The Mack Reynolds Megapack

by Mack Reynolds

  “Don’t talk to me that way, Barry,” Chessman growled truculently. “I’ll make the decisions. I’ll do the thinking.” He said to Reif, “How much of the Tulan army is loyal?”

  The aging Tulan looked at Watson before turning back to Joe Chessman. “All of the Tulan army is loyal—to me.”

  “Good!” Chessman pushed some of the dispatches on his desk aside, letting them flutter to the floor. He bared a field map. “If we crush half a dozen of the local communes…crush them hard! Then the others …”

  Watson said very slowly and so low as hardly to be heard, “You didn’t bother to listen, Chessman. We told you, all that’s needed is a spark.”

  Joe Chessman sat back in his chair, looked at them all again, one by one. Re-evaluating. For a moment the facial tic stopped and his eyes held the old alertness.

  “I see,” he said. “And you all recommend capitulation to their demands?”

  “It’s our only chance,” Hawkins said. “We don’t even know it’ll work. There’s always the chance if we throw them a few crumbs they’ll want the whole loaf. You’ve got to remember that some of them have been living for twenty-five years or more under this pressure. The valve is about to blow.”

  “I see,” Chessman grunted. “And what else? I can see in your faces there’s something else.”

  The three Earthmen didn’t answer. Their eyes shifted.

  He looked to young Taller and then to Reif. “What else?”

  “We need a scapegoat,” Reif said without expression.

  Joe Chessman thought about that. He looked to Barry Watson again.

  Watson said, “The whole Texcocan State is about to topple. Not only do we have to give them immediate reform, but we’re going to have to blame the past hardships and mistakes on somebody. Somebody has to take the rap, be thrown to the wolves. If not, maybe we’ll all wind up taking the blame.”

  “Ah,” Chessman said. His red-rimmed eyes went around them again, thoughtfully. “We should be able to dig up a few local chieftains and some of the Security Police heads.”

  They shook their heads. “It has to be somebody big,” Natt Roberts said thickly, “a few of my Security Police won’t do it.”

  Joe Chessman’s eyes went to Reif. “The Khan is the highest ranking Texcocan of all,” he said, finally. “The Khan and some Security Police heads would satisfy them.”

  Reif’s face was as frigid as the Earthman’s. He said, “I am afraid not, Joseph Chessman. You are Number One. It is your statue that is in every commune square. It is your portrait that hangs in every distribution center, every messhall, every schoolroom. You are the Number One—as you have so often pointed out to us. My title has become meaningless.”

  Joe Chessman spat out a curse, fumbled the gun into his hand and fired before the Tulan soldiers could get to him. In a moment they had wrested the weapon from his hand and had his arms pinioned. It was too late.

  Reif had been thrown backward two paces by the blast of the heavy-calibered gun. Now he held a palm over his belly and staggered to a chair. He collapsed into it, looked at his son, let a wash of amusement pass over his face, said, “Khan,” meaninglessly, and died.

  Natt Roberts shrilled at Chessman, “You fool, we were going to give you a big, theatrical trial. Sentence you to prison and then, later, claim you’d died in your cell and smuggle you out to the Pedagogue.”

  Watson snapped to the guards, “Take him outside and shoot him.”

  The Tulans began dragging the snarling, cursing Chessman to the door.

  Taller said, “A moment, please.”

  Watson, Roberts and Hawkins looked to him.

  Taller said, “This perhaps can be done more effectively.”

  His voice was completely emotionless. “This man has killed both my father and grandfather, both of them Khans of Tula, heads of the most powerful city on all Texcoco, before the coming of you Earthlings.”

  The guards hesitated. Watson detained them with a motion of his hand.

  Taller said, “I suggest you turn him over to me, to be dealt with in the traditional way of the People.”

  “No,” Chessman said hoarsely. “Barry, Dick, Natt, send me back to the Pedagogue. I’ll be out of things there. Or maybe Mayer can use me on Genoa.”

  They didn’t bother to look in his direction. Roberts muttered savagely, “We told you all that was needed was a spark. Now you’ve killed the Khan, the most popular man on Texcoco. There’s no way of saving you.”

