The H. Beam Piper Megapack

by H. Beam Piper

  He had hoped to find her alone, but when he entered the office, he saw five or six of the store personnel with her. Since opening her father’s safe, she had evidently dropped all pretense of Illiteracy; there was a mass of papers spread on the big desk, and she was referring from one to another of them with the deft skill of a regular Fraternities Literate, while the others watched in fascinated horror.

  “Wait a moment, Mr. Hutschnecker,” she told the white-haired man in the blue and orange business suit with whom she had been talking, and laid the printed price-schedule down, advancing to meet him.

  “Ralph!” she greeted him. “Frank Cardon told me you were coming. I—”

  For a moment, he thought of the afternoon, over two years ago, when she had entered his office at the school, and he had recognized her as the older sister of young Ray Pelton.

  “Professor Prestonby,” she had begun, accusingly, “you have been teaching my brother, Raymond Pelton, to read!”

  He had been prepared for that; had known that sooner or later there would be some minor leak in the security screen around the classrooms on the top floor.

  “My dear Miss Pelton,” he had protested pleasantly. “I think you’ve become overwrought over nothing. This pretense to Literacy is a phase most boys of Ray’s age pass through; they do it just as they play air-pirates or hi-jackers a few years earlier. The usual trick is to memorize something heard from a record disk, and then pretend to read it from print.”

  “Don’t try to kid me, professor. I know that Ray can read. I can prove it.”

  “And supposing he has learned a few words,” he had parried. “Can you be sure I taught him? And if so, what had you thought of doing about it? Are you going to expose me as a corrupter of youth?”

  “Not unless I have to,” she had replied coolly. “I’m going to blackmail you, professor. I want you to teach me to read, too.”

  Now, with this gang of her father’s Illiterate store officials present, a quick handclasp and a glance were all they could exchange.

  “How is he, Claire?” he asked.

  “Out of danger, for the present. There was a medic here, who left just before you arrived. He brought nitrocaine bulbs, and gave father something to make him sleep. He’s lying down, back in his rest room.” She led him to a door at the rear of the office and motioned him to enter, following him. “He’s going to sleep for a couple of hours, yet.”

  The room was a sort of bedroom and dressing room, with a miniscule toilet and shower beyond. Pelton was lying on his back, sleeping; his face was pale, but he was breathing easily and regularly. Two of the store policemen, a sergeant and a patrolman, were playing cards on the little table, and the patrolman had a burp gun within reach.

  “All right, sergeant,” Claire said. “You and Gorman go out to the office. Call me if anything comes up that needs my attention, in the next few minutes.”

  The sergeant started to protest. Claire cut him off.

  “There’s no danger here. This Literate can be trusted; he’s a friend of Mr. Cardon’s. Works at the brewery. It’s all right.”

  The two rose and went out, leaving the door barely ajar. Prestonby and Claire, like a pair of marionettes on the same set of strings, cast a quick glance at the door and then were in each other’s arms. Chester Pelton slept placidly as they kissed and whispered endearments.

  It was Claire who terminated the embrace, looking apprehensively at her slumbering father.

  “Ralph, what’s it all about?” she asked. “I didn’t even know that you and Frank Cardon knew each other, let alone that he had any idea about us.”

  Prestonby thought furiously, trying to find a safe path through the tangle of Claire Pelton’s conflicting loyalties, trying to find a path between his own loyalties and his love for her, wondering how much it would be safe to tell her.

  “And Cardon’s gone completely cloak-and-dagger-happy,” she continued. “He’s talking about plots against my father’s life, and against me, and—”

  “A lot of things are going on under cloaks, around here,” he told her. “And under Literate smocks, and under other kinds of costume. And a lot of daggers are out, too. You didn’t know Frank Cardon was a Literate, did you?”

  Her eyes widened. “I thought I was Literate enough to spot Literacy in anybody else,” she said. “No, I never even suspected—”

  Somebody rapped on the door. “Miss Pelton,” the sergeant’s voice called. “Visiphone call from Literates’ Hall.”

