The Mack Reynolds Megapack

by Mack Reynolds

  “Oh, God,” Don muttered. He filled his glass, still again, motioned to a nearby waiter.

  “Yes, sir,” the waiter said.

  Don said, “Look, in about five minutes I’m going to pass out. See that I get back to my hotel, will you? And that this young lady gets to her home. And, waiter, just send my bill to the hotel too.”

  The other bowed. “The owner’s instructions, sir, are that Captain Mathers must never see a bill in this establishment.”

  Dian said, “Don!”

  He didn’t look at her. He raised his glass to his mouth and shortly afterward the fog rolled in again.

  * * * *

  When it rolled out, the unfamiliar taste of black coffee was in his mouth. He shook his head for clarity.

  He seemed to be in some working class restaurant. Next to him, in a booth, was a fresh-faced Sub-lieutenant of the—Don squinted at the collar tabs—yes, of the Space Service. A Scout pilot.

  Don stuttered, “What’s…goin’…on?”

  The pilot said apologetically, “Sub-lieutenant Pierpont, sir. You seemed so far under the weather, I took over.”

  “Oh, you did, eh?”

  “Well, yes, sir. You were, well, reclining in the gutter, sir. In spite of your, well, appearance, your condition, I recognized you, sir.”

  “Oh.” His stomach was an objecting turmoil.

  The Lieutenant said, “Want to try some more of this coffee now, sir? Or maybe some soup or a sandwich?”

  Don groaned. “No. No, thanks. Don’t think I could hold it down.”

  The pilot grinned. “You must’ve thrown a classic, sir.”

  “I guess so. What time is it? No, that doesn’t make any difference. What’s the date?”

  Pierpont told him.

  It was hard to believe. The last he could remember he’d been with Di. With Di in some nightclub. He wondered how long ago that had been.

  He fumbled in his clothes for a smoke and couldn’t find one. He didn’t want it anyway.

  He growled at the Lieutenant, “Well, how go the One Man Scouts?”

  Pierpont grinned back at him. “Glad to be out of them, sir?”

  “Usually.”

  Pierpont looked at him strangely. “I don’t blame you, I suppose. But it isn’t as bad these days as it used to be while you were still in the Space Service, sir.”

  Don grunted. “How come? Two weeks to a month, all by yourself, watching the symptoms of space cafard progress. Then three weeks of leave, to get drunk in, and then another stretch in space.”

  The pilot snorted deprecation. “That’s the way it used to be.” He fingered the spoon of his coffee cup. “That’s the way it still should be, of course. But it isn’t. They’re spreading the duty around now and I spend less than one week out of four on patrol.”

  Don hadn’t been listening too closely, but now he looked up. “What’d’ya mean?”

  Pierpont said, “I mean, sir, I suppose this isn’t bridging security, seeing who you are, but fuel stocks are so low that we can’t maintain full patrols any more.”

  There was a cold emptiness in Don Mathers’ stomach.

  He said, “Look, I’m still woozy. Say that again, Lieutenant.”

  The Lieutenant told him again.

  Don Mathers rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth and tried to think.

  He said finally, “Look, Lieutenant. First let’s get another cup of coffee into me, and maybe that sandwich you were talking about. Then would you help me to get back to my hotel?”

  * * * *

  By the fourth day, his hands weren’t trembling any longer. He ate a good breakfast, dressed carefully, then took a hotel limousine down to the offices of the Mathers, Demming and Rostoff Corporation.

  At the entrance to the inner sanctum the heavyset Scotty looked up at his approach. He said, “The boss has been looking for you, Mr. Mathers, but right now you ain’t got no appointment, have you? Him and Mr. Rostoff is having a big conference. He says to keep everybody out.”

  “That doesn’t apply to me, Scotty,” Don snapped. “Get out of my way.”

  Scotty stood up, reluctantly, but barred the way. “He said it applied to everybody, Mr. Mathers.”

