Dawnman Planet up-2

by Mack Reynolds

  “What do you want with me?” she asked flatly.

  “Nothing,” he told her. He didn’t like this. If he hadn’t been a flat, he would have let the girl alone. Evidently, she had an in with Baron Wyler, or, at least, Interplanetary News did, and she through that organization. Now the Baron would be informed that Agent Bronston was on his way, and the Baron didn’t cotton to Section G.

  “Then what are you doing following me?”

  “I wasn’t aware that I was, Citizeness Daniels. We’re simply on the same vessel.” He twisted his mouth ruefully. “Why don’t we start all over again?”

  “And you continue to pump me? No thanks. Do you deny that you’re going to Phrygia?”

  He thought about it. “No. I don’t deny that. But, you know, I could reverse the question. Why are you following me?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “Well, we’re on the same spacecraft and you don’t deny you’re going to Phrygia.”

  She stood again, abruptly. “I don’t know why I was memorywashed, but, obviously, something big is in the wind and my job is to find out what.”

  He murmured mildly. “So that Interplanetary News will be inside, eh?”

  She glared at him. “And, don’t be too sure that Section G won’t be outside.”

  He wasn’t too sure at all.

  A few hours before estimated coming out time, he approached the captain’s private quarters and looked into the door’s screen. He said, “Ronald Bronston, requesting an interview with Captain Henhoff.”

  The screen said, “The Captain is busy. Could you state your business?”

  He brought forth his badge and held it to the screen. “Important matters involving the Bureau of Investigation.”

  In a few moments, the door opened. Ronny stepped through.

  Captain Henoff’s quarters were moderately ample, considering that this was, after all, a spacecraft. He was seated at a desk, going through reports, a junior officer across from him, taking orders.

  The captain, frowning, said, “Citizen Bronston? What can I do for you? Frankly, I am afraid I’ve never heard of Section G of the Bureau of Investigation.”

  Ronny looked at the junior officer. “May I speak to you privately?”

  The frown had become a testy scowl. However, the skipper said, “Howard, go on out into the corridor. I’ll call you.”

  Howard got up, looked at Ronny, shrugged and left.

  The captain said, “Well?”

  Ronny laid it on the line. “We’ll be coming out of under-space and setting down at Phrygia in a matter of hours. I’m on a special mission. I have reason to believe an attempt will be made at the spaceport to apprehend me. I want to be smuggled off the ship in some manner.”

  Captain Henhoff leaned back in his swivel chair. “That’s asking a lot.”

  Ronny said, “I suggest you get in touch with your superiors and ask whether or not you should cooperate with Section G.”

  Henhoff looked at him for long moments. He said finally, “I suppose that won’t be necessary.” He thought about it. “They use pilots at Phrygia. Usually, three men pick us up in orbit and supervise setting us down. When we’ve finally set down, a spaceport auto-floater picks them up and runs them back to the spacepilot quarters, while the ship is still going through quarantine procedures. You can leave with them. I’ll see that one of the men fixes you up in a uniform like the pilots wear to get you by. Think that would do it?”

  “It should,” Ronny nodded. “Thanks, Captain.”

  “You’re not doing anything against the Phrygian government, are you? I don’t want to get into trouble with that gang.”

  “Of course not. I’ve shown you my credentials. You don’t think the Department of Interplanetary Justice goes about meddling in the affairs of member planets of UP, do you?” Ronny was very righteous.

  “No. Of course not.”

  He left the liner in the spacepilot’s auto-floater, as provided; the others couldn’t have cared less. They probably figured he was some Tri-Di entertainment star, beating the fans out of an opportunity to give him the rush, when the regular passengers disembarked.

  His precautions had been well merited.

  At the foot of the spaceliner’s disembarking ladder, he noted, stood three brawny, though inconspicuously dressed men. He didn’t have to look at their feet to know their calling.

  The Supreme Commandant’s welcoming committee for visiting Section G operatives. Citizeness Daniels was doing her best to make certain that whilst Interplanetary News got inside, the Bureau of Investigation didn’t.

