Deathwish World

by Dean Ing

  As he headed for the fallen man, those gathered around Dick Samuelson made way for him. Even as he crossed the room, he snapped his bag open and began to fish in it. Billy roared, "He's no damned doctor," and made a flying tackle.

  The newcomer dropped his bag and smashed into the floor, hitting full on his face. The wrestler swarmed onto him, expertly, snagged an arm and pressed it behind and up the back.

  Ron scooped up the bag and stared down into it. He reached inside and brought out a small Gyrojet hideaway gun. "Holy smog," he said, "a shooter."

  The other guards came pressing in from the corridor, guns at the ready.

  Billy hauled the fake doctor to his feet and slugged him mercilessly in the face, shattering his glasses and bringing blood.

  "Another doctor," Forry blurted at Mary Ann, who had abandoned her phone and was standing, both fists to her mouth, her eyes popping in distress. "Have the manager come, accompanying the regular hotel doctor. Goddammit, Dick's still pumping his life out."

  She got back on the phone.

  Forty said to Billy, in disgust, "How in the hell did you know he wasn't a doctor?"

  Billy Tucker, who was still manhandling his victim, aided now by Les, who was no gentler, looked slightly embarrassed. "I don't know," he admitted. "Just instinct, I guess."

  They all looked at him. The wrestler said uncomfortably, "He got here too soon. Besides, he looked too much like a doctor."

  Forry closed his eyes in weariness. "Give me strength," he muttered.

  Roy, who had settled down in his chair behind his desk, said emptily, "Take him down to the lobby, Billy. You go too, Les. Turn him over to the fuzzies. Same story as that photographer."

  Ferd Feldmeyer was over at the bar, pouring himself a fresh drink. He said, "We'd better call the press boys back. This makes a bigger story."

  "To hell with publicity," Roy snapped. "Take care of poor Dick first."

  A half hour later, the place was reasonably cleaned up. The faithful guard, Dick, had taken a side wound. Happily, the slug hadn't been explosive, as was so usual these days, and had gone completely through. According to the hotel doctor, there was little fear for his life—only a protracted stay in the hospital.

  Forry said, "He'll continue on the payroll like everybody else."

  Ron looked at him. "You're damn right he will."

  Ron was the only guard in the room for the time. Billy was out on the roof, on the off chance that either the copter or the sniper might make a return performance. The others were in the corridors or stationed at the entries. Everybody was uptight.

  Feldmeyer shook his head until his lardy jowls wobbled. He said, "What motivates a cloddy like that? Suppose he'd got his gun out and shot Roy? We'd all have been on him like a ton of bricks. He didn't have a chance of making a getaway."

  Forry grunted. "When the Graf can't find anybody else to take a chance, there's always the John Wilkes Booth type kicking around that you can steam up to do the job. Think of all the international fame that would accrue to anybody who finishes the Deathwish Wobbly. Besides, one way or the other, the Graf will probably have that fake photographer and the phony doctor loose within six months. With his kind of money and muscle, you can do almost anything in this world."

  In spite of all the excitement, Roy hadn't dispelled his earlier despondency. He took a pull at his third drink, though they hadn't had lunch yet.

  He said, his voice reflecting his inner despair, "Dick might have been killed."

  The others were seated around, quiet in their own inner thoughts.

  Ron looked over at his chief quickly. He said, rejection there of the other's obvious thoughts, "Dick knew that. We all knew we were taking a chance when we signed up. You're the only one not taking a chance." He hesitated, before adding, "You don't have a chance, Roy, but you're in here pitching. What would you expect us to do? We're just as avid Wobblies as you are."

  Roy Cos shrugged that off. "It was a mistake," he said, deep weariness in his voice. "What good's it done? I don't see the multitudes swarming in to join the Wobblies."

  "There are some," Mary Ann said, trying to keep obvious compassion for her lover from her voice.

  Roy looked at Forry, rather than her. "Yes," he said. "Most of 'em are crackpots trying to get in on the act. We don't need crackpots. We need devoted militants."

  "They're not all crackpots," Ron said. "And it takes time to make a good Wobbly. A lot of study. A lot of background."