  Taller said, “None of you have studied our traditions, our customs. But now, perhaps, you will understand the added effect of my taking charge. It will be a more…profitable manner of using the downfall of this…this power mad murderer.”

  Chessman said desperately, “Look, Barry, Natt, if you have to, shoot me. At least give me a man’s death. Remember those human sacrifices the Tulans had when we first arrived? Can you imagine what went on in those temples? Barry, Dick—for old time’s sake, boys …”

  Barry Watson said to Taller, “He’s yours. If this doesn’t take the pressure off us, nothing will.”

  X.

  At the end of the third decade, the Texcocan delegation was already seated in the Pedagogue’s lounge when Jerome Kennedy, Martin Gunther, Peter MacDonald, Fredric Buchwald and three Genoese, Baron Leonar and the Honorables Russ and Modrin appeared.

  The Texcocan group consisted of Barry Watson, Dick Hawkins and Natt Roberts to one side of him, Generalissimo Taller and six highly bemedaled Texcocans on the other.

  Before taking a seat Barry Watson barked, “Where’s Amschel Mayer? I’ve got some important points to cover with him.”

  “Take it easy,” Kennedy slurred. “For that matter, where’s Joe Chessman?”

  Watson glared at the other. “You know where he is.”

  “That I do,” Kennedy said. “He’s purged, to use a term of yesteryear. At the rate you laddy-bucks are going, there won’t be anything left of you by the time our half century is up.” He snapped his fingers and a Genoese servant who’d been inconspicuously in the background, hurried to his side. “Let’s have some refreshments here. What’ll everybody have?”

  “You act as though you’ve had enough already,” Watson bit out.

  Kennedy ignored him, insisted on everyone being served before he allowed the conversation to turn serious. Then he said, slyly, “I see we’ve been successful in apprehending all of your agents, or you’d know more of our affairs.”

  “Not all our agents,” Watson barked. “Only those on your southern continent. What happened to Amschel Mayer?”

  Peter MacDonald, who, with Buchwald, was for the first time attending one of the decade-end conferences, had been hardly recognized in his new girth by the Texcocan team. But his added weight had evidently done nothing to his keenness of mind. He said smoothly, “Our good Amschel is under arrest. Imprisoned, in fact.” He shook his head, his double chin wobbling. “A tragedy.”

  “Imprisoned! By whom?” Taller scowled. “I don’t like this. After all, he was your expedition’s head man.”

  Barry Watson rapped, “Don’t leave us there, MacDonald. What happened to him?”

  MacDonald explained. “The financial and industrial empire he had built was overextended. A small crisis and it collapsed. Thousands of investors suffered. In brief, he was arrested and found guilty.”

  Watson was unbelieving. “There is nothing you could do? The whole team! Couldn’t you bribe him out? Rescue him by force and get him back to the ship? With all the wealth you characters control—”

  Jerry Kennedy laughed shortly. “We were busy bailing ourselves out of our own situations, Watson. You don’t know what international finance can be. Besides, he dug his grave…uh…that is, he made his bed.”

  Kennedy signaled the servant for another drink, said, “Let’s cut out this dismal talk. How about our progress reports?”

  “Progress reports,” Barry Watson said. “That’s a laugh. You have agents on Texcoco, we have them on Genoa. What’
s the use of having these conferences at all?”

  For the first time, one of the Genoese put in a word. Baron Leonar, son of the original Baron who had met with Amschel Mayer thirty years before, was a man in his mid-forties. He said quietly, “It seems to me the time has arrived when the two planets might profit by intercourse. Surely in this time one has progressed beyond the other in this field, but lagged in that. If I understand the mission of the Pedagogue it is to bring us to as high a technological level as possible in half a century. Already three decades have passed.”

  The Texcocans studied him thoughtfully, but Jerry Kennedy waved in negation with the hand that held his glass. “You don’t get it, Baron. You see, the thing is we wanta find out what system is going to do the most the quickest. If we co-operate with Barry’s gang, everything’ll get all mixed up.”

