by Various
Joe eyed him in scorn. "Oh, you didn't, huh? What happens after I give it to this guy? I just sit around and wait for the cops to put the arm on me?"
Brett-James grimaced in amusement. "Mr. Prantera, this will probably be difficult for you to comprehend, but there are no police in this era."
Joe gaped at him. "No police! What happens if you gotta throw some guy in stir?"
"If I understand your idiom correctly, you mean prison. There are no prisons in this era, Mr. Prantera."
Joe stared. "No cops, no jails. What stops anybody? What stops anybody from just going into some bank, like, and collecting up all the bread?"
Brett-James cleared his throat. "Mr. Prantera, there are no banks."
"No banks! You gotta have banks!"
"And no money to put in them. We found it a rather antiquated method of distribution well over a century ago."
Joe had given up. Now he merely stared.
Brett-James said reasonably, "We found we were devoting as much time to financial matters in all their endless ramifications--including bank robberies--as we were to productive efforts. So we turned to more efficient methods of distribution."
* * * * *
On the fourth day, Joe said, "O.K., let's get down to facts. Summa the things you guys say don't stick together so good. Now, first place, where's this guy Temple-Tracy you want knocked off?"
Reston-Farrell and Brett-James were both present. The three of them sat in the living room of the latter's apartment, sipping a sparkling wine which seemed to be the prevailing beverage of the day. For Joe's taste it was insipid stuff. Happily, rye was available to those who wanted it.
Reston-Farrell said, "You mean, where does he reside? Why, here in this city."
"Well, that's handy, eh?" Joe scratched himself thoughtfully. "You got somebody can finger him for me?"
"Finger him?"
"Look, before I can give it to this guy I gotta know some place where he'll be at some time. Get it? Like Al Rossi. My finger, he works in Rossi's house, see? He lets me know every Wednesday night, eight o'clock, Al leaves the house all by hisself. O.K., so I can make plans, like, to give it to him." Joe Prantera wound it up reasonably. "You gotta have a finger."
Brett-James said, "Why not just go to Temple-Tracy's apartment and, ah, dispose of him?"
"Jest walk in, eh? You think I'm stupid? How do I know how many witnesses hangin' around? How do I know if the guy's carryin' heat?"
"Heat?"
"A gun, a gun. Ya think I'm stupid? I come to give it to him and he gives it to me instead."
Dr. Reston-Farrell said, "Howard Temple-Tracy lives alone. He customarily receives visitors every afternoon, largely potential followers. He is attempting to recruit members to an organization he is forming. It would be quite simple for you to enter his establishment and dispose of him. I assure you, he does not possess weapons."
Joe was indignant. "Just like that, eh?" he said sarcastically. "Then what happens? How do I get out of the building? Where's my get car parked? Where do I hide out? Where do I dump the heat?"
"Dump the heat?"
"Get rid of the gun. You want I should get caught with the gun on me? I'd wind up in the gas chamber so quick--"
"See here, Mr. Prantera," Brett-James said softly. "We no longer have capital punishment, you must realize."
"O.K. I still don't wanta get caught. What is the rap these days, huh?" Joe scowled. "You said they didn't have no jails any more."
"This is difficult for you to understand, I imagine," Reston-Farrell told him, "but, you see, we no longer punish people in this era."
That took a long, unbelieving moment to sink in. "You mean, like, no matter what they do? That's crazy. Everybody'd be running around giving it to everybody else."
"The motivation for crime has been removed, Mr. Prantera," Reston-Farrell attempted to explain. "A person who commits a violence against another is obviously in need of medical care. And, consequently, receives it."
"You mean, like, if I steal a car or something, they just take me to a doctor?" Joe Prantera was unbelieving.
"Why would anybody wish to steal a car?" Reston-Farrell said easily.
"But if I give it to somebody?"
"You will be turned over to a medical institution. Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy is the last man you will ever kill, Mr. Prantera."
A chillness was in the belly of Joe Prantera. He said very slowly, very dangerously, "You guys figure on me getting caught, don't you?"
