The Mack Reynolds Megapack

by Mack Reynolds

  Tracy scoffed his disbelief. “That’s where you’re wrong. No electric razor manufacturer would sell to you. They’d be cutting their own throats.”

  The Freer Enterprises official shook his head, in scorn. “That’s where you’re wrong. The same electric appliance manufacturer who produced that razor there will make a similar one, slightly different in appearance, for the same price for us. They don’t care what happens to their product once they make their profit from it. Business is business. We’ll be at least as good a customer as any of the others have ever been. Eventually, better, since we’ll be getting electric razors into the hands of people who never felt they could afford one before.”

  He shook a finger at Tracy. “Manufacturers have been doing this for a long time. I imagine it was the old mail-order houses that started it. They’d get in touch with a manufacturer of, say, typewriters, or outboard motors, or whatever, and order tens of thousands of these, not an iota different from the manufacturer’s standard product except for the nameplate. They’d then sell these for as little as half the ordinary retail price.”

  * * * *

  Tracy seemed to think it over for a long moment. Eventually he said, “Even then you’re not going to break any records making money. Your distribution costs might be pared to the bone, but you still have some. There’ll be darn little profit left on each razor you sell.”

  Flowers was triumphant again. “We’re not going to stop at razors, once under way. How about automobiles? Have you any idea of the disparity between the cost of production of a car and what they retail for?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Here’s an example. As far back as about 1930 a barge company transporting some brand-new cars across Lake Erie from Detroit had an accident and lost a couple of hundred. The auto manufacturers sued, trying to get the retail price of each car. Instead, the court awarded them the cost of manufacture. You know what it came to, labor, materials, depreciation on machinery—everything? Seventy-five dollars per car. And that was around 1930. Since then, automation has swept the industry and manufacturing costs per unit have dropped drastically.”

  The Freer Enterprises executive was now in full voice. “But even that’s not the ultimate. After all, cars were selling for as cheaply as $425 then. Let’s take some items such as aspirin. You can, of course, buy small neatly packaged tins of twelve for twenty-five cents but supposedly more intelligent buyers will buy bottles for forty or fifty cents. If the druggist puts out a special for fifteen cents a bottle it will largely be refused since the advertising conditioned customer doesn’t want an inferior product. Actually, of course, aspirin is aspirin and you can buy it, in one hundred pound lots in polyethylene film bags, at about fourteen cents a pound, or in carload lots under the chemical name of acetylsalicylic acid, for eleven cents a pound. And any big chemical corporation will sell you U.S.P. grade Milk of Magnesia at about six dollars a ton. Its chemical name, of course, is magnesium hydroxide, or Mg(OH)2, and you’d have one thousand quarts in that ton. Buying it beautifully packaged and fully advertised, you’d pay up to a dollar twenty-five a pint in the druggist section of a modern ultra-market.”

  * * * *

  Tracy had heard enough. He said crisply, “All right, Mr. Flowers, of Freer Enterprises, now let me ask you something: Do you consider this country prosperous?”

  Flowers blinked. Of a sudden, the man across from him seemed to have changed character, added considerable dynamic to his make-up. He flustered, “Yes, I suppose so. But it could be considerably more prosperous if—”

  Tracy was sneering. “If consumer prices were brought down drastically, eh? Mr. Flowers, you’re incredibly naïve when it comes to modern economics. Do you realize that one of the most significant developments, economically speaking, took place in the 1950s; something perhaps more significant than the development of atomic power?”

  Flowers blinked again, mesmerized by the other’s new domineering personality. “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The majority of employees in the United States turned from blue collars to white.”

  Flowers looked pained. “I don’t—”

  “No, of course you don’t or you wouldn’t be participating in a subversive attack upon our economy, which, if successful, would lead to the collapse of Western prosperity and eventually to the success of the Soviet Complex.”

  Mr. Flowers gobbled a bit, then gulped.