  VI

  The auto-floater left him off at the spacepilot’s quarters, and Ronny Bronston started off up the street immediately. He wanted to get out of the vicinity of the spaceport as soon as possible. He imagined that it would take a half hour or so before the Phrygians realized that he had gotten through their fingers. He didn’t know what their instructions were: Whether they had meant simply not to allow him to disembark, or whether he was to be picked up and questioned by Phrygian authorities. Probably the latter. Undoubtedly, they had their own version of Scop. Nobody, but nobody, stood up under questioning these days.

  He had none of the local means of exchange, whatever it was. His instructions had been to go immediately to the United Planets building and get in touch with Section G operative Phil Birdman, who would check him out on the local situation.

  The auto-floater he had been in with the spacepilots had been similar to those on Earth, and were fairly general on the more advanced planets. He assumed there were taxis, of some sort or another, and kept his eyes open for something resembling a stand, having no idea of how the locals summoned such a vehicle.

  He was struck by a certain sameness about this city. It was, he knew, named Phrygia and was the capital city of the planet of the same name.

  The sameness, he decided—even as he strode briskly up a shopping street—came from the fact that so many of the buildings, vehicles, signs, traffic indicators and what not, were those of Earth, Avalon, Shangri-La, Catalina and Jefferson—the most advanced worlds. Evidently, Phrygia was quick to pick up any discoveries and developments pioneered elsewhere. Well, that was commendable.

  There was one thing, though. The average person in the street seemed to have a drab quality. Not one person in a hundred seemed up to the styles and general appearances of well-being, that one would find on Earth or Shangri-La. Yes, a gray drabness that you couldn’t quite put your finger upon. They seemed well-fed and healthy enough, however.

  He came to what would seem to be a cab stand, and stood, for a moment, looking at the first vehicle in line. He wanted to avoid asking questions and thus branding himself a stranger.

  Well, he could only try. If the cab weren’t fitted to take instructions in Earth Basic, he would be out of luck.

  He opened the door and slipped into a rear seat. He made himself comfortable, and said into the screen, “The United Planets Building.”

  No trouble. The vehicle started up and edged itself into the street traffic.

  The UP Building, he found, he could have easily walked to. It was less than a mile from the spaceport.

  There were two Space Marines on guard at the door. Ronny Bronston called out to one of them.

  The marine marched over and scowled down into the car.

  Ronny flashed his badge. “I just came from the spaceport and have no local exchange. Can you pay the cab off for me?”

  “Oh. Yes, sir. Certainly. They use credit cards here, sir.” The marine brought one from his pocket and held it to the cab’s screen. The door automatically opened.

  Ronny stepped out and said, “Now, quickly, take me to Citizen Phil Birdman.”

  The marine blinked. “Yes, sir.” He turned and marched off, Ronny following.

  The suite of offices was lettered simply, Interplanetary Trade.

  Ronny said, “Thanks. I’ll have that cab fare returned to you.”

  “Not necessary, sir,” the sp
ace-soldier said stiffly. “We’re on unlimited expense account.” He did an about-face and was off.

  Ronny looked after him for a moment. How does it feel to be a professional soldier, when there hasn’t been a war for centuries? He grunted sourly. Perhaps the soldier would be practicing his trade before long.

  He opened the door and entered into a reception room. He walked over to the screen and said, “Ronald Bronston, Section G. To see Phil Birdman.”

  A door beyond opened immediately and a very dark-complected man, in his mid-forties, well over six feet tall and with a startlingly handsome face, came hurrying out, hand extended.

  “Come in!” he said. “Holy Jumping Zen, it’s been two years since I’ve seen a fellow agent from Section G.”

  Ronny ignored the hand. He brought his wallet out and showed his badge. He touched it with a finger and the badge glowed silver.

  Birdman laughed, said, “Okay, okay, if you want to play it formal.” He fished his own wallet out and displayed his badge. He touched it with a finger, and like Bronston’s it shone brightly.