  Don put his full weight into a blow that started at his waist, dug deep into the other’s middle. Scotty doubled forward, his eyes bugging. Don Mathers gripped his hands together into a double fist and brought them upward in a vicious uppercut.

  * * * *

  Scotty fell forward and to the floor.

  Don stood above him momentarily, watchful for movement which didn’t develop. The hefty bodyguard must have been doing some easy living himself. He wasn’t as tough as he looked.

  Don knelt and fished from under the other’s left arm a vicious-looking short-barrelled scrambler. He tucked it under his own jacket into his belt, then turned, opened the door and entered the supposedly barred office.

  Demming and Rostoff looked up from their work across a double desk.

  Both scowled. Rostoff opened his mouth to say something and Don Mathers rapped, “Shut up.”

  Rostoff blinked at him. Demming leaned back in his swivel chair. “You’re sober for a change,” he wheezed, almost accusingly.

  Don Mathers pulled up a stenographer’s chair and straddled it, leaning his arms on the back. He said coldly, “Comes a point when even the lowest worm turns. I’ve been checking on a few things.”

  Demming grunted amusement.

  Don said, “Space patrols have been cut far below the danger point.”

  Rostoff snorted. “Is that supposed to interest us? That’s the problem of the military—and the government.”

  “Oh, it interests us, all right,” Don growled. “Currently, Mathers, Demming and Rostoff control probably three-quarters of the system’s radioactives.”

  Demming said in greasy satisfaction, “More like four-fifths.”

  “Why?” Don said bluntly. “Why are we doing what we’re doing?”

  They both scowled, but another element was present in their expressions too. They thought the question unintelligent.

  Demming closed his eyes in his porcine manner and grunted, “Tell him.”

  Rostoff said, “Look, Mathers, don’t be stupid. Remember when we told you, during that first interview, that we wanted your name in the corporation, among other reasons, because we could use a man who was above law? That a maze of ridiculously binding ordinances have been laid on business down through the centuries?”

  “I remember,” Don said bitterly.

  “Well, it goes both ways. Government today is also bound, very strongly, and even in great emergency, not to interfere in business. These complicated laws balance each other, you might say. Our whole legal system is based upon them. Right now, we’ve got government right where we want it. This is free enterprise, Mathers, at its pinnacle. Did you ever hear of Jim Fisk and his attempt to corner gold in 1869, the so-called Black Friday affair? Well, Jim Fisk was a peanut peddler compared to us.”

  “What’s this got to do with the Fleet having insufficient fuel to …” Don Mathers stopped as comprehension hit him. “You’re holding our radioactives off the market, pressuring the government for a price rise which it can’t afford.”

  Demming opened his eyes and said fatly, “For triple the price, Mathers. Before we’re through, we’ll corner half the wealth of the system.”

  Don said, “But…but the species is…at…war.”

  Rostoff sneered, “You seem to be getting noble rather late in the game, Mathers. Business is business.”

  Don Mathers was shaking his head. “We immediately begin selling our radioactives at cost of production. I might remind you gentlemen that although we’re supposedly a three-way partnership, actually, everything’s in my name. You thought you had me under your thumb so securely that it was safe—and you probably didn’t trust each other. Well, I’m blowing the whistle.”

  * * * *

  Surprisingly fast for such a fat man, Lawrence Demming�
��s hand flitted into a desk drawer to emerge with a twin of the scrambler tucked in Don’s belt.

  Don Mathers grinned at him, even as he pushed his jacket back to reveal the butt of his own weapon. He made no attempt to draw it, however.

  He said softly, “Shoot me, Demming, and you’ve killed the most popular man in the Solar System. You’d never escape the gas chamber, no matter how much money you have. On the other hand, if I shoot you …”

  He put a hand into his pocket and it emerged with a small, inordinately ordinary bit of ribbon and metal. He displayed it on his palm.