"Yes," Brett-James said evenly.
"Well then, figure something else. You think I'm stupid?"
"Mr. Prantera," Dr. Reston-Farrell said, "there has been as much progress in the field of psychiatry in the past two centuries as there has in any other. Your treatment would be brief and painless, believe me."
Joe said coldly, "And what happens to you guys? How do you know I won't rat on you?"
Brett-James said gently, "The moment after you have accomplished your mission, we plan to turn ourselves over to the nearest institution to have determined whether or not we also need therapy."
"Now I'm beginning to wonder about you guys," Joe said. "Look, all over again, what'd'ya wanta give it to this guy for?"
The doctor said, "We explained the other day, Mr. Prantera. Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy is a dangerous, atavistic, evil genius. We are afraid for our institutions if his plans are allowed to mature."
"Well if you got things so good, everybody's got it made, like, who'd listen to him?"
The doctor nodded at the validity of the question. "Mr. Prantera, Homo sapiens is a unique animal. Physically he matures at approximately the age of thirteen. However, mental maturity and adjustment is often not fully realized until thirty or even more. Indeed, it is sometimes never achieved. Before such maturity is reached, our youth are susceptible to romantic appeal. Nationalism, chauvinism, racism, the supposed glory of the military, all seem romantic to the immature. They rebel at the orderliness of present society. They seek entertainment in excitement. Citizen Temple-Tracy is aware of this and finds his recruits among the young."
"O.K., so this guy is dangerous. You want him knocked off before he screws everything up. But the way things are, there's no way of making a get. So you'll have to get some other patsy. Not me."
"I am afraid you have no alternative," Brett-James said gently. "Without us, what will you do? Mr. Prantera, you do not even speak the language."
"What'd'ya mean? I don't understand summa the big words you eggheads use, but I get by O.K."
Brett-James said, "Amer-English is no longer the language spoken by the man in the street, Mr. Prantera. Only students of such subjects any longer speak such tongues as Amer-English, French, Russian or the many others that once confused the race with their limitations as a means of communication."
"You mean there's no place in the whole world where they talk American?" Joe demanded, aghast.
* * * * *
Dr. Reston-Farrell controlled the car. Joe Prantera sat in the seat next to him and Warren Brett-James sat in the back. Joe had, tucked in his belt, a .45 caliber automatic, once displayed in a museum. It had been more easily procured than the ammunition to fit it, but that problem too had been solved.
The others were nervous, obviously repelled by the very conception of what they had planned.
Inwardly, Joe was amused. Now that they had got in the clutch, the others were on the verge of chickening out. He knew it wouldn't have taken much for them to cancel the project. It wasn't any answer though. If they allowed him to call it off today, they'd talk themselves into it again before the week was through.
Besides, already Joe was beginning to feel the comfortable, pleasurable, warm feeling that came to him on occasions like this.
He said, "You're sure this guy talks American, eh?"
Warren Brett-James said, "Quite sure. He is a student of history."
"And he won't think it's funny I talk American to him, eh?"
"He'll undoubtedly be intri
gued."
They pulled up before a large apartment building that overlooked the area once known as Wilmington.
Joe was coolly efficient now. He pulled out the automatic, held it down below his knees and threw a shell into the barrel. He eased the hammer down, thumbed on the safety, stuck the weapon back in his belt and beneath the jacketlike garment he wore.
He said, "O.K. See you guys later." He left them and entered the building.
An elevator--he still wasn't used to their speed in this era--whooshed him to the penthouse duplex occupied by Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy.
There were two persons in the reception room but they left on Joe's arrival, without bothering to look at him more than glancingly.
He spotted the screen immediately and went over and stood before it.
The screen lit and revealed a heavy-set, dour of countenance man seated at a desk. He looked into Joe Prantera's face, scowled and said something.
Joe said, "Joseph Salviati-Prantera to interview Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy."
The other's shaggy eyebrows rose. "Indeed," he said. "In Amer-English?"
Joe nodded.
"Enter," the other said.