  Prestonby smiled. “I’ll take it, if you don’t mind,” he said. “I’m acting-chief-Literate here, now, I suppose.”

  She followed him as he went out into Pelton’s office. When he snapped on the screen, a young man in a white smock, with the Fraternities Executive Section badge, looked out of it. He gave a slight start when he saw Prestonby.

  “Literate First Class Ralph N. Prestonby, acting voluntarily for Pelton’s Purchasers’ Paradise during emergency,” he said.

  “Literate First Class Armandez, Executive Section,” the man in the screen replied. “This call is in connection with the recent attack of Chester Pelton upon Literate First Class Bayne.”

  “Continue, understanding that we admit nothing,” Prestonby told him.

  “An extemporary session of the Council has found Pelton guilty of assaulting Literate Bayne, and has fined him ten million dollars,” Armandez announced.

  “We enter protest,” Prestonby replied automatically.

  “Wait a moment, Literate. The Council has also awarded Pelton’s Purchasers’ Paradise damages to the extent of ten million dollars, for losses incurred by suspension of Literate service, and voted censure against Literate Bayne for ordering said suspension without consent of the Council. Furthermore, a new crew of Literates, with their novices, guards, et cetera, is being sent at once to your store. Obviously, neither the Fraternities, nor Pelton’s, nor the public, would be benefitted by returning Literate Bayne or any of his crew; he has been given another assignment.”

  “Thank you. And when can we expect this new crew of Literates?” Prestonby asked.

  The man in the screen consulted his watch. “Probably inside of an hour. We’ve had to do some re-shuffling; you know how these things are handled. And if you’ll pardon me, Literate; just what are you doing at Pelton’s? I understood that you were principal of Mineola High School.”

  “That’s a good question.” Prestonby hastily assessed the circumstances and their implications. “I’d suggest that you ask it of my superior, Literate Lancedale, however.”

  The Literate in the screen blinked; that was the equivalent, for him, of anybody else’s jaw dropping to his midriff.

  “Well! A pleasure, Literate. Good day.”

  * * * *

  “Miss Pelton!” The man in the blue-and-orange suit was still trying to catch her attention. “Where are we going to put that stuff? Russ Latterman’s out in the store, somewhere, and I can’t get in touch with him.”

  “What did you say it was?” she replied.

  “Fireworks, for the Peace Day trade. We want to get it on sale about the middle of the month.”

  “This was a fine time to deliver them. Peace Day isn’t till the Tenth of December. Put them down in the fireproof vault.”

  “That place is full of photographic film, and sporting ammunition, and other merchandise; stuff we’ll have to draw out to replace stock on the shelves during the sale,” the Illiterate objected.

  “The weather forecast for the next couple of days is fair,” Prestonby reminded her. “Why not just pile the stuff on the top stage, beyond the control tower, and put up warning signs?”

  The man—Hutschnecker, Prestonby remembered hearing Claire call him—nodded.

  “That might be all right. We could cover the cases with tarpaulins.”

  A buzzer drew one of the Illiterates to a handphone. He listened for a moment, and turned.

  “Hey, there’s a Mrs. H. Armytage Zydanowycz down in Furs; she wants to buy one of t
hose mutated-mink coats, and she’s only got half a million bucks with her. How’s her credit?”

  Claire handed Prestonby a black-bound book. “Confidential credit-rating guide; look her up for us,” she said.

  Another buzzer rasped, before Prestonby could find the entry on Zydanowycz, H. Armytage; the Illiterate office worker, laying down one phone, grabbed up another.

  “They’re all outta small money in Notions; every son and his brother’s been in there in the last hour to buy a pair of dollar shoestrings with a grand-note.”

  “I’ll take care of that,” Hutschnecker said. “Wait till I call control tower, and tell them about the fireworks.”

  “How much does Mrs. H. Armytage Zydanowycz want credit for?” Prestonby asked. “The book says her husband’s good for up to fifteen million, or fifty million in thirty days.”

  “Those coats are only five million,” Claire said. “Let her have it; be sure to get her thumbprint, though, and send it up here for comparison.”

