The Second Mack Reynolds Megapack

by Mack Reynolds

  “I’m going on the run to South America,” Rosy told him. “I want you to get on the screen right now and order me a shuttle rocket seat to Miami and from there a flight to Sao Paulo. Then I want . . .”

  The other laughed bitterly. “What am I going to use for credits? You know with”—he motioned to the bedroom door—”I spend every credit I can get my hands on.” He shrugged in deprecation. “That’s why I lined up with you fellows in the first place, and now look what you’ve done.”

  Rosy Porras brought the report sheet he had lifted from Zogbaum from his pocket and scowled down on it. “You’ve been credited with nearly ten thousand, enough for you to get by normally for three or four years. It’s all been run into the credit records of this district. Mary got that far before we were interrupted.”

  Shriner blanched. “Then I’m really in the soup.”

  Rosy waved the paper at him and growled, “No, you’re not. I’ve got this. It’s the only clue they might have had. We had this worked out foolproof. They’ll never detect the difference, especially when they figure they’ve got the whole business in their hands.”

  “But they’ve got this man of yours who was doing the altering.”

  Rosy shook his head angrily. “That doesn’t mean a thing. Mary had a list of some twenty names. He didn’t have any call to be interested in individuals, he was just altering totals by code number. He doesn’t know you from Adam, and I’ve got the report sheet he was working from right here.”

  Dave Shriner finished his drink in a gulp. “And you think I’m safe?”

  Rosy was lying, but the other was blinded by his need for hope.

  Rosy said now, “Get the Night Expediter on the screen and go to work. Get my tickets, and then switch half those credits to your account in Brazil.”

  “Half?” Shriner protested. “Your cut was always one third which I paid over to you as supposed gifts or gambling winnings.”

  “That was before,” Rosy growled. “Now I’m in the dill and need half.” Dave Shriner said, his eyes narrower with greed. “It wouldn’t do you any good, Rosy. You can’t spend my credits. I can buy those tickets for you but once you’re in Brazil you’ll be on your own.”

  “I’m taking your identification with me,” Rosy told him flatly. “I’ve got some friends in Miami who can alter them enough for me to get by. They don’t pay much attention in a foreign country anyway, just so the international credits are on tap.”

  The chubby actor was staring at him. “Are you drivel-happy? If you take my identification, what will I do?”

  Rosy looked at him in disgust. “You’ll go down to the Category Distribution offices tomorrow and tell them you lost them. Dream up some complicated story about falling out of your boat, and having to strip out of your clothes, or something. They’ll give you a new set. You’re a nardy actor, aren’t you? What are you, an Upper-Middle? With a caste like that nobody’ll think twice about it.”

  Shriner said unhappily, “Then what’re you going to do in South America, Rosy?”

  Rosy growled, “Keep in touch with some of the boys up here. When things cool, maybe I’ll come back. Or maybe I’ll just stay down there and make connections.”

  Shriner shook his head in sudden decision. “I won’t do it. I’d be sticking my neck out. Sooner or later, there’d be a check-back and I’d be in the dill and . . .”

  The heavy shooter was in Rosy Porras’ right hand, held negligently, pointed at the floor between them. Rosy Porras’ face was empty and cold cold.

  The chubby man stared in fascination at the weapon. He had never seen one, other than the props in the telly shows, before.

  Rosy said, “Listen, get on that screen, you funker.”

  Dave Shriner couldn’t take his eyes from the shooter. “Yeah, yeah, sure. Sure, Rosy. Don’t get nervous, Rosy. You know me . . .”

  “I’m not nervous,” Rosy Porras said.

  * * * *

  Rosy had an hour to kill before the shuttle rocket for Miami. He was safer here than any place else he could figure. So far as he knew, Willard Rhuling and the DS had no records of Dave Shriner, nor did either Pop Rasch or Mary Zogbaum know him. He was strictly one of Rosy’s contacts.

  Dave said worriedly, “Won’t they think of looking for you at the shuttleports, Rosy?”

  Rosy grinned at him. The worst seemed to be behind. Most problems seemed to have been solved.