  The Honorable Russ, now a wizened man of at least seventy, but still sharply alert, said, “However, Texcoco and Genoa might both profit.”

  Kennedy said happily, “What do we care? You gotta take the long view. What we’re working out here is going to be used on half a million planets eventually.” He tried to snap his fingers. “These two lousy planets don’t count that much.” He succeeded in snapping them this time. “Not that much.”

  Barry Watson said, “You’re stoned, Kennedy.”

  “Why not?” Kennedy grinned. “Finally perfected a decent brandy. I’ll have to send you a few cases, Barry.”

  “How would you go about that, Jerry?” Watson said softly.

  “Shucks, man, our space lighter makes a trip to Texcoco every month or so. Gotta keep up with you boys. Maybe throw a wrench or so in the works once inna while.”

  Peter MacDonald said, “Shut up, Jerry. You talk too much.”

  “Don’t talk to me that way. You’ll find yourself having one helluva time floating that loan you need next month. How about another drink, everybody? This party’s dead.”

  Watson said, “How about the progress reports? Briefly, we’ve all but completely united Texcoco. Minor setbacks have sometimes deterred us but the march of progress goes on. We—”

  “Minor setbacks,” Kennedy chortled. “Must of had to bump off five million of the poor slobs before that commune revolt was finished with.”

  Watson said coldly, “We always have a few reactionaries, religious fanatics, misfits, crackpots, malcontents to deal with. However, these are not important. Our industrial potential has finally begun to roll. We doubled steel production this year, will do the same next. Our hydro-electric installations tripled in the past two years. Coal production is four times higher, lumber production six times. We expect to increase grain harvest forty per cent next season. And—”

  The Honorable Modrin put in gently, “Please, Honorable Watson, your percentage figures are impressive only if we know from what basis you start. If you produced but five million tons of steel last year, then your growth to ten million is very good but it is still not a considerable amount for an entire planet.”

  Buchwald said dryly, “If our agents are correct, Texcocan steel production is something like a quarter of our own. I assume your other basic products are at about the same stage of development.”

  Watson flushed. “The thing to remember is that our economy continues to grow each year. Yours spurts and stops, jerks ahead a few steps, then grinds to a halt or even retreats. Everything comes to a pause if you few on the top stop making a profit; all that counts in your economy is making money. Which reminds me, how in the world did you ever get out of that planet-wide depression you were in three years ago?”

  Peter MacDonald grunted his disgust. “Planet-wide depression, indeed. A small recession. A temporary readjustment due to overextension in certain economic and financial fields.”

  From the other side of the table, Dick Hawkins laughed at him. “Where’d you pick up that line of gobbledygook, Peter?” he asked.

  Peter MacDonald came to his feet. “I don’t have to put up with this sort of impudence,” he snapped.

  Watson lurched to his own feet. “Nor do we have to listen to your snide cracks about the real progress Texcoco is making. We don’t seem to be getting anywhere.” He snapped to his associates, “Hawkins, Taller, Roberts! Let’s go. Ten years from now, there’ll be another story to tell. Even a blind man will see the difference.”

  They marched down the Pedagogue’s corridor toward their space boat.

  Kennedy called after them, “Ten years from now every family on Genoa’ll have a car. Wait’ll you see. Television, too. We’re introducing TV next year. An’ civil aviation. Be all over the place in two, three years—”

  The Texcocans slammed the spaceport after them.

  Kennedy sloshed some more drink into his glass. “Slobs can’t stand the truth,” he explained to the others.

  XI.

  With the exception of a few additional delegates composed of high-ranking Texcocan and Genoese political and scientific heads, the line-up at the end of forty years was the same as ten years earlier—except for the absence of Jerry Kennedy.

  Extra tables had been set up, and chairs to accommodate the added numbers. To one side were the Genoese: Martin Gunther, Fredric Buchwald, Peter MacDonald, with such repeat delegates as Baron Leonar and the Honorables Modrin and Russ and half a dozen newcomers. On the other were Barry Watson, Dick Hawkins and Natt Roberts, Taller and such Texcocans as the scientists Wiss and Fokin, army heads, Security Police officials and other notables.