A door had slid open on the other side of the room. Joe walked through it and into what was obviously an office. Citizen Temple-Tracy sat at a desk. There was only one other chair in the room. Joe Prantera ignored it and remained standing.
Citizen Temple-Tracy said, "What can I do for you?"
Joe looked at him for a long, long moment. Then he reached down to his belt and brought forth the .45 automatic. He moistened his lips.
Joe said softly, "You know what this here is?"
Temple-Tracy stared at the weapon. "It's a handgun, circa, I would say, about 1925 Old Calendar. What in the world are you doing with it?"
Joe said, very slowly, "Chief, in the line you're in these days you needa heavy around with wunna these. Otherwise, Chief, you're gunna wind up in some gutter with a lotta holes in you. What I'm doin', I'm askin' for a job. You need a good man knows how to handle wunna these, Chief."
Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy eyed him appraisingly. "Perhaps," he said, "you are right at that. In the near future, I may well need an assistant knowledgeable in the field of violence. Tell me more about yourself. You surprise me considerably."
"Sure, Chief. It's kinda a long story, though. First off, I better tell you you got some bad enemies, Chief. Two guys special, named Brett-James and Doc Reston-Farrell. I think one of the first jobs I'm gunna hafta do for you, Chief, is to give it to those two."
THE END
* * *
Contents
I'M A STRANGER HERE MYSELF
By MACK REYNOLDS
The Place de France is the town's hub. It marks the end of Boulevard Pasteur, the main drag of the westernized part of the city, and the beginning of Rue de la Liberté, which leads down to the Grand Socco and the medina. In a three-minute walk from the Place de France you can go from an ultra-modern, California-like resort to the Baghdad of Harun al-Rashid.
It's quite a town, Tangier.
King-size sidewalk cafes occupy three of the strategic corners on the Place de France. The Cafe de Paris serves the best draft beer in town, gets all the better custom, and has three shoeshine boys attached to the establishment. You can sit of a sunny morning and read the Paris edition of the New York Herald Tribune while getting your shoes done up like mirrors for thirty Moroccan francs which comes to about five cents at current exchange.
You can sit there, after the paper's read, sip your expresso and watch the people go by.
Tangier is possibly the most cosmopolitan city in the world. In native costume you'll see Berber and Rif, Arab and Blue Man, and occasionally a Senegalese from further south. In European dress you'll see Japs and Chinese, Hindus and Turks, Levantines and Filipinos, North Americans and South Americans, and, of course, even Europeans--from both sides of the Curtain.
In Tangier you'll find some of the world's poorest and some of the richest. The poorest will try to sell you anything from a shoeshine to their not very lily-white bodies, and the richest will avoid your eyes, afraid you might try to sell them something.
In spite of recent changes, the town still has its unique qualities. As a result of them the permanent population includes smugglers and black-marketeers, fugitives from justice and international con men, espionage and counter-espionage agents, homosexuals, nymphomaniacs, alcoholics, drug addicts, displaced persons, ex-royalty, and subversives of every flavor. Local law limits the activities of few of these.
Like I said, it's quite a town.
* * * * *
I looked up from my Herald Tribune and said, "Hello, Paul. Anything new cooking?"
He sank into the chair opposite me and looked around for the waiter. The tables were all crowded and since mine was a face he recognized, he assumed he was welcome to intrude. It was more or less standard procedure at the Cafe de Paris. It wasn't a place to go if you wanted to be alone.
Paul said, "How are you, Rupert? Haven't seen you for donkey's years."
The waiter came along and Paul ordered a glass of beer. Paul was an easy-going, sallow-faced little man. I vaguely remembered somebody saying he was from Liverpool and in exports.
"What's in the newspaper?" he said, disinterestedly.
"Pogo and Albert are going to fight a duel," I told him, "and Lil Abner is becoming a rock'n'roll singer."
He grunted.
"Oh," I said, "the intellectual type." I scanned the front page. "The Russkies have put up another manned satellite."
"They have, eh? How big?"
"Several times bigger than anything we Americans have."
The beer came and looked good, so I ordered a glass too.