  He said, “That’s one of the reasons I picked you, Dave. You’re going to do a make-up job on me such as you’ve never done before. In fact, we’d better get going on that, eh?”

  Dave Shriner brightened. At least it gave him something to do. He was becoming jittery sitting around with the gunman who no longer seemed to bear the old fascination, the old romantic air the portly telly actor had attributed to him. How had he ever got into this mess, anyhow? It was all Ruth’s fault. Ruth with her extravagances, her constant demands.

  Shriner went and got a makeup kit. For a moment, he stood back and studied the other. The face of Rosy Porras was a natural for makeup disguise. And with the use of some of Dave Shriner’s wardrobe, there was no reason to believe a job couldn’t be done that would pass all except a really close scrutiny.

  He started to work with care. There was ample time.

  As he subtly changed the seeming width of eyes, Dave Shriner cleared his throat and said, “Rosy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “That shooter you carry. Have you ever . . . well, used it?”

  Rosy Porras grinned inwardly, “Not yet,” he said.

  Shriner was silent for a long moment. “Rosy, what’s the idea? The sort of, well, romps you do don’t call for a gun. No crime today calls for shooter. It’s most a matter of figuring out ways to beat the game. To scheme methods of cheating the Distribution Services.”

  Rosy said gently, “To tell you the truth Dave, it’s a great comfort to me. A great comfort. And, how’d we know, maybe a time’ll come along when I do use it. You never know, Dave.”

  Dave Shriner cleared his throat again and began to add wrinkles to the other’s forehead.

  But his natural exuberance of spirit couldn’t be completely suppressed. Finally, he said, “Rosy, what’s the motivation? When you add it up at the end of the year, how many more credits do you actually wind up with than, say, I do?”

  Rosy growled, “Probably none. Maybe I total less. Some years, when it’s bad, I don’t have much more than the credits from my Basic Inalienable Common. This year’s been pretty good, so far.”

  Shriner made a moue with his plump lips. “How can you say that? Here you are with the DS police after you.”

  “They haven’t caught me yet,” Rosy said grimly. “And things won’t be bad in South America.”

  “But why? You’re not unintelligent. You’re not one of these cloddy lowers who sit in front of their telly sets all day, sucking on trank and drooling as they watch the fracas fights. You could switch categories, somehow or other, and bounce yourself up a couple of castes or so. Get to be a Middle. In order to make a decent living the way you do, you must average higher in I.Q. than the usual yoke who holds down a regular job and earns credits.”

  Rosy thought about it.

  “I don’t like ruts,” he grumbled finally, “and I don’t like somebody telling me what I can do and what I can’t. I don’t like molds and sets of rules. I want my real share, what’s coming to me, without a lot of curd thrown in.” His voice had taken on a snarling quality.

  “They think they’ve got it all worked out. Well, listen, there’s never been a setup so smart that some stute can’t beat the game. I’m doing it; I’m showing them.”

  Dave Shriner, his back turned as he fumbled with his jars of cosmetics, pursed his lips. This one was a real candidate for the Psychotherapy Institute. It was one thing, Shriner figured, trying to wrangle a few extra, unearned credits by this dodge or that, quite a few people he knew at least tried it. But here! Rosy Porras was really far out, and this crisis was bring
ing on the worst in him.

  Shriner went back to the job of disguising the other, silent now.

  * * * *

  Rosy Porras, a briefcase in hand, glasses on his nose, and a harried expression on his face, hustled across the shuttleport tarmac toward the waiting shuttle-rocket. He was a man of approximately sixty, his hair graying heavily at the temples, his jowls heavy and loose with age.

  He allowed a stewardess to take his arm at the top of the ladder and to help him to his seat. He breathed heavily as though the quick walk to the craft and then the climb up the ladder had winded him.

  Rosy grinned inwardly. He was getting a kick out of putting this over. Dave Shriner, the actor, would have been proud of him had he been able to see the show.

