The Mack Reynolds Megapack

by Mack Reynolds

  Plekhanov’s eyes went to Taller’s son. “I assume you are a soldier?”

  Taller said, “This is Reif, my eldest, and by our custom, second in command of the People’s armies. As Khan, I am first.”

  Reif nodded coldly to Plekhanov. “I am a soldier.” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “And willing to die to protect the People.”

  “Indeed,” Plekhanov rumbled, “as a soldier you will be interested to know that our first step will involve the amalgamation of all the nations and tribes of this planet. Not a small task. There should be opportunity for you.”

  Taller said, “Surely you speak in jest. The People have been at war for as long as scribes have records and never have we been stronger than today, never larger. To conquer the world! Surely you jest.”

  Plekhanov grunted ungraciously. He looked to Barry Watson, a lanky youth, now leaning negligently against the wall, his submachine gun, however, at the easy ready. “Watson, you’re our military expert. Have you any opinions as yet?”

  “Yes, sir,” Watson said easily. “Until we can get iron weapons and firearms into full production, I suggest the Macedonian phalanx for their infantry. They have the horse, but evidently the wheel has gone out of use. We’ll introduce the chariot and also heavy carts to speed up logistics. We’ll bring in the stirruped saddle, too. I have available for study, works on every cavalry leader from Tamerlane to Jeb Stuart. Yes, sir, I have some ideas.”

  Plekhanov pursed his heavy lips. “From the beginning we’re going to need manpower on a scale never dreamed of locally. We’ll adopt a policy of expansion. Those who join us freely will become members of the State with full privileges. Those who resist will be made prisoners of war and used for shock labor on the roads and in the mines. However, a man works better if he has a goal, a dream. Each prisoner will be freed and become a member of the State after ten years of such work.”

  He turned to his subordinates. “Roberts and Hawkins, you will begin tomorrow to seek the nearest practical sources of iron ore and coal. Wherever you discover them we’ll direct our first military expeditions. Chessman and Cogswell, you’ll assemble their best artisans and begin their training in such basic advancements as the wheel.”

  Taller said softly, “You speak of advancement but thus far you have mentioned largely war and on such a scale that I wonder how many of the People will survive. What advancement? We have all we wish.”

  Plekhanov cut him off with a curt motion of his hand. He indicated the hieroglyphics on the chamber’s walls. “How long does it take to learn such writing?”

  Mynor, the priest, said, “This is a mystery known only to the priesthood. One spends ten years in preparation to be a scribe.”

  “We’ll teach you a new method which will have every citizen of the State reading and writing within a year.”

  The Tulans gaped at him.

  He moved ponderously over to Roberts, drew from its scabbard the sword bayonet the other had at his hip. He took it and slashed savagely at a stone pillar, gouging a heavy chunk from it. He tossed the weapon to Reif, whose eyes lit up.

  “What metals have you been using? Copper, bronze? Probably. Well, that’s steel. You’re going to move into the iron age overnight.”

  He turned to Taller. “Are your priests also in charge of the health of your people?” he growled. “Are their cures obtained from mumbo-jumbo and a few herbs found in the desert? Within a decade, I’ll guarantee you that not one of your major diseases will remain.”

  He turned to the priest and said, “Or perhaps this will be the clincher for some of you. How many years do you have, old man?”

  Mynor said with dignity, “I am sixty-four.”

  Plekhanov said churlishly, “And I am two hundred and thirty-three.” He called to Stevens, “I think you’re our youngest. How old are you?”

  Stevens grinned, “Hundred and thirteen, next month.”

  Mynor opened his mouth, closed it again. No man but would prolong his youth. Of a sudden he felt old, old.

  Plekhanov turned back to Taller. “Most of the progress we have to offer is beyond your capacity to understand. We’ll give you freedom from want. Health. We’ll give you advances in every art. We’ll eventually free every citizen from drudgery, educate him, give him the opportunity to enjoy intellectual curiosity. We’ll open the stars to him. All these things the coming of the State will eventually mean to you.”