  "No, they're not all crackpots," Roy said. "Some are undoubtedly IABI men ordered to infiltrate us and act as agents provocateurs. Some are probably in the pay of the Graf, getting in where they can do the most damage. What's the old Russian adage? When four men sit down to talk revolution, three are police spies and the other a damn fool." He was still looking at Forry Brown. "You and your story about Sacco and Vanzetti."

  Forry lit another cigarette from the butt of his old one. "They wanted to get over their message. By being idealists.

  The American people heard their message but rejected it, which is undoubtedly what they should have done. Anarchy didn't fit the country's needs. All right, you wanted to have the chance of getting over the Wobbly program. You're doing it. Now it's up to the program. If the majority of the people think it's good, they'll support it. If they don't, they won't. What's your beef, Roy?" His tone was sour. Roy nodded, tired still. "They haven't accepted it." Ron said, "They haven't had time, Roy! For Chrissakes, it's only been a couple of weeks or so."

  His chief ignored that, saying, "You know what the trouble is? Always in the past when there was a fundamental change in the working, the people were driven to it, usually by hunger and despair—the French Revolution, the Russian Revolution, the Chinese before that, all the way back to the slave revolts in Rome led by Spartacus. But we don't have any hunger now, in the Welfare State. GAS takes care of everybody. Not on a very high level, but nobody starves, nobody goes unsheltered or unclothed, and medical care is free. The proles today are largely what Marx used to call the lumpen proletariat. He expected them to side with the enemy when the chips were down. And our lumpen proles are lumpen indeed. Go into any autobar in the slummiest part of town and say anything against the government and you'll have a fight on your hands. One of the platitudes they have is their slogan, it was good enough for Daddy and it's good enough for me.

  Ron said uncomfortably, not at his ease in arguing with the older man he admired so much, "You knew all that before we ever started, Roy. It's admittedly a long road, but if we're right, sooner or later we'll win."

  "So far as I'm concerned, and maybe Dick, it'll be later," the Deathwish Wobbly said bitterly.

  Chapter Twenty: Jeremiah Auburn

  When Jerry Auburn awakened, it was to find Lee Garrett next to him, up on one elbow. She was frowning puzzlement.

  He grinned, his eyes glinting amusement, and said, "Did I put up a valiant enough battle for my honor? I wouldn't want the word to get out that I was an easy lay."

  "What?"

  He said, "When you raped me last night."

  She was frowning still, ignoring his sally of humor. "I'm still wondering where I've met you before. At first I thought it was just your voice, but now I seem to find facial resemblances to someone I've met somewhere. Have we?"

  He laughed. "Yes, for a short time. But not under such circumstances that I ever expected to wind up in your bed, honey. In fact, I lied to you. Told you I didn't think blondes were…" He chuckled again. "Someday, maybe, I'll tell you about it. Right now, you wouldn't believe me anyway."

  "Don't be cryptic, Jerry."

  But he dropped it and his voice became serious. He said, "I'm going to be leaving today, Lee. I've got some things to do in the States. Besides that, I don't think I'd win high marks in a Roman popularity contest right now. After that attempt in the restaurant, I'd rather be on my own turf."

  She nodded at that. "I heard a few rumors last night that you haven't been exactly ingratiating yourself among some elemen
ts in the World Club but then, of course, you were a little drenched."

  "No," he told her definitely. "I knew what I was doing and I was doing it deliberately. I don't like the present drift of the World Club and I want to bring certain things to a decision. At any rate, I want you to get in touch with Mendel Amschel and Fong Hui and let them know that if it comes to a vote on a new Central Committee member to get in touch with me, through you. I'm going to give you the number of my tight beam transceiver. You're not to tell Sheila, or anyone else, about this."

  "But I work for Sheila Duff-Roberts. I can't…"

  He interrupted her. "And she works for the Central Committee, and Amschel and Fong and I are members of that committee, so you work for us, above and beyond your obligations to Sheila."

  "I suppose you're right." She hesitated, then said, "Jerry, what happened to Pamela McGivern, the girl who preceded me?"

  "I don't know," he said grimly. "It's one of the things I intend to find out.''