  “I’ll spell it out for you,” Tracy pursued. “In the early days of capitalism, back when Marx and Engels were writing such works as Capital, the overwhelming majority of the working class were employed directly in production. For a long time it was quite accurate when the political cartoonists depicted a working man as wearing overalls and carrying a hammer or wrench. In short, employees who got their hands dirty, outnumbered those who didn’t.

  “But with the coming of increased mechanization and eventually automation and the second industrial revolution, more and more employees went into sales, the so-called service industries, advertising and entertainment which has become largely a branch of advertising, distribution, and, above all, government which in this bureaucratic age is largely a matter of regulation of business and property relationships. As automation continued, fewer and fewer of our people were needed to produce all the commodities that the country could assimilate under our present socio-economic system. And I need only point out that the average American still enjoys more material things than any other nation, though admittedly the European countries, and I don’t exclude the Soviet Complex, are coming up fast.”

  Flowers said indignantly, “But what’s this charge that I’m participating in a subversive—”

  “Mr. Flowers,” Tracy overrode him, “let’s not descend to pure maize in our denials of the obvious. If this outfit of yours, Freer Enterprises, was successful in its fondest dreams, what would happen?”

  “Why, the consumers would be able to buy commodities at a fraction of the present cost!”

  Tracy half came to his feet and pounded the table with fierce emphasis. “What would they buy them with? They’d all be out of jobs!”

  Frederic Flowers bug-eyed him.

  Tracy sat down again and seemingly regained control of himself. His voice was softer now. “Our social system may have its strains and tensions, Mr. Flowers, but it works and we don’t want anybody throwing wrenches in its admittedly delicate machinery. Advertising is currently one of the biggest industries of the country. The entertainment industry, admittedly now based on advertising, is gigantic. Our magazines and newspapers, employing hundreds of thousands of employees from editors right on down to newsstand operators, are able to exist only through advertising revenue. Above all, millions of our population are employed in the service industries, and in distribution, in the stock market, in the commodity markets, in all the other branches of distribution which you Freer Enterprises people want to pull down. A third of our working force is now unemployed, but given your way, it would be at least two thirds.”

  Flowers, suddenly suspicious, said, “What has all this to do with the Department of Internal Revenue, Mr. Tracy?”

  Tracy came to his feet and smiled ruefully, albeit a bit grimly. “Nothing,” he admitted. “I have nothing at all to do with that department. Here is my real card, Mr. Flowers.”

  The Freer Enterprises man must have felt a twinge of premonition even as he took it up, but the effect was still enough to startle him. “Bureau of Economic Subversion!” he said.

  “Now then,” Tracy snapped. “I want the names of your higher ups, and the address of your central office, Flowers. Frankly, you’re in the soup. As you possibly know, our hush-hush department has unlimited emergency powers, being answerable only to the President.”

  “I…I’ve never even heard of it.” Flowers stuttered. “But—”

  Tracy held up a contemptuous hand. “Many people haven’t,” he said curtly.

  * * * *

  Frank Tracy hurried through the
outer office into LaVerne Sandell’s domain, and bit out to her, “Tell the Chief I’m here. Crisis. And immediately get my team together, all eight of them. Heavy equipment. Have a jet readied. Chicago. The team will rendezvous at the airport.”

  LaVerne was just as crisp. “Yes, sir.” She began doing things with buttons and switches.

  Tracy hurried into the Chief’s office and didn’t bother with the usual amenities. He snapped, “Worse than I thought, sir. This outfit is possibly openly subversive. Deliberately undermining the economy.”

  His superior put down the report he was perusing and shifted his bulk backward. “You’re sure? We seldom run into such extremes.”

  “I know, I know, but this could be it. Possibly a deliberate program. I’ve taken the initiative to have Miss Sandell summon my team.”

  “Now, see here, Frank—” The bureau head looked at him anxiously.