  Tula’s Khan was not impressed. “This you tell us, man from First Earth. But to achieve these you plan to change every phase of our lives and we are happy with…Tula…the way it is. I say this to you. There are but eight of you and many, many of us. We do not want your…State. Return from whence you came.”

  Plekhanov shook his massive head at the other. “Whether or not you want these changes they will be made. If you fail to co-operate, we will find someone who will. I suggest you make the most of it.”

  Taller arose from the squat stool upon which he’d been seated. “I have listened and I do not like what you have said. I am Khan of all the People. Now leave in peace, or I shall order my warriors …”

  “Joe,” Plekhanov said flatly. “Watson!”

  Joe Chessman took his heavy gun from its holster and triggered it twice. The roar of the explosions reverberated thunderously in the confined space, deafening all, and terrifying the Tulans. Bright red colored the robes the Khan wore, colored them without beauty. Bright red splattered the floor.

  Leonid Plekhanov stared at his second in command, wet his thick lips. “Joe,” he sputtered. “I hadn’t…I didn’t expect you to be so…hasty.”

  Joe Chessman growled, “We’ve got to let them know where we stand, right now, or they’ll never hold still for us. Cover the doors, Watson, Roberts.” He motioned to the others with his head. “Cogswell, Hawkins, Stevens, get to those windows and watch.”

  Taller was a crumbled heap on the floor. The other Texcocans stared at his body in shocked horror.

  All expect Reif.

  Reif bent down over his father’s body for a moment, and then looked up, his lips white, at Plekhanov. “He is dead.”

  Leonid Plekhanov collected himself. “Yes.”

  Reif’s cold face was expressionless. He looked at Joe Chessman who stood stolidly to one side, gun still in hand.

  Reif said, “You can supply such weapons to my armies?”

  Plekhanov said, “That is our intention, in time.”

  Reif came erect. “Subject to the approval of the clan leaders, I am now Khan. Tell me more of this State of which you have spoken.”

  IV.

  The sergeant stopped the small company about a quarter of a mile from the city of Bari. His detachment numbered only ten but they were well armed with short swords and blunderbusses and wore mail and steel helmets. On the face of it, they would have been a match for ten times this number of merchants.

  It was hardly noon but the sergeant had obviously already been at his wine flask. He leered at them. “And where do you think you go?”

  The merchant who led the rest was a thin little man but he was richly robed and astride a heavy black mare. He said, “To Bari, soldier.” He drew a paper from a pouch. “I hold this permission from Baron Mannerheim to pass through his lands with my people and chattels.”

  The leer turned mercenary. “Unfortunately, city man, I can’t read. What do you carry on the mules?”

  “Personal property, which, I repeat, I have permission to transport over Baron Mannerheim’s lands free from harassment from his followers.” He added, in irritation, “The baron is a friend of mine, fond of the gifts I give him.”

  One of the soldiers grunted his skepticism, checked the flint on the lock of his piece, then looked at the sergeant suggestively.

  The sergeant said, “As you say, merchant, my lord the baron is fond of gifts. Aren’t we all? Unfortunately, I have received no word of your group. My instructions are to stop all intruders upon the baron’s lands and, if there is resistance, to slay them and conf
iscate such properties as they may be carrying.”

  The merchant sighed and reached into a small pouch. The eyes of the sergeant drooped in greed. The hand emerged with two small coins. “As you say,” the merchant muttered bitterly, “we are all fond of gifts. Will you do me the honor to drink my health at the tavern tonight?”

  The sergeant said nothing, but his mouth slackened and he fondled the hilt of his sword.

  The merchant sighed again and dipped once more into the pouch. This time his hand emerged with half a dozen bits of silver. He handed them down to the other, complaining, “How can a man profit in his affairs if every few miles he must pass another outstretched hand?”

  The sergeant growled, “You do not seem to starve, city man. Now, on your way. You are fortunate I am too lazy today to bother going through your things. Besides,” and he grinned widely, “the baron gave me personal instructions not to bother you.”

