this building is a small spycraft. You are to repair immediately to it and blast off for Mars. Once there you are to land, hide the ship, and make your way to their capital city.”

  “Yes, sir! And what do I do then?”

  “Nothing,” Bull Underwood said with satisfaction. “You do absolutely nothing but live there. I estimate that your presence in the enemy capital will end the war in less than two years.”

  Michael Farthingworth snapped him a brilliant salute. “Yes, sir.”

  Spontaneous combustion broke out in the wastebasket.

  * * * *

  Through the shards of his window, SupCom Bull Underwood could hear the blast-off of the spyship. Half a dozen miles away the flare of a fuel dump going up in flames lighted up the sky.

  Seated there in the wreckage of his office he rubbed his ankle tenderly. “The only trouble is when the war is over we’ll have to bring him home.”

  But then he brightened. “Perhaps we could leave him there as our occupation forces. It would keep them from ever recovering to the point where they could try again.” He tried to get to his feet, saying to the secretarobot, “Have them send me in a couple of medical corpsmen.

  “Beware the Jabberwock,” the secretarobot sneered.

  DOWN THE RIVER

  AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION

  [This] is the first science-fiction piece I placed. An indication of a writer’s economics of that time (1949) is the fact that the yarn is 3,500 words long and, at the rate of a penny a word, brought exactly $35. Few of us became rich in those early days of science-fiction. The basic theme is an old one, pioneered, I believe, by that wonderful iconoclast Charles Fort, who once wrote, “I believe we’re property.”

  “Second Advent” is also based on the same theme. I am afraid it is more sophisticated than this one—twenty-five years is a long time. One of the reasons I have included “Down the River” is that it gives the reader an idea of the type of story we were writing that long ago.

  I think it is fairly typical—a short story with a supposedly “snap” ending in the O. Henry tradition. It was taken by Standard Magazines and appeared in the September, 1950, issue of Startling Stories.

  —Mack Reynolds

  * * * *

  The spaceship was picked up by Air Force radar shortly after it entered the atmosphere over North America. It descended rather slowly and by the time it hovered over Connecticut a thousand fighter planes were in the air.

  Wires sizzled hysterically between captains of State Police and colonels of the National Guard, between Army generals and cabinet members, between admirals and White House advisers. But before anything could be decided in the way of attack upon the intruder or defense against him the spaceship had gently settled into an empty Connecticut field.

  Once it had landed all thought of attack left the minds of everyone concerned with North American defense. The craft towered half a mile upward and gave an uncomfortable impression of being able to take on the armed forces of the United States all by itself, if it so desired, which seemingly it didn’t. As a matter of fact it showed no signs of life whatsoever for the first few hours of its visit.

  The governor arrived about noon, beating the representatives from the State
Department by fifteen minutes and the delegates from the United Nations by three hours. He hesitated only briefly at the cordon which State Police and National Guardsmen had thrown up about the field and decided that any risk he might be taking would be worth the publicity value of being the first to greet the visitors from space.

  Besides, the television and newsreel cameras were already set up and trained upon him. “Honest Harry” Smith knew a good thing when he saw it. He instructed the chauffeur to approach the ship.

  As the car came closer, escorted cautiously by two motorcycle troopers and the newsreel and television trucks, the problem arose of just how to make known His Excellency’s presence. There seemed to be no indication of a means of entrance to the spectacular craft. It presented a smooth mother of pearl effect that was breathtakingly beautiful—but at the same time cold and unapproachable in appearance.

  Happily the problem was solved for them as they came within a few yards of the vessel. What seemed a solid part of the craft’s side swung inward and a figure stepped lightly to the ground.

  Governor Smith’s first shocked impression was that it was a man wearing a strange mask and a carnival costume. The alien, otherwise human and even handsome by our standards, had a light green complexion. It tucked the Romanlike toga it wore about its lithe figure and approached the car smilingly. Its English had only a slight touch of accent. Grammatically it was perfect.

  “My name is Grannon Tyre Eighteen Hundred and Fifty-two K,” the alien said. “I assume that you are an official of this, er, nation. The United States of North America, is it not?”

  The governor was taken aback. He’d been rehearsing inwardly a pantomime of welcome—with the television and newsreel men in mind. He had pictured himself as holding up his right arm in what he conceived to be the universal gesture of peace, of smiling broadly and often and, in general, making it known that the aliens were welcome to the earth and to the United States in general and to the State of Connecticut in particular. He hadn’t expected the visitors to speak English.