The Mack Reynolds Megapack

by Mack Reynolds

  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 silk 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.”

  Mouley came shuffling up in his babouche slippers and we both ordered another schooner of beer.

  Paul said seriously, “You know, there’s only one big snag in this sort of talk. I’ve sorted the whole thing out before, and you always come up against this brick wall. Where are they, these observers, or scholars, or spies or whatever they are? Sooner or later we’d nab one of them. You know, Scotland Yard, or the F.B.I., or Russia’s secret police, or the French Sûreté, or Interpol. This world is so deep in police, counter-espionage outfits and security agents that an alien would slip up in time, no matter how much he’d been trained. Sooner or later, he’d slip up, and they’d nab him.”

  I shook my head. “Not necessarily. The first time I ever considered this possibility, it seemed to me that such an alien would base himself in London or New York. Somewhere where he could use the libraries for research, get the daily newspapers and the magazines. Be right in the center of things. But now I don’t think so. I think he’d be right here in Tangier.”

  “Why Tangier?”

  “It’s the one town in the world where anything goes. Nobody gives a damn about you or your affairs. For instance, I’ve known you a year or more now, and I haven’t the slightest idea of how you make your living.”

  “That’s right,” Paul admitted. “In this town you seldom even ask a man where’s he’s from. He can be British, a White Russian, a Basque or a Sikh and nobody could care less. Where are you from, Rupert?”

  “California,” I told him.

  “No, you’re not,” he grinned.

  I was taken aback. “What do you mean?”

  “I felt your mind probe back a few minutes ago when I was talking about Scotland Yard or the F.B.I. possibly flushing an alien. Telepathy is a sense not trained by the humanoids. If they had it, your job—and mine—would be considerably more difficult. Let’s face it, in spite of these human bodies we’re disguised in, neither of us is humanoid. Where are you really from, Rupert?”

  “Aldebaran,” I said. “How about you?”

  “Deneb,” he told me, shaking.

  We had a laugh and ordered another beer.

  “What’re you doing here on Earth?” I asked him.

  “Researching for one of our meat trusts. We’re protein eaters. Humanoid flesh is considered quite a delicacy. How about you?”

  “Scouting the place for thrill tourists. My job is to go around to these backward cultures and help stir up inter-tribal, or international, conflicts—all according to how advanced they are. Then our tourists come in—well shielded, of course—and get their kicks watching it.”

  Paul frowned. “That sort of practice could spoil an awful lot of good meat.”

  STATUS QUO

  In his income bracket and in the suburb in which he lived, government employees in the twenty-five to thirty-five age group were currently wearing tweeds. Tweeds were in. Not to wear tweeds was Non-U.

  Lawrence Woolford wore tweeds. His suit, this morning, had first seen the light of day on a hand loom in Donegal. It had been cut by a Swede widely patronized by serious young career men in Lawrence Woolford’s status group; English tailors were out currently and Italians unheard of.

  Woolford sauntered down the walk before his auto-bungalow, scowling at the sportscar at the curb—wrong year, wrong make. He’d have to trade it in on a new model. Which was a shame in a way, he liked the car. However, he had no desire to get a reputation as a weird among colleagues and friends. What was it Senator Carey MacArthur had said the other day? Show me a weird and I’ll show you a person who has taken the first step toward being a Commie.

  Woolford slid under the wheel, dropped the lift lever, depressed gently the thrust pedal and took off for downtown Greater Washington. Theoretically, he had another four days of vacation coming to him. He wondered what the Boss wanted. That was the trouble in being one of the Boss’ favorite trouble shooters, when trouble arose you wound up in the middle of it. Lawrence Woolford was to the point where he was thinking in terms of graduating out of field work and taking on a desk job which meant promotion in status and pay.

  He turned over his car to a parker at the departmental parking lot and made his way through the entrance utilized by second-grade departmental officials. In another year, he told himself, he’d be using that other door.

  The Boss’ reception secretary looked up when Lawrence Woolford entered the anteroom where she presided. “Hello, Larry,” she said. “Hear they called your vacation short. Darn shame.”

  LaVerne Polk was a cute little whizz of efficiency. Like Napoleon and his army, she knew the name of every member of the department and was on a first-name basis with all. However, she was definitely a weird. For instance, styles might come and styles might go, but LaVerne dressed for comfort, did her hair the way she thought it looked best, and wore low-heeled walking shoes on the job. In fact, she was ready and willing to snarl at anyone, no matter how kindly intentioned, who even hinted that her nonconformity didn’t help her promotion prospects.