  The merchant snorted, kicked his heels into his beast’s sides and led his half dozen followers toward the city. The soldiers looked after them and howled their amusement. The money was enough to keep them soused for days.

  When they were out of earshot, Amschel Mayer grinned his amusement back over his shoulder at Jerome Kennedy. “How’d that come off, Jerry?”

  The other sniffed, in mock deprecation. “You’re beginning to fit into the local merchant pattern better than the real thing. However, just for the record, I had this, ah, grease gun, trained on them all the time.”

  Mayer frowned. “Only in extreme emergency, my dear Jerry. The baron would be up in arms if he found a dozen of his men massacred on the outskirts of Bari, and we don’t want a showdown at this stage. It’s taken nearly a year to build this part we act.”

  At this time of day the gates of the port city were open and the guards lounged idly. Their captain recognized Amschel Mayer and did no more than nod respectfully.

  They wended their way through narrow, cobblestoned streets, avoiding the crowds in the central market area. They pulled up eventually before a house both larger and more ornate than its neighbors. Mayer and Kennedy dismounted from the horses and left their care to the others.

  * * * *

  Mayer beat with the heavy knocker on the door and a slot opened for a quick check of his identity. The door opened wide and Technician Martin Gunther let them in.

  “The others are here already?” Mayer asked him.

  Gunther nodded. “Since breakfast. Baron Leonar, in particular, is impatient.”

  Mayer said over his shoulder, “All right, Jerry, this is where we put it to them.”

  They entered the long conference room. A full score of men sat about the heavy wooden table. Most of them were as richly garbed as their host. Most of them in their middle years. All of them alert of eye. All of them confidently at ease.

  Amschel Mayer took his place at the table’s end and Jerome Kennedy sank into the chair next to him. Mayer took the time to speak to each of his guests individually, then he leaned back and took in the gathering as a whole. He said, “You probably realize that this group consists of the twenty most powerful merchants on the continent.”

  Olderman nodded. “We have been discussing your purpose in bringing us together, Honorable Mayer. All of us are not friends.” He twisted his face in amusement. “In fact, very few of us are friends.”

  “There is no need for you to be,” Mayer said snappishly, “but all are going to realize the need for co-operation. Honorables, I’ve just come from the city of Ronda. Although I’d paid heavily in advance to the three barons whose lands I crossed. I had to bribe myself through a dozen road-blocks, had to pay exorbitant rates to cross three ferries, and once had to fight off supposed bandits.”

  One of his guests grumbled, “Who were actually probably soldiers of the local baron who had decided that although you had paid him transit fee, it still might be profitable to go through your goods.”

  Mayer nodded. “Exactly, my dear Honorable, and that is why we’ve gathered.”

  Olderman had evidently assumed spokesmanship for the others. Now he said warily, “I don’t understand.”

  “Genoa, if you’ll pardon the use of this name to signify the planet upon which we reside, will never advance until trade has been freed from these bandits who call themselves lords and barons.”

  Eyebrows reached for hairlines.

  Olderman’s eyes darted about the room, went to the doors. “Please,” he said, “the servants.”

  “My servants are safe,” Mayer said.

  One of his guests was smiling without humor. “You seem to forget, Honorable Mayer, that I carry the title of baron.”

  Mayer shook his head. “No, Baron Leonar. But neither do you disagree with what I say. The businessman, the merchant, the manufacturer on Genoa today, is only tolerated. Were it not for the fact that the barons have no desire to eliminate such a profitable source of income, they would milk us dry overnight.”

  Someone shrugged. “That is the way of things. We are lucky to have wrested, bribed and begged as many favors from the lords as we have. Our twenty cities all have charters that protect us from complete despoilation.”

  Mayer twisted excitedly in his chair. “As of today, things begin to change. Jerry, that platen press.”