  He got out of bed and went to where he had so hastily disrobed the night before. He gathered up his clothes and headed for the bathroom, Lee looking after him thoughtfully. It occurred to her that though she'd had several brief affairs, she'd never before met a man with whom she might have considered a more permanent relationship. But then she snorted in self-amusement. He was Jeremiah Auburn, for years the leading igniter of the Rocket Set. Obviously, if he'd gotten to his age without more prolonged alliances, he wasn't interested in one. She wondered, all over again, where she could possibly have met him before—as he had now admitted.

  His decision made to return to the States, Jerry Auburn faded out of Rome as inconspicuously as he had appeared. He didn't even bother to pack a small bag. All his requirements could be met on his personal air yacht.

  He drove out the Appian Way to the International Shuttleport and directly to his king-size airliner. On the way, he had alerted the captain of his arrival and the fact that he wanted to be airborne immediately. A skeleton crew was always aboard, so that ordinarily he could have taken off immediately. However, the balance of the crew of eighteen, including the stewards, was undoubtedly quartered at the shuttleport's International Hotel and would be aboard as soon as he was.

  The flight was uneventful. He sat in the main lounge, staring unseeingly out one of the larger ports at the sea, far beneath. What he had told Lee wasn't exactly correct. It wasn't just a matter of wanting to bring things to a decision. They were coming to very basic decisions, and Jeremiah Auburn was a high-survival type. He wished to be out in front directing matters along the path he favored.

  He had a steward call ahead and have one of his limousines available when they landed, and to alert customs to pass him through without the necessity of his going to the administration building. It was his standard procedure. VIPs such as Jeremiah Auburn could be met on their private aircraft and not be bothered with the inconveniences suffered by the common herd. In such respects the 21st century differed not at all from the centuries before it; wealth and power had their privileges.

  The limousine sped him to Manhattan and through its deserted streets, arrogantly remaining on the surface rather than taking the underground highway. They pulled up before the minor entrance on the side street behind the towering office building which was his destination. He entered the building, fishing in his pockets for his key ring and the small silver key for his private elevator.

  The elevator sped him up to the high-level floor he used for his personal offices and living quarters while he was in residence. He emerged into the reception room and nodded at the dazzlingly smiling girl at the desk.

  "Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Auburn," she gushed, rising. "We've been expecting you, sir."

  "Wizard," he told her brusquely. "Tell Barry Wimple I'll see him in my quarters in five minutes."

  "Yes, Mr. Auburn," she simpered.

  For Christ's sake, he thought inwardly, let's not be too damned effervescent, as he pushed his way through to the office behind. It was staffed with two neatly suited accountant types and two gorgeous, efficient-looking women who could have landed Tri-Di parts portraying brisk secretaries of upper-echelon corporation executives. They were all deftly at work when he entered; whether make-work or not, he didn't know. They all stood and chorused smiled greetings, and he nodded back while striding across the room.

  He had a suspicion that if he'd said, "Miss Jones, come into my apartments, I want to lay you," not one of the four would have blinked an eye and Miss Jones would have trotted after him. He had a dozen such staffs in half a dozen countries throughout the globe.

  Simmons was waiting for him in the living room, ramrod-stiff, subservient just to the correct point, not sickeningly so. "Welcome home, Mr. Auburn," he said.

  Jerry looked around the lush room. "Did you think this was home?" he growled. He headed for the bar, adding over his shoulder, "I came without luggage. Check to see if all my needs are available. Tell the chef—what's his name here, Henri?—that I'll probably dine in the apartment tonight. Alone."

  "Yes, sir, of course. Yes, it's Henri, sir. He's anxious that you taste his new dish based on shad roe."

  "Wizard," Jerry said, taking up a cognac bottle from the bar and pouring into a glass generously. The butler faded. Jerry sat down on a couch, put his feet up on a cocktail table, and took a pull at the drink.

  Barry Wimple entered from the door that led to the offices. He was the epitome of the senior executive. Jerry Auburn sometimes wondered if they took courses in grooming at New Harvard Business College. He had never seen a senior executive who wasn't groomed to his teeth. He suspected that the other's clothing bill was greater than his own.