  Woolford said, “Hi, LaVerne. I think the Boss is expecting me.”

  “That he is. Go right in, Larry.”

  She looked after him when he turned and left her desk. Lawrence Woolford cut a pleasant figure as thirty year old bachelors go.
>
  The Boss looked up from some report on his desk which he’d been frowning at, nodded to his field man and said, “Sit down, Lawrence. I’ll be with you in a minute. Please take a look at this while you’re waiting.” He handed over a banknote.

  Larry Woolford took it and found himself a comfortable chair. He examined the bill, front and back. It was a fifty dollar note, almost new.

  Finally the Boss, a stocky but impeccable career bureaucrat of the ultra-latest school, scribbled his initials on the report and tossed it into an Out chute. He said to Woolford, “I am sorry to cut short your vacation, Lawrence. I considered giving Walter Foster the assignment, but I think you’re the better choice.”

  Larry decided the faint praise routine was the best tactic, said earnestly about his closest rival. “Walt’s a good man, sir.” And then, “What’s the crisis?”

  “What do you think of that fifty?”

  His trouble shooter looked down at it. “What is there to think about it?”

  The Boss grunted, slid open a desk drawer and brought forth another bill. “Here, look at this, please.”

  It was another fifty. Larry Woolford frowned at it, not getting whatever was going on.

  “Observe the serial numbers,” the Boss said impatiently.

  They were identical.

  Woolford looked up. “Counterfeit. Which one is the bad one?”

  “That is exactly what we would like to know,” the Boss said.

  Larry Woolford stared at his superior, blinked and then examined the bills again. “A beautiful job,” he said, “but what’s it got to do with us, sir? This is Secret Service jurisdiction, counterfeiting.”

  “They called us in on it. They think it might have international ramifications.”

  Now they were getting somewhere. Larry Woolford put the two bills on the Boss’ desk and leaned back in his chair, waiting.

  His superior said, “Remember the Nazis turning out American and British banknotes during the Second War?”

  “I was just a kid.”

  “I thought you might have read about it. At any rate, obviously a government—with all its resources—could counterfeit perfectly any currency in the world. It would have the skills, the equipment, the funds to accomplish the task. The Germans turned out hundreds of millions of dollars and pounds with the idea of confounding the Allied financial basics.”

  “And why didn’t it work?”

  “The difficulty of getting it into circulation, for one thing. However, they did actually use a quantity. For a time our people were so alarmed that they wouldn’t allow any bills to come into this country from Mexico except two-dollar denomination—the one denomination the Germans hadn’t bothered to duplicate. Oh, they had the Secret Service in a dither for a time.”

  Woolford was frowning. “What’s this got to do with our current situation?”

  The Boss said, “It is only a conjecture. One of those bills is counterfeit but such an excellent reproduction that the skill involved is beyond the resources of any known counterfeiter. Secret Service wants to know if it might be coming from abroad, and, if so, from where. If it’s a governmental project, particularly a Soviet Complex one, then it comes into the ken of our particular cloak-and-dagger department.”

  “Yes, sir.” Woolford said. He got up and examined the two bills again. “How’d they ever detect that one was bad?”

  “Pure fortune. A bank clerk with an all but eidetic memory was going through a batch of fifties. It’s not too commonly used a denomination, you know. Coincidence was involved since in that same sheaf the serial number was duplicated.”

  “And then?”

  “The reproduction was so perfect that Secret Service was in an immediate uproar. Short of the Nazi effort, there has never been anything like it. A perfect duplication of engraving and paper identically the same. The counterfeiters have even evidently gone to the extent of putting a certain amount of artificial wear on the bills before putting them into circulation.”

  Larry Woolford said, “This is out of my line. How were they able to check further, and how many more did they turn up?”

  “The new I.B.M. sorters help. Secret Service checked every fifty dollar bill in every institution in town both banking and governmental. Thus far, they have located ten bills in all.”

  “And other cities?”

  “None. They’ve all been passed in Greater Washington, which is suspicious in itself. The amount of expense that has gone into the manufacture of these bills does not allow for only a handful of them being passed. They should be turning up in number. Lawrence, this reproduction is such that a pusher could walk into a bank and have his false currency changed by any clerk.”

  “Wow,” Larry whistled.

  “Indeed.”

  “So you want me to work with Secret Service on this on the off chance that the Soviet Complex is doing us deliberate dirt.”