  Ronny stuck out his hand for the shake, grinning self-deprecation.

  Birdman cocked his head on one side. “Something must be up.”

  “Yes,” Ronny said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  The tall dark man looked at him. “Get out to where? Come on in the office and we’ll have some firewater.”

  Ronny shook his head impatiently. “I’m already on the run. They’ll probably be here any minute. Surely you’ve got an ultimate hideout—just in case.”

  “Wait’ll I get my shooter,” the other clipped. He hurried back into the inner office, returned in moments, shrugging a shoulder holster into a more comfortable position beneath his jacket.

  “This way.”

  He led Ronny through a series of door and halls, finally emerging at the back of the building. There was a row of hovercars. Birdman slid into one, a speedy-looking model. Ronny slipped into the seat beside him.

  “We’re not going very far in this, are we?” Ronny growled. “If it’s yours, it’s spotted.”

  “Of course,” Birdman grunted. “Who are you working with?” His hand maneuvered the vehicle out of the parking area and into the traffic stream.

  “Directly under the Old Man,” Ronny said.

  “Oh? And Sid Jakes? How’s Sid?”

  “Chuckling his fool head off,” Ronny said.

  They spoke no more for the next fifteen minutes, during which time Phil Birdman put on a show of how to lose a possible tail and leave no possible trail behind, in a big city. They dropped his car after a few miles, sending it back to the UP Building. They took a cab for a time. Then they got out and walked. They took a rolling-road for a time. They took a pneumatic. Then they walked some more.

  Finally, in a residential area, they entered a house. It seemed deserted. They entered a closet. The closet was an elevator.

  When they left the elevator, they were in a Spartan apartment, well-equipped from the Section G gimmick department, and from Communications and Weaponry.

  Ronny looked about and whistled approvingly through his teeth. “Nice setup, considering you’re only one man here.”

  Birdman nodded. “I’m going to have to brace Sid Jakes on that. We need a bigger staff. Phrygia is more important than they seem to think back there in the Octagon.” He headed for a manual bar. “Now how about that firewater?”

  “Firewater?” Ronny said.

  Phil Birdman grinned at him. “Ugh, guzzle, you palefaces call it. I’m from Piegan.”

  Ronny frowned in memory. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Colonized by Amerinds. Mostly Blackfeet and Sioux. Diehards, who still wanted to get away from the whiteman and go back to the old tribal society. Setup, kind of a primitive communism, based on clan society.”

  “That’s the way it started,” Birdman nodded. “How about pseudo-whiskey?” At Ronny’s nod, he added, “And water?” He finished the drinks and returned with them.

  Ronny was already seated. He took the drink and said, “How did it work out?”

  “Piegan? Terribly. You can’t go back, no matter how strong the dream.”

  “So what happened?”

  Birdman grinned at him, wryly. “Section G happened. A few of the boys turned up and subverted our institutions. Best thing that ever happened. We’ve still got an Indian society, but we’re rapidly industrializing. Couple of more decades and well be at least as advanced as Phrygia, here.”

  Ronny drank half of the pseudo-whiskey down. “If any of us are around, a couple of decades from now.”

  The big Indian looked at him. “I knew it was something inportant,” he said.

  Ronny nodded and briefed the other operative on recent developments.

  Their drinks were finished by the time he was through. His host got up to get new ones. “And now?” he asked.

  Ronny shrugged. “My assignment isn’t particularly important. Just one phase of the whole. Ross Metaxa wants me to take what steps I can and keep Baron Wyler from sounding off about the Octagon’s plans to speed up the amalgamation of United Planets and all other human settled worlds. From what this mopsy, Rita Daniels, tells me, the Baron has been playing footsie with Interplanetary News.”

  “Footsie, yet,” Birdman snorted. “Baron Wyler is Interplanetary News.”

  Ronny gaped at him. “What are you talking about?”