  "Welcome back, Mr. Auburn," Wimple said. "Was your trip to Europe satisfactory?"

  Jerry regarded him coolly. "How did you know I went to Europe?"

  The other looked at him in distress. "Why, Mr. Auburn, Captain Wayland of your air yacht recorded it in his report."

  Jerry made a note to do something about that. He didn't like anybody at all to know where he was at any given time. But obviously Wayland had to make reports on his expenditures, costs of fuel, landing fees, and so on.

  He said, "Barry, I want you to get a few heavies in here when I'm in residence."

  "Heavies, Mr. Auburn?"

  "Hard types; guards. And I don't want you to hire them from Mercenaries, Incorporated. I've got reason to believe there might be a contract out on me. Get them from some competitor of the Graf."

  His New York office head blinked at him. "A contract?

  You mean… but, sir, that's ridiculous. Who could possibly want you…"

  "Not everybody loves me like you do, Barry. So, six guards. I want them here this afternoon, inconspicuously, and I want them to shake down anybody who comes to see me."

  "This afternoon?"

  "Yes, preferably. But especially tonight. Is Lester here?"

  "Yes, Mr. Auburn. And Ted Meer as well, as you instructed."

  Lester was a carbon copy of Barry Wimple, fifteen years younger. One glance marked him as an efficient, supercilious WASP who would wind up a millionaire by middle age almost without trying.

  Jerry nodded at his greeting and said, "Lester, I want you to find out who is the head of Mercenaries, Incorporated in North America. Have him here this evening. Tell him that the meeting is confidential. I'm assuming that New York is his base of operations."

  Lester stared at him blankly, a touch of dismay there. "Mercenaries, Incorporated, sir?"

  "You heard me. If they're here, and they should be, there must be some manner of contacting them. Start earning your pay, damn it. Don't you know any upper slot news people, or someone in the IABI? Either should know."

  Wimple cleared his throat. "I have a niece who is married to a captain of detectives in the Inter-American Bureau of Investigation, Mr. Auburn."

  "That ought to do it. Anything else pressing on the agenda, Barry?"

  His senior aide said, "There's a representative from the Lagra
ngists waiting to see you, sir. When the order came for your limousine, I took the liberty of informing him that you were to be here this afternoon and that you might work him into your schedule. He's on his way. Of course, if you haven't the time…"

  "Lagrangists?" Jerry said. "You mean from Lagrange Five? What does he want?"

  "He wouldn't say, sir. He wanted to discuss it with you face to face. He was upset when I told him that you had retired and seldom devoted time to business matters anymore."

  Jerry grunted. "Send him into my office when he arrives. I

  don't believe I've ever met a real space colonist before. Brief me, Barry. How much have we currently got invested in Lagrange Five and the Asteroid Belt Islands?"

  "Two hundred and twelve million and, ah, some change, Mr. Auburn. Largely in the Satellite Solar Power Plants."

  Jerry grunted again. "That much? All right, you two, get going. I'll see the Lagrangist in my office and the Mercenaries, Incorporated bastard here in my quarters, both as soon as they've arrived. And remember, Barry, I want the new guards to frisk them before they see me."

  The two left. As they crossed the outer office, Lester said to his higher-up, "He's a tough sonofabitch."

  Wimple looked at him from the side of his eyes. "I'd probably be the same if I had inherited a few billion."

  Jerry Auburn was idly looking at some reports he wouldn't ordinarily have bothered with when the man from Lagrange Five was announced. He hadn't known what he had expected; among other things, possibly an older man than this, if the other was an official representative from the space islands.

  Ian Venner was disgustingly healthy looking. He must have been exactly the height and weight that the insurance statistics averaged out on a man of his age. He was a sun-faded blond, sharp blue of eye, with a good mouth on the wide and dry humorous side, and a strong chin. He looked as though he either owned the place or didn't give a damn who did.

  "Sit down, Mr. Venner," Jerry said, even while sizing the other up.

  "Just Venner," the newcomer said crisply. "We don't use the term Mister in Lagrangia.''

  Jerry said, "Why not?"