  “That is exactly the idea, Lawrence. Get to work, please, and keep in touch with me. If you need support, I can assign Walter Foster or some of the other operatives to assist you. This might have endless ramifications.”

  * * * *

  Back in the anteroom, Woolford said to the Boss’ receptionist, “I’m on a local job, LaVerne, how about assigning me a girl?”

  “Can do,” she said.

  “And, look, tell her to get hold of every available work on counterfeiting and pile it on my desk.”

  “Right. Thinking of going into business, Larry?”

  He grinned down at her. “That’s the idea. Keeping up with the Jones clan in this man’s town costs roughly twice my income.”

  LaVerne said disapprovingly, “Then why not give it up? With the classification you’ve got a single man ought to be able to save half his pay.” She added, more quietly, “Or get married and support a family.”

  “Save half my pay?” Larry snorted. “And get a far out reputation, eh? No thanks, you can’t afford to be a weird these days.”

  She flushed—and damn prettily, Larry Woolford decided. She could be an attractive item if it wasn’t for obviously getting her kicks out of being individualistic.

  Larry said suddenly, “Look, promise like a good girl not to make us conspicuous and I’ll take you to the Swank Room for dinner tonight.”

  “Is that where all the bright young men currently have to be seen once or twice a week?” she snapped back at him. “Get lost, Larry. Being a healthy, normal woman I’m interested in men, but not necessarily in walking status-symbols.”

  It was his turn to flush, and, he decided wryly, he probably didn’t do it as prettily as she did.

  On his way to his office, he wondered why the Boss kept her on. Classically, a secretary-receptionist should have every pore in place, but in her time LaVerne Polk must have caused more than one bureaucratic eyebrow to raise. Efficiency was probably the answer; the Boss couldn’t afford to let her go.

  * * * *

  Larry Woolford’s office wasn’t much more than a cubicle. He sat down at the desk and banged a drawer or two open and closed. He liked the work, liked the department, but theoretically he still had several days of vacation and hated to get back into routine.

  Had he known it, this was hardly going to be routine.

  He flicked the phone finally and asked for an outline. He dialed three numbers before getting his subject. The phone screen remained blank.

  “Hans?” he said. “Lawrence Woolford.”

  The Teutonic accent was heavy, the voice bluff. “Ah, Larry! you need some assistance to make your vacation? Perhaps a sinister, exotic young lady, complete with long cigarette holder?”

  Larry Woolford growled, “How’d you know I was on vacation?”

  The other laughed. “You know better than to ask that, my friend.”

  Larry said, “The vacation is over, Hans. I need some information.”

  The voice was more guarded now. “I owe you a favor or two.”

  “Don’t you though? Look, Hans, what’s new in the Russkie camp
?”

  The heartiness was gone. “How do you mean?”

  “Is there anything big stirring? Is there anyone new in this country from the Soviet Complex?”

  “Well now—” the other’s voice drifted away.

  Larry Woolford said impatiently, “Look, Hans, let’s don’t waste time fencing. You run a clearing agency for, ah, information. You’re strictly a businessman, nonpartisan, so to speak. Fine, thus far our department has tolerated you. Perhaps we’ll continue to. Perhaps the reason is that we figure we get more out of your existence than we lose. The Russkies evidently figure the same way, the proof being that you’re alive and have branches in the capitals of every power on Earth.”

  “All right, all right,” the German said. “Let me think a moment. Can you give me an idea of what you’re looking for?” There was an undernote of interest in the voice now.

  “No. I just want to know if you’ve heard anything new anti-my-side, from the other side. Or if you know of any fresh personnel recently from there.”

  “Frankly, I haven’t. If you could give me a hint.”

  “I can’t,” Larry said. “Look, Hans, like you say, you owe me a favor or two. If something comes up, let me know. Then I’ll owe you one.”

  The voice was jovial again. “It’s a bargain, my friend.”

  After Woolford had hung up, he scowled at the phone. He wondered if Hans Distelmayer was lying. The German commanded the largest professional spy ring in the world. It was possible, but difficult, for anything in espionage to develop without his having an inkling.

  The phone rang back. It was Steve Hackett of Secret Service on the screen.

  Hackett said, “Woolford, you coming over? I understand you’ve been assigned to get in our hair on this job.”

  “Huh,” Larry grunted. “The way I hear it, your whole department has given up, so I’m assigned to help you out of your usual fumble-fingered confusion.”