  He had lied to Dave. It was going to take the DS a few days to untangle all the changes Mary Zogbaum had made in the credit files, but it was only a matter of time till they traced them all down, now that they knew what they were looking for. They’d get to Dave Shriner’s account last of all, perhaps, but they’d find that, too. Rosy’s chance was to get to South America by tomorrow and find some way of converting those credits into something else, before the DS got around to canceling them. He had left betrayal of Pop Rasch, Mary Zogbaum and Dave Shriner behind him, but with the old Rosy Porras good fortune, he ought to be able to make it himself.

  In his seat, he peered out the porthole. They would be taking off in minutes.

  Willard Rhuling sank into the seat next to him. “Hello, Rosy,” he grinned. “Or would it be more appropriate just to call you Phidias?”

  For a brief second Rosy gaped at him, then his hand flicked for his left shoulder.

  Rhuling’s left hand, in turn, chopped out, all but breaking the other’s wrist.

  The DS man said grimly, “That’s the little item that busted your rosy luck, Porras. We didn’t have the time to organize a really all out manhunt—they’re not often called for these days. But we knew you’d probably try to get out of town, and probably be disguised. There was just one thing. We knew you liked to carry that shooter, Porras, just like the big, bad men of the old days. And all we had to do was to spot metal detectors here and there in appropriate places, such as shuttle-ports. Men don’t carry shooters anymore, Phidias, and yours showed up like a walrus in a goldfish bowl.”

  FIDO

  PREFACE

  Throughout any given year the newspapers of any and all countries carry daily news items concerning the strange disappearances of otherwise little-known citizens. In our own country, it is a matter of official record that some thousands of people vanish yearly, and with few exceptions, are never heard from again.

  It is as if the Earth opened and swallowed them, leaving no trace.

  This story is not to be construed as a factual account of any single disappearance. It is presented as pure fantasy and must be considered as such.

  And yet, who knows…

  * * * *

  Lester Cole found himself sprawled upon an oversized bed in a luxurious apartment which looked as though it had come straight from a Hollywood production. He shook his head fretfully; the last he could remember was walking toward the drugstore for a coke.

  “Okay,” he said aloud, “let’s wake up. What gives?”

  It didn’t come back to him. He lay there awhile, trying to force an explanation from his mind. Had he just recovered from a siege of amnesia? If so, how long had it lasted, and where was he now?

  He swung his feet over the side of the bed and surveyed the room. Along one side of it was a built-in television set; along another, bookcases. There was a tremendous easy chair, and beneath his feet the heaviest rug he’d ever set foot upon. The lighting was indirect and soft; he couldn’t figure out its source.

  One doorway opened into a small but complete bath, another into a kitchenette. He went back to the combination living and bedroom and continued his exploration. There were at least five hundred books upon the shelves. They included everything from detective stories to classics. A built-in bar took its place between bookshelves; the list of liquors it contained ran from absinthe to vodka and back. He picked up a bottle of Metaxa and considered whether or not it would be ethical to try a drink. He put it back; he’d better not get into anything until he knew the deal.

  There was one more door leading from the living room but it was locked. He frowned. There weren’t any windows in the place. It suddenly hit him hard: he was a prisoner!

  There were no two ways about it. Of course, the place was comfortable enough and obviously the food and liquor, the books and radio, were meant for his use. But he didn’t get it. Why?

  It couldn’t be a kidnapping; neither he nor his people had money; nobody snatched his type. It couldn’t be spies; he didn’t know anything of value to a foreign country.

  He went to the bar and poured himself a pony of the Metaxa. At least he might as well enjoy the things supplied him. He took the drink with him over to what he’d thought was a television set and found it wasn’t orthodox. Its four identical dials had numbers from zero to nine, all set at zero; There was a pamphlet on top of the cabinet. He found it contained a comprehensive list of musical selections everywhere from calypso through jazz to classical, each piece preceded by a number. Toward the end of the booklet was a lengthy list of motion picture productions, most of the better films that had been released recently as well as a goodly number of screen classics. Each had a number.