  The fat man’s face whitened at the ramifications and his hand relaxed to let the gun drop to the desk. “Listen, Don,” he broke out. “We’ve been unrealistic with you. We’ll reverse ourselves and split, honestly—split three ways.”

  Don Mathers laughed at him. “Trying to bribe me with money, Demming? Why don’t you realize, that I’m the only man in existence who has no need for money, who can’t spend money? That my fellow men—whom I’ve done such a good job of betraying—have honored me to a point where money is meaningless?”

  Rostoff snatched up the fallen gun, snarling, “I’m calling your bluff, you gutless rummy.”

  Don Mathers said, “Okay, Rostoff. There’s just two other things I want to say first. One—I don’t care if I die or not. Two—you’re only twenty feet or so away, but you know what? I think you’re probably a lousy shot. I don’t think you’ve had much practice. I think I can get my scrambler out and cut you down before you can finish me.” He grinned thinly, “Wanta try?”

  Max Rostoff snarled a curse and his finger whitened on the trigger.

  Don Mathers fell sideward, his hand streaking for his weapon. Without thought there came back to him the long hours of training in hand weapons, in judo, in hand to hand combat. He went into action with cool confidence.

  * * * *

  At the spaceport he took a cab to the Presidential Palace. It was an auto-cab, of course, and at the Palace gates he found he had no money on him. He snorted wearily. It was the first time in almost a year that he’d had to pay for anything.

  Four sentries were standing at attention. He said, “Do one of you boys have some coins to feed into this slot? I’m fresh out.”

  A sergeant grinned, approached, and did the necessary.

  Don Mathers said wearily, “I don’t know how you go about this. I don’t have an appointment, but I want to see the President.”

  “We can turn you over to one of the assistant secretaries, Captain Mathers,” the sergeant said. “We can’t go any further than that. While we’re waiting, what’s the chances of getting your autograph, sir? I gotta kid …”

  It wasn’t nearly as complicated as he’d thought it was going to be. In half an hour he was seated in the office where he’d received his decoration only—how long ago was it, really less than a year?

  He told the story briefly, making no effort to spare himself. At the end he stood up long enough to put a paper in front of the other, then sat down again.

  “I’m turning the whole corporation over to the government.…”

  * * * *

  The President said, “Wait a minute. My administration does not advocate State ownership of industry.”

  “I know. When the State controls industry you only put the whole mess off one step, the question then becomes, who controls the State? However, I’m not arguing political economy with you, sir. You didn’t let me finish. I was going to say, I’m turning it over to the government to untangle, even while making use of the inventories of radioactives. There’s going to be a lot of untangling to do. Reimbursing the prospectors and small operators who were blackjacked out of their holdings by our super-corporation. Reimbursing of the miners and other laborers who were talked into accepting low pay in the name of patriotism.” Don Mathers cut it short. “Oh, it’s quite a mess.”

  “Yes,” the President said. “And you say Max Rostoff is dead?”

  “That’s right. And Demming off his rocker. I think he always was a little unbalanced and the prospect of losing all that money, the greatest fortune ever conceived of, tipped the scales.”

  The President said, “And what about you, Donal Mathers?”

  Don took a deep breath. “I wish I was back in the Space Services, frankly. Back where I was when all this started. However, I suppose that after my court martial, there won’t be …”

  The President interrupted gently. “You seem to forget, Captain Mathers. You carry the Galactic Medal of Honor, the bearer of which can do no wrong.”

  Don Mathers gaped at him.

  The President smiled at him, albeit a bit sourly. “It would hardly do for human morale to find out our supreme symbol of heroism was a phoney, Captain. There will be no trial, and you will retain your decoration.”

  “But I don’t want it!”

  “I’m afraid that is the cross you’ll have to bear the rest of your life, Captain Mathers. I don’t suppose it will be an easy one.”

  His eyes went to a far corner of the room, but unseeingly. He said after a long moment, “However, I am not so very sure about your not deserving your award, Captain.”

  I’M A STRANGER HERE MYSELF

  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.”