  “I told you we need a larger staff here. There’s a lot cooking that’s going to have to come right before Metaxa’s eyes. I’m working on the report right now. At any rate, Baron Wyler owns communications on Phrygia. All communications. And he also controls Interplanetary News. Who did you think owned it?”

  “It never occurred to me to wonder. I realize, of course, that we’ve got every kind of socio-economic system ever dreamed up, through the centuries, at one place or another in United Planets; but I didn’t think in terms of an organization as strong as Interplanetary News being privately owned. Certainly not by one individual.”

  “It’s not exactly one individual,” the Indian growled. “More like a family, and the Baron’s the head of the family.”

  He made a face. “I’d better give you some background. You were right, when you said UP has every socio-economic system ever dreamed up by man, on one planet or the other. It also has a lot of crisscrosses.”

  Ronny frowned at him.

  Birdman explained. “Take communism. We’ve got planets, such as my own Piegan used to be, that practice primitive tribal communism. Then we’ve got planets of ‘purists,’ who have attempted to build a society such as Marx and Engels originally had in mind back in 1848. Then we’ve got a sample or two of communism, as Lenin saw it; then, one or two as DeLeon adapted socialism to America; and, at least one on the Stalinist conception—that’s a real honey—and one, I can think of, based on Trotsky’s heresy. And Mao, the Chinese. And Tito, remember Tito?”

  “No,” Ronny said, “but you’ve made your point. There’s a lot of confusion on just what communism is.”

  The Indian was nodding. “Yes. Well, the crisscross on this planet is a doozy. You might call it industrial feudalism. Kind of a classical capitalism gone to seed. Kind of free enterprise without either freedom, or, except for a handful, any enterprise. You see, they got to the point where the wealth of Phrygia is in the hands of less than one percent of the population. The means of production, distribution, communications, the farms, the mines, the whole shebang—all owned and controlled by comparatively few families.”

  Ronny grunted. “In any society, a good man gets to the top.”

  “Or loses his scalp trying,” Birdman agreed. “If he can’t, he tries to change the society. Well, they have one fairly workable way of getting around that on Phrygia. Any real stute that comes along, gets adopted into one of the big families. The Romans used to do the same thing; Octavius was an adopted son of Caesar.

  “But to get on with it. There’s evidently no end to the desire for wealth and the power it b
rings. A millionaire wants to become a billionaire and a billionaire wonders how it’d be to have a trillion. Far, far beyond the point where his own needs are completely satisfied, the stute with a power complex continues to accumulate more wealth, more power. It might not make sense to you and me, but there it is. Well, Baron Wyler has about outgrown Phrygia. He’s looking for new worlds to conquer, and I’ve a sneaking suspicion he doesn’t expect to allow United Planets to stand in his way. It fact, it didn’t even start with the present Baron. The dream had evidently been in his family, and probably other industrial feudalistic families here, for several generations. Interplanetary News is just one of the projects designed to help pave the way.”

  Ronny was staring at him.

  The Indian chuckled sourly. “Sounds unbelievable, eh? Well, in spite of the far-out nature of this super-loose confederation of ours, United Planets is still basically a republic. Whatever the home government of each planet, in the UP it has one voice, one vote, no more. But there’s no particular reason why man, in his eruption into space, has to remain a republican. Given a strong enough ambition on the part of a few fellas like our good Baron, and what’s to prevent an empire from being established?”

  Ronny was shaking his head. “Too many would fight.”

  The other nodded in agreement. “That’s what’s baffled me. Something is going on. Something the Baron is counting upon to give him such an edge over the other strong worlds, which would ordinarily resist his ambitions, that he’d prevail.”

  Ronny Bronston thought about it for a long moment, staring down into his glass. He said finally, “I suppose it’s about time I got in touch with this Baron Wyler. Have you got a Section G communicator handy?”

  “Over there.”

  Ronny sat at the indicated desk. The device was about the size of a woman’s vanity case, and was propped up now so that the small screen was immediately before the operative. He activated it.

  “Ronald Bronston,” he said. “I want to report to Supervisor Jakes, soonest.”