  “Oh, Claire; do you know how we’re going to handle this new Literate crew, when they get here?”

  “Yes, here’s the TO for Literate service.” She tossed a big chart across the desk to him. “I made a few notes on it; you can give it to whoever is in charge.”

  * * * *

  It went on, like that, for the next hour. When the new Literate crew arrived, Prestonby was delighted to find a friend, and a fellow-follower of Lancedale, in charge. Considering that Retail Merchandising was Wilton Joyner’s section, that was a good omen. Lancedale must have succeeded to an extraordinary degree in imposing his will on the Grand Council. Prestonby found, however, that he would need some time to brief the new chief Literate on the operational details at the store. He was unwilling to bring Claire too prominently into the conference, although he realized that it would be a matter of half an hour, at the outside, before every one of the new Literate crew would have heard about her Literate ability. If she’d only played dumb, after opening that safe—

  Finally, by 1300, the new Literates had taken over, and the sale was running smoothly again. Latterman was somewhere out in the store, helping them; Claire had lunch for herself and Prestonby sent up from the restaurant, and for a while they ate in silence, broken by occasional spatters of small-talk. Then she returned to the question she had raised and he had not yet answered.

  “You say Frank Cardon’s a Literate?” she asked. “Then what’s he doing managing the Senator’s campaign? Fifth-columning?”

  He shook his head. “You think the Fraternities are a solid, monolithic, organization; everybody agreed on aims and means, and working together in harmony? That’s how it’s supposed to look, from the outside. On the inside, though, there’s a bitter struggle going on between two factions, over policy and for control. One faction wants to maintain the status quo—a handful of Literates doing the reading and writing for an Illiterate public, and holding a monopoly on Literacy. They’re headed by two men, Wilton Joyner and Harvey Graves. Bayne was one of that faction.”

  He paused, thinking quickly. If Lancedale had gotten the upper hand, there was likely to be a revision of the Joyner-Graves attitude toward Pelton. In that case, the less he said to incriminate Russell Latterman, the better. Let Bayne be the villain, for a while, he decided.

  “Bayne,” he continued, “is one of a small minority of fanatics who make a religion of Literacy. I believe he disposed of your father’s medicine, and then deliberately goaded him into a rage to bring on a heart attack. That doesn’t represent Joyner-Graves policy; it was just something he did on his own. He’s probably been disciplined for it, by now. But the Joyner-Graves faction are working for your father’s defeat and the re-election of Grant Hamilton.

  “The other faction is headed by a man you’ve probably never heard of, William R. Lancedale. I’m of his faction, and so is Frank Cardon. We want to see your father elected, because the socialization of Literacy would eventually put the Literates in complete control of the government. We also want to see Literacy become widespread, eventually universal, just as it was before World War IV.”

  “But Wouldn’t that mean the end of the Fraternities?” Claire asked.

  “That’s what Joyner and Graves say. We don’t believe so. And suppose it did? Lancedale says, if we’re so incompetent that we have to keep the rest of the world in ignorance to earn a living, the world’s better off without us. He says that every oligarchy carries in it the seeds of its own destruction; that if we can’t evolve with the rest of the world, we’re doomed in any case. That’s why we want to elect your father. If he can get his socialized Literacy program adopted, we’ll be in a position to load the public with so many controls and restrictions and formalities that even the most bigoted Illiterate will want to learn to read. Lancedale says, a private monopoly like ours is bad, but a government monopoly is intolerable, and the only way the public can get rid of it would be by becoming Literates, themselves.”

  She glanced toward the door of Pelton’s private rest room.

  “Poor Senator!” she said softly. “He hates Literacy so, and his own children are Literates, and his program against Literacy is being twisted against itself!”

  “But you agree that we’re right and he’s wrong?” Prestonby asked. “You must, or you’d never have come to me to learn to read.”

  “He’s such a good father. I’d hate to see him hurt,” she said. “But, Ralph, you’re my man. Anything you’re for, I’m for, and anything you’re against, I’m against.”

  He caught her hand, across the table, forgetful of the others in the office.

  “Claire, now that everybody knows—” he began.