  Tracy said, impatience there, “Chief, you’re going to have to let your field men use their discretion. I tell you, this thing is a potential snowball. I’ll play it cool. Arrange things so that there’ll be no scandal for the telly-reporters. But we’ve got to chill this one quickly, or it’ll be on a coast to coast basis before the year is out. They’re even talking about going into automobiles.”

  The Chief winced, then said unhappily, “All right, Tracy. However, mind what I said. Curb those roughnecks of yours.”

  * * * *

  It proved considerably easier than Frank Tracy had hoped for. Adam Moncure’s national headquarters turned out to be in a sparsely settled area not far from Woodstock, Illinois. The house, in the passé ranch style, must have once been a millionaire’s baby, what with an artificial fishing lake in the back, a kidney shaped swimming pool, extensive gardens and an imposing approach up a corridor of trees.

  “Right up to the front door,” Tracy growled to the operative driving the first hover-car of their two-vehicle expedition. “The quicker we move, the better.” He turned his head to the men in the rear seat. “We five will go in together. I don’t expect trouble, they’ll have had no advance warning. I made sure of that. Jerry has equipment in his car to blanket any radio sending. We’ll take care of phones in the house. No rough stuff, we want to talk to these people.”

  One of the men growled, “Suppose they start shooting?”

  Tracy snorted. “Then shoot back, of course. But just don’t you start it. I shouldn’t have to tell you these things.”

  “Got it,” one of the others said. He shifted his shoulders to loosen the .38 Recoilless in its holster.

  At the ornate doorway, the cars, which had been moving fast, a foot or so off the ground, came to a quick halt, settled, and the men disgorged, guns in hand.

  Tracy called to the occupants of the other vehicle, “On the double. Surround the house. Don’t let anybody leave. Come on, boys.”

  They scurried down the flagstone walk, banged on the door. It was opened by a houseman who stared at them uncomprehendingly.

  “The occupants of this establishment are under arrest,” Tracy snapped. He flashed a gold badge. “Take me to Adam Moncure.” He turned to his men and gestured with his head. “Take over, boys. Jerry, you come with me.”

  The houseman was terrified, but not to the point of being unable to lead them to a gigantic former living room, now converted to offices.

  There was an older man, and four assistants. All in shirt sleeves in concession to the mid-western summer, none armed from all Tracy could see. They looked up in surprise, rather than dismay. The older man snapped, “What is the meaning of this intrusion?”

  Jerry chuckled sourly.

  Frank Tracy said, “You’re all under arrest. Jerry, herd these clerks, or whatever they are, into some other room. Get any other occupants of the house together, too. And watch them carefully, confound it. Don’t underestimate these people. And make a search for secret rooms, cellars, that sort of thing.”

  “Right,” Jerry growled.

  The older of the five Freer Enterprises men was on his feet now. He was a thin, angry faced type, gray of hair and somewhere in his sixties. “I want to know the meaning of this!” he roared.

  “Adam Moncure?” Tracy said crisply.

  “That is correct. And to what do I owe this cavalier intrusion into my home and place of business?”

  Jerry, at pistol point, was herding the four assistants from the room, taking the houseman along with them.

  Tracy looked at Moncure, speculatively, then dipped into his pockets for pipe and tobacco. He gestured to a chair with his head. “Sit down, Mr. Moncure. The jig is up.”

  “The jig?” the other blurted in a fine rage. “I insist—”

  “O.K., O.K., you’ll get your explanation.” Tracy sat down on a couch himself and sized up the older man, even as he lit his pipe.

  Moncure, still breathing heavily in his indignation, took control of himself well enough to be seated. “Well, sir?” he bit out.

  Tracy said curtly, “Frank Tracy, Bureau of Economic Subversion.”

  “Bureau of Economic Subversion!” Moncure said indignantly. “What in the name of all that’s holy is the Bureau of Economic Subversion?”

  Tracy pointed at him with the pipe stem. “I’ll ask a few questions first, please. How many branches of your nefarious outfit are presently under operation?”

  The other glared at him, but Tracy merely returned the pipe to his mouth and glowered back.