  Suddenly it came to him. He took, at random, number 1052, “Blue Room.” Setting the four dials at that number, he pushed the switch marked On-Off to the On position, and the song immediately swelled into sound. He snorted and switched the set off. Looking through the movie productions, he found “Rebecca,” number 7820. He set the dials and turned the set on again. The lights of the room went low; what he’d taken for the television screen lit up, and the picture he’d seen almost fifteen years ago began showing.

  He shut the set off and went back to corner another drink. That phonograph-movie projector was out of place; there wasn’t any such thing on the market. And, now that he thought of it, the lights were amazingly advanced, too. If he picked up a book, they brightened; if he switched on the movie screen, they decreased in intensity. They automatically adjusted to whatever he was doing.

  A thought abruptly impressed itself on his mind. It was as though someone was saying: “Would you like to come in for awhile, Lester Cole? I am afraid you must be somewhat upset by this sudden change.”

  Cole looked around for the source of the words unsuccessfully.

  “Mental telepathy,” he growled. “This is crazy.”

  “I’m afraid it’s the only manner in which we can communicate,” the thought said. “You’ll become used to it.”

  “1 hope not,” he muttered acridly. “I should stay so long.”

  No words came back, but he gained an impression of appreciation of his attempt at humor in the mind of the other.

  His eyes went to the door which had been locked; it stood open now. He figured that if this character wanted him to come out, he might as well. Obviously, it wouldn’t be hard to come in and get him. Besides, thus far he’d been offered no violence.

  He walked through the door and found himself in a room approximately ten times the size of those he was used to. But it wasn’t the size that shocked him; the place was alien. Not with the alienness of Europe or the Orient; it was alien to Earth. Furnishings, ornaments, everything—just didn’t belong.

  He felt cold fingers creep up his back.

  The thought said, “Don’t be alarmed Lester Cole. There is no danger.”

  He tried to cover the fear welling up inside him with a bold front. “Just call me Les,” he growled. “Or better still, not at all.”

  He caught the feeling of dry humor again. Evidently whoever this joker was, he appreciated the ridiculous.

  And suddenly Les saw it.

  Having done the average amount of science-fiction reading, Les Cole was accustomed to having h
is aliens from space pictured either as half nude Princesses from Mars or completely nauseating creatures with an unbelievable plurality of legs, eyes, tentacles, and various unearthly appendages. Of course, in his mind, he had rejected the possibility that the ladies from Mars were of the type that won contests at Atlantic City. He actually expected alien life, if any, to be revolting in appearance.

  This wasn’t. The entity wasn’t by any means human, and it wasn’t of Earth, but, on the other hand, it was far from repulsive. For some reason, Les had brought to mind the face of Abe Lincoln, ugly and beautiful in its deep sadness.

  The being rested upon a huge couch. Roughly, Les estimated it to be about fifteen feet in height and possibly four hundred pounds in weight.

  There was a comfortable, human-type chair a few feet from the couch.

  “Please sit down, Les,” the thought said.

  Les walked over with an air of confidence and made himself comfortable. He wondered who he was kidding; this thing could read his mind and obviously knew he was fighting off panic.

  He said, “I suppose the script calls for me to yell, ‘Where am I, and what the hell am I doing here?’ ”

  The sensing of humor again. “You have an agile mind, Les. I appreciate it. I am afraid I can’t tell you where you are since your knowledge of the…er…universe, precludes an understanding. And I would rather wait a time before telling you why you are here.”

  He was beginning to conquer his fear. Talking helped.

  “By the looks of that apartment, it’s not difficult to guess that you’ve seized humans before. I’d make a rough guess and say you’re studying us with the ultimate idea of landing on Earth and taking over.” He might as well get in a few licks of propaganda while he was at it. “Brother, you’ve got a job ahead of you.”

  “Your guess would be wrong. However, you will find yourself made as comfortable as is within my ability. Are the apartment, food, books, bed, and so forth, as you would wish?”

  Les was irritated. Evidently he wasn’t going to be told why he’d been seized. “I haven’t checked the books and food, but I notice that the best of the brandy is only a hundred years old,” he said bitterly.