  Note pads had been placed before each of them and both Watson and Gunther were equipped with gavels.

  While chairs were still being shuffled, Barry Watson said over the table to Gunther, “Jerry?”

  Martin Gunther shrugged “Jerry’s indisposed. As a matter of fact, he’s at one of the mountain sanitariums, taking a cure. He’ll be all right.”

  “Good,” Dick Hawkins said. “We’ve lost too many.”

  Watson pounded with his gavel. “Let’s come to order. Gunther do you have anything to say in the way of preliminaries?”

  “Not especially. I believe we all know where we stand, including the newcomers from Genoa and Texcoco. In brief, this is the fourth meeting of the Earth teams that were sent to these two planets to bring backward colonists to an industrialized culture. It would seem that we are both succeeding—possibly at different rates. Forty years have passed, ten remain to us.”

  For a moment there was silence.

  Finally Roberts said, “Possibly you have already discovered this through your agents, but we have released the information on prolonging of life.”

  Peter MacDonald said wryly, “We, too, were pressured into such a step.”

  Baron Leonar said, “And why not?”

  Taller, across the table from him, nodded.

  Martin Gunther tapped twice on the table with his gavel. “The basic reason for our meeting is to report progress and to reconsider the possibilities of new elements having entered into the situation which might cause us to re-examine our policies. I think we already have a fairly good idea of each other’s development.” His voice went wry. “At least our agents do a fairly good job of reporting yours.”

  “And ours, yours,” Watson rapped.

  “However,” MacDonald said, “now that we are drawing near the end of our half century, I think it becomes obvious that Amschel Mayer’s original contention—that a freely competitive economy grows faster than one restricted by totalitarian bounds—has been proven.”

  Barry Watson snorted amusement. “Do you?” he said. “To the contrary, MacDonald. The proof is otherwise. On Genoa you still have comparative confusion. True enough, several of your nations, particularly those on your southern continent, are greatly advanced and with a high living and cultural standard—when times are good. But at the same time you have other whole peoples who are little, if any, better off, than when you arrived. On the western continent you even have a few feudalistic regimes that are probably worse off—mostly as a result of the wars you’ve crippled
them with.”

  Natt Roberts said, his voice musing, “But even that isn’t the important thing. The Co-ordinator sent us here to find a method of bringing backward cultures to industrialization. Have you got a blueprint to show him, when you return? Can you trace out the history of Genoa for this past half century and say, this war was necessary for progress—but that should have been avoided? Or is this whole free competition program of yours actually nothing but chaos which sometimes works out wonderfully for some nations, but actually destroys others? You have scorned our methods, our collectivized society—but when we return, we’ll have a blueprint of how we arrived where we are.”

  Gunther banged the table with his gavel. “Just a moment. Is there any reason why we have to listen to these accusations when—”

  Watson held up a hand, curtly, “Let us finish. If you have something to say, we’ll gladly listen when we’re through.”

  Gunther was flushed but he snapped, “Go ahead then, but don’t think any of we Genoese are being taken in.”

  Watson said, “True enough, it took us a time to unite our people …”

  “Time and blood,” Peter MacDonald muttered.

  “… But once underway the Texcocan State has moved on in a progression unknown in any of the Genoese nations. To industrialize a society you must reach a certain taking off point, a point where you have sufficient industry, particularly steel, sufficient power, sufficient scientists, technicians and skilled workers. Once that point has been reached you can move in almost a geometric progression. You build a steel mill and with the steel produced you build two more mills the following year, which in turn gives you the material for four the next year.”

  Buchwald grunted his disbelief.

  Watson looked up and down the line of Genoese, the Earthmen as well as the natives. “On Texcoco we have now reached that point. We have a trained, eager population of over one billion persons. Our universities are turning out highly trained effectives at the rate of more than twenty million a year. We have located all the raw materials we will need. We are now under way.” He looked at them in heavy amusement. “By the end of the next decade we will bury you.”