  Finally Moncure snapped, “There is no purpose in hiding any of our affairs. We have opened preliminary offices only in Chicago and New York. Freer Enterprises is but in its infancy.”

  “Praise Allah for that,” Tracy muttered sarcastically.

  “And thus far we have dealt only in soap. However, as our organization gets under way we plan to branch out into a score, and ultimately hundreds of products.”

  Tracy said, “You can forget about that, Moncure. Freer Enterprises comes to a halt as of today. Do you realize that your business tactics would lead to a complete collapse of gainful employment and eventually to a depression such as this nation has never seen before?”

  “Exactly!” Moncure snapped in return.

  * * * *

  It was Tracy’s turn to react. His eyes widened, then narrowed. “Do you mean that you are deliberately attempting to undermine the economy of the United States of the Americas? Remember, Mr. Moncure, you are under arrest and anything you say may be held against you.”

  “Undermine it!” Moncure said heatedly. “Bring it crashing to the ground is the better term. There has never been such an abortion developed in the history of political economy.”

  He came to his feet again and began storming up and down the room. “A full three quarters of our employed working at nothing jobs, gobbledygook jobs, non-producing jobs, make-work jobs, red-tape bureaucracy jobs. At a time when the nation is supposedly in a breakneck economic competition with the Soviet Complex, we put our best brains into advertising, entertainment and sales, while they put theirs into science and industry.”

  He stopped long enough to shake an indignant finger at the surprised Tracy. “But that isn’t the worst of it. Have you ever heard of planned obsolescence?”

  Tracy acted as though on the defensive. “Well…sure …”

  “In the Soviet Complex, and, for that matter, in Common Europe and other economic competitors of ours, they simply don’t believe in planned obsolescence and all its related nonsense. Razor blades, everywhere except in this country, don’t go dull after two or three shaves. Cars don’t fall apart after two or three years, or even become so out of style that the owner feels that he’s losing status by being seen in it, the owners expect to keep them half a lifetime. Automobile batteries don’t go to pieces after eighteen months, they last for a decade. And on and on!”

  The old boy was really unwinding now. “Nor is even that the nadir of this socio-economic hodge-podge we’ve allowed to develop, this economy of production for sale, rather than production for use.” He stabbe
d with his finger. “I think one of the best examples of what was to come was to be witnessed way back at the end of the Second War. The idea of the ball-bearing pen was in the air. The first one to hurry into production gave his pen a tremendous build-up. It had ink enough to last three years, it would make many carbon copies, you could use it under water. And so on and so forth. It cost fifteen dollars, and there was only one difficulty with it. It wouldn’t write. Not that that made any difference because it sold like hotcakes what with all the promotion. He wasn’t interested in whether or not it would write, but only in whether or not it would sell.” Moncure threw up his hands dramatically. “I ask you, can such an economic system be taken seriously?”

  “What’s your point?” Tracy growled dangerously. He’d never met one this far out, before.

  “Isn’t it obvious? Continue this ridiculous economy and we’ll lose the battle for men’s minds. You can’t have an economic system that allows such nonsense as large scale unemployment of trained employees, planned obsolescence, union featherbedding, and an overwhelming majority of those who are employed wasting their labor on unproductive employment.”

  Tracy said, “Then if I understand you correctly, Freer Enterprises was deliberately organized for the purpose of undermining the economy so that it will collapse and have to be reorganized on a different basis.”

  “That is exactly correct,” Moncure said defiantly. “I am devoting my whole fortune to this cause. And there is nothing in American law that prevents me from following through with my plans.”

  “You’re right there,” Tracy said wryly. “There’s nothing in American law that prevents you. However, you see, I have no connection whatsoever with the American government.” He slipped the gun from its holster.

  * * * *

  Frank Tracy made his way wearily into LaVerne’s domain. She looked up from the desk. “Everything go all right, Mr. Tracy?”

  “I suppose so. Tell Comrade Zotov that I’m back from Chicago, please.”