  Jerry Kennedy left the room momentarily and returned with Martin Gunther and two of the servants. While the assembled merchants looked on, in puzzled silence, Mayer’s assistants set up the press and a stand holding two fonts of fourteen-point type. Jerry took up a printer’s stick and gave running instructions as he demonstrated. Gunther handed around pieces of the type until all had examined it, while his colleague set up several lines. Kennedy transposed the lines to a chase, locked it up and placed the form to one side while he demonstrated inking the small press, which was operated by a foot pedal. He mounted the form in the press, took a score of sheets of paper and rapidly fed them, one by one. When they were all printed, he stopped pumping and Gunther handed the still wet finished product around to the audience.

  Olderman stared down at the printed lines, scowled in concentration, wet his lips in sudden comprehension.

  But it was merchant Russ who blurted, “This will revolutionize the inscribing of books. Why, it can well take it out of the hands of the Temple! With such a machine I could make a hundred books—”

  Mayer was beaming. “Not a hundred, Honorable, but a hundred thousand!”

  The others stared at him as though he was demented. “A hundred thousand,” one said. “There are not that many literate persons on the continent.”

  “There will be,” Mayer crowed. “This is but one of our levers to pry power from the barons. And here is another.” He turned to Russ. “Honorable Russ, your city is noted for the fine quality of its steel, of the swords and armor you produce.”

  Russ nodded. He was a small man fantastically rich in his attire. “This is true, Honorable Mayer.”

  Mayer said, tossing a small booklet to the other, “I have here the plans for a new method of making steel from pig iron. The Bessemer method, we’ll call it. The principle involved is the oxidation of the impurities in the iron by blowing air through the molten metal.”

  Amschel Mayer turned to still another. “And your town is particularly noted for its fine textiles.” He looked to his assistants. “Jerry, you and Gunther bring in those models of the power loom and the spinning jenny.”

  While they were gone, he said, “My intention is to assist you to speed up production. With this in mind, you’ll appreciate the automatic flying shuttle that we’ll now demonstrate.”

  Kennedy and Gunther re-entered accompanied by four servants and a mass of equipment. Kennedy muttered to Amschel Mayer, “I feel like the instructor of a handicrafts class.”

  Half an hour later, Kennedy and Gunther wound up passing out pamphlets to the awed merchant guests. Kennedy said, “This booklet will give details on construction of the equipment and its operation.”

  Mayer pursed his lips. “Your
people will be able to assimilate only so fast, so we won’t push them. Later, you’ll be interested in introducing the mule spinning frame, among other items.”

  He motioned for the servants to remove the printing press and textile machinery. “We now come to probably the most important of the devices I have to introduce to you today. Because of size and weight, I’ve had constructed only a model. Jerry!”

  Jerry Kennedy brought to the heavy table a small steam engine, clever in its simplicity. He had half a dozen attachments for it. Within moments he had the others around him, as enthusiastic as a group of youngsters with a new toy.

  “By the Supreme,” Baron Leonar blurted, “do you realize this device could be used instead of waterpower to operate a mill to power the loom demonstrated an hour ago?”

  Honorable Russ was rubbing the side of his face thoughtfully. “It might even be adapted to propel a coach. A coach without horses. Unbelievable!”

  Mayer chuckled in excitement and clapped his hands. A servant entered with a toy wagon which had been slightly altered. Martin Gunther lifted the small engine, placed it in position atop the wagon, connected it quickly and threw a lever. The wagon moved smoothly forward, the first engine-propelled vehicle of Genoa’s industrial revolution.

  Martin Gunther smiled widely at Russ. “You mean like this, Honorable?”

  Half an hour later they were re-seated, before each of them a small pile of pamphlets, instructions, plans, blueprints.

  Mayer said, “I have just one more device to bring to your attention at this time. I wish it were unnecessary but I am afraid otherwise.”

  He held up for their inspection, a forty-five-caliber bullet. Jerry Kennedy handed around samples to the merchants. They fingered them in puzzlement.

  “Honorables,” Mayer said, “the barons have the use of gunpowder. Muskets and muzzleloading cannon are available to them both for their wars against each other and their occasional attacks upon our supposedly independent cities. However, this is an advancement on their weapons. This unit includes not only the bullet’s lead, but the powder and the cap which will explode it.”