Paul said, "What ever happened to those poxy flying saucers?"
"What flying saucers?"
A French girl went by with a poodle so finely clipped as to look as though it'd been shaven. The girl was in the latest from Paris. Every pore in place. We both looked after her.
"You know, what everybody was seeing a few years ago. It's too bad one of these bloody manned satellites wasn't up then. Maybe they would've seen one."
"That's an idea," I said.
We didn't say anything else for a while and I began to wonder if I could go back to my paper without rubbing him the wrong way. I didn't know Paul very well, but, for that matter, it's comparatively seldom you ever get to know anybody very well in Tangier. Largely, cards are played close to the chest.
* * * * *
My beer came and a plate of tapas for us both. Tapas at the Cafe de Paris are apt to be potato salad, a few anchovies, olives, and possibly some cheese. Free lunch, they used to call it in the States.
Just to say something, I said, "Where do you think they came from?" And when he looked blank, I added, "The Flying Saucers."
He grinned. "From Mars or Venus, or someplace."
"Ummmm," I said. "Too bad none of them ever crashed, or landed on the Yale football field and said Take me to your cheerleader, or something."
Paul yawned and said, "That was always the trouble with those crackpot blokes' explanations of them. If they were aliens from space, then why not show themselves?"
I ate one of the potato chips. It'd been cooked in rancid olive oil.
I said, "Oh, there are various answers to that one. We could probably sit around here and think of two or three that made sense."
Paul was mildly interested. "Like what?"
"Well, hell, suppose for instance there's this big Galactic League of civilized planets. But it's restricted, see. You're not eligible for membership until you, well, say until you've developed space flight. Then you're invited into the club. Meanwhile, they send secret missions down from time to time to keep an eye on your progress."
Paul grinned at me. "I see you read the same poxy stuff I do."
A Moorish girl went by dressed in a neatly tailored gray jellaba, European style high-heeled shoes, and a pinkish sil
k veil so transparent that you could see she wore lipstick. Very provocative, dark eyes can be over a veil. We both looked after her.
I said, "Or, here's another one. Suppose you have a very advanced civilization on, say, Mars."
"Not Mars. No air, and too bloody dry to support life."
"Don't interrupt, please," I said with mock severity. "This is a very old civilization and as the planet began to lose its water and air, it withdrew underground. Uses hydroponics and so forth, husbands its water and air. Isn't that what we'd do, in a few million years, if Earth lost its water and air?"
"I suppose so," he said. "Anyway, what about them?"
"Well, they observe how man is going through a scientific boom, an industrial boom, a population boom. A boom, period. Any day now he's going to have practical space ships. Meanwhile, he's also got the H-Bomb and the way he beats the drums on both sides of the Curtain, he's not against using it, if he could get away with it."
Paul said, "I got it. So they're scared and are keeping an eye on us. That's an old one. I've read that a dozen times, dished up different."
I shifted my shoulders. "Well, it's one possibility."
"I got a better one. How's this. There's this alien life form that's way ahead of us. Their civilization is so old that they don't have any records of when it began and how it was in the early days. They've gone beyond things like wars and depressions and revolutions, and greed for power or any of these things giving us a bad time here on Earth. They're all like scholars, get it? And some of them are pretty jolly well taken by Earth, especially the way we are right now, with all the problems, get it? Things developing so fast we don't know where we're going or how we're going to get there."
* * * * *
I finished my beer and clapped my hands for Mouley. "How do you mean, where we're going?"
"Well, take half the countries in the world today. They're trying to industrialize, modernize, catch up with the advanced countries. Look at Egypt, and Israel, and India and China, and Yugoslavia and Brazil, and all the rest. Trying to drag themselves up to the level of the advanced countries, and all using different methods of doing it. But look at the so-called advanced countries. Up to their bottoms in problems. Juvenile delinquents, climbing crime and suicide rates, the loony-bins full of the balmy, unemployed, threat of war, spending all their money on armaments instead of things like schools. All the bloody mess of it. Why, a man from Mars would be fascinated, like."