  * * * *

  “Top emergency! Top emergency!” a voice brayed out of the alarm box on the wall. “Serious disorder in Department Thirty-two! Serious disorder in Department Thirty-two!”

  The voice broke off as suddenly as it had begun, but the box was not silent. From it came a medley of shouts, curses, feminine screams and splintering crashes. Prestonby and Claire were on their feet.

  “You have wall screens?” he asked. “How do they work? Like the ones at school?”

  Claire twisted a knob until the number 32 appeared on a dial, and pressed a button. On the screen, the Chinaware Department on the third floor came to life in full sound and color. The pickup must have been across an aisle from the box from whence the alarm had come; they could see one of Pelton’s Illiterate clerks lying unconscious under it, and the handphone dangling at the end of its cord. The aisles were full of jostling, screaming women, trampling one another and fighting frantically to get out, and, among them, groups of three or four men were gathered back to back. One such group had caught a store policeman; three were holding him while a fourth smashed vases over his head, grabbing them from a nearby counter. A pink dinner plate came skimming up from the crowd, narrowly missing the wired TV pickup. A moment later, a blue-and-white sugar bowl, thrown with better aim, came curving at them in the screen. It scored a hit, and brought darkness, though the bedlam of sound continued.

  * * * *

  Cardon looked at his watch as he entered the Council Chamber at Literates’ Hall, smoothing his smock hastily under his Sam Browne. He’d made it with very little time to spare, before the doors would be sealed and the meeting would begin. He’d been all over town, tracking down that report of Sforza’s; he’d even made a quick visit to Chinatown, on the off chance that “China” had been used in an attempt at the double concealment of the obvious, but, as he’d expected, he’d found nothing. The people there hardly knew there was to be an election. Accustomed for millennia to ideographs read only by experts, they viewed the current uproar about Literacy with unconcern.

  At the door, he deposited his pocket recorder—no sound-recording device was permitted, except the big audio-visual camera in front, which made the single permanent record. Going around the room counterclockwise to the seats of his faction, he encountered two other Lancedale men: Gerald K. Toppington, of the T
echnological Section, thin-faced, sandy-haired, balding; and Franklin R. Chernov, commander of the local Literates’ guards brigade, with his ragged gray mustache, his horribly scarred face, and his outsize tablet-holster almost as big as a mail-order catalogue.

  “What’s Joyner-Graves trying to do to us, Frank?” Chernov rumbled gutturally.

  “It’s what we’re going to do to them,” Cardon replied. “Didn’t the chief tell you?”

  Chernov shook his head. “No time. I only got here fifteen minutes ago. Chasing all over town about that tip from Sforza. Nothing, of course. Nothing from Sforza, either. The thing must have been planned weeks ago, whatever it is, and everybody briefed personally, and nothing on disk or tape about it. But what’s going to happen here? Lancedale going to pull a rabbit out of his hat?”

  Cardon explained. Chernov whistled. “Man, that’s no rabbit; that’s a full-grown Bengal tiger! I hope it doesn’t eat us, by mistake.”

  Cardon looked around, saw Lancedale in animated argument with a group of his associates. Some of the others seemed to be sharing Chernov’s fears.

  “I have every confidence in the chief,” Toppington said. “If his tigers make a meal off anybody, it’ll be—” He nodded in the direction of the other side of the chamber, where Wilton Joyner, short, bald, pompous, and Harvey Graves, tall and cadaverous, stood in a Rosencrantz-Guildenstern attitude, surrounded by half a dozen of their top associates.

  The Council President, Morehead, came out a little door onto the rostrum and took his seat, pressing a button. The call bell began clanging slowly. Lancedale, glancing around, saw Cardon and nodded. On both sides of the chamber, the Literates began taking seats, and finally the call bell stopped, and Literate President Morehead rapped with his gavel. The opening formalities were hustled through. The routine held-over business was rubber-stamped with hasty votes of approval, even including the decisions of the extemporary meeting of that morning on the affair at Pelton’s. Finally, the presiding officer rapped again and announced that the meeting was now open for new business.