The Mack Reynolds Megapack

by Mack Reynolds

  There was bitterness in him and he found no ability to respond to what was meant as humor in her words. He followed her silently and his puzzlement grew with him. The office building through which they moved was as well done as any he could ever remember having observed, even on the Telly. Surely they couldn’t be in the Octagon or the New White House. But, if so, why?

  Nadine said. “Here we are,” and indicated a door which opened at their approach.

  There was a receptionist in the small office beyond, a bit of ostentation Joe Mauser seldom met with in the modern world. What in the name of Zen could anyone need with other than an auto-receptionist? Didn’t efficiency mean anything here?

  The receptionist said, “Good afternoon, Dr. Haer. Mr. Holland is expecting you.”

  It came to Joe now—Philip Holland, secretary to Harlow Mannerheim, the Minister of Foreign Affairs. He had met the man a few months ago at Nadine’s home in that swank section of Greater Washington once known as Baltimore. But he had no idea what Nadine had in mind bringing him here. Evidently, she was well enough into the graces of the bureaucrat to barge into his office during working hours. Surprising in itself, since, although she was an Upper born, still governmental servants can’t be at the beck of every hereditary aristocrat in the land.

  Holland stood up briefly at their entrance and shook hands quickly, almost abruptly, held a chair for Nadine, motioned to another one for Joe. He sat down again and said into an inter-office telly-mike, “Miss Mikhail, the dossier on Joesph Mauser, and would you request Frank Hodgson to drop in?”

  What was obviously the dossier slid from the desk chute and Holland leafed through it, as though disinterested. He said, “Joseph Mauser, born Mid-Lower, Clothing Category, Sub-division Shoes, Branch Repair.” Holland looked up. “A somewhat plebian beginning, let us admit.”

  A tic manifested itself at the side of Joe Mauser’s mouth, but he said nothing. If long years of the military had taught him anything, it was patience. The other man had the initiative now, let him use it.

  Holland cast his eyes ceilingward, and, without referring to the dossier before him, said, “Crossed categories at the age of seventeen to Military, remaining a Rank Private for three years at which time promoted to corporal. Sergeant followed in another three years and upon reaching the rank of lieutenant, at the age of twenty-five was bounced in caste to High-Lower. After distinguishing himself in a fracas between Douglas-Boeing and Lockheed-Cessna was further raised to Low-Middle caste. By the age of thirty had reached Mid-Middle caste and Rank Captain. By thirty-three, the present, had been promoted to major, and had been under consideration for Upper-Middle caste.”

  That last, Joe had not know about, however, he said now, “Also at present, expelled from participation in future fracases on any level of rank, and fined his complete resources beyond the basic common stock issued him as a Mid-Middle.” His voice was bitter.

  Philip Holland said briskly, “The risks run by the ambitious.”

  * * * *

  The office door opened and a tall stranger entered. He had a strange gait, one shoulder held considerably lower than the other, to the point that Joe would have thought it the result of a wound hadn’t the other obviously never been a soldier. The newcomer, office pallor heavily upon him, but his air of languor obviously assumed and artificial, darted his eyes around the room, to Holland, Nadine, and then to Joe where they rested for a moment.

  He murmured some banality to Nadine, indicative of a long acquaintance and then approached Joe, who had automatically come to his feet, and extended a hand to be shaken. “I’m Frank Hodgson. You’re Joe Mauser. I’m not fracas buff, but I know enough about current developments to know that. Welcome aboard, Joe.”

  Joe shook the hand offered, in some surprise.

  “Welcome aboard?” he said.

  Hodgson looked to Philip Holland, his eyebrows raised in question.

  Holland said crisply, “You’re premature, Frank. Dr. Haer and Mauser have just arrived.”

  “Oh.” The newcomer found himself a chair, crossed his legs and fumbled in his pocket for a pipe, leaving it to the others to resume the conversation he had interrupted.

  Philip Holland said to Joe, “Frank is assistant to Wallace Pepper.” He looked at Hodgson and frowned. “I don’t believe you have any other title do you, Frank?”

  “I don’t think so,” Frank yawned. “Can’t think of any.”

  Joe Mauser looked from one to the other, confusion adding to confusion within him. Wallace Pepper was the long time head of the North American Bureau of Investigation, having held that position under at least four administrations.

  Nadine said dryly, “Which goes to show you, Joe, just how much titles mean. Commissioner Pepper has been all but senile for the past five years. Frank, here, is the true head of the bureau.”

  Frank Hodgson said mildly, “Why, Nadine, that’s a rather strong statement.”

  Joe blurted, “Head of the Bureau of Investigation! I had gathered the impression I was being taken to meet some members of an underground, organized for the purpose of, as it was put, changing the present rules of government.”

  Frank Hodgson grinned at Nadine and laughed softly, “That’s a gentle way of describing revolution.”

  Holland looked at Joe Mauser and said briskly, “I’ll try to take you off the hook as quickly as possible, Joe. Tell me, when you hear the word revolution, what comes first to your mind?”

  Joe, flustered, said, “Why, I don’t know. Fighting, riots, people running around in the streets with banners. That sort of thing.”

  “Um-m-m,” Holland nodded, “The common conception. However, a social revolution isn’t, by definition, necessarily bloody. Picture a gigantic wheel, Joe. We’ll call it the wheel of history. From time to time it makes a turn, forward, we hope, but sometimes backward. Such a turn is a revolution. Whether or not there is anybody under the wheel at the time of turning, is beside the point. The revolution takes place whether or not there is bloodshed.”

  He thought a moment. “Or you might compare it to childbirth. The fact that there is pain in childbirth, or, if through modern medical science, the pain is eliminated, is beside the point. Childbirth consists of a new baby coming into the world. The mother might even die, but childbirth has taken place. She might feel no pain whatsoever, under anesthetic, but childbirth has taken place.”

  Joe said carefully, “I’m no authority, but it seems to me that usually if changes take place in a socio-economic system without bloodshed, we call it evolution. Revolution is when they take place with conflict.”

  Holland shook his head. “No. Poor definitions. Among other things, don’t confuse revolts, civil wars, and such with revolution. They aren’t the same thing. You can have civil war, military revolts and various civil disturbances without having a socio-economic revolution. Let’s use this for an example. Take a fertile egg. Inside of it a chick is slowly developing, slowly evolving. But it is still an egg. The chick finally grows tiny wings, a beak, even little feathers. Fine. But so far it’s just evolution, within the shell of the egg. But one day that chick cannot develop further without breaking the shell and freeing itself of what was once its factor of defense but now threatens its very life. The shell must go. When that culminating action takes place, you have a revolutionary change and we are no longer dealing with an egg, but a chicken.”

  Joe, one by one, looked at the three of them. He said, finally, to Nadine, rather than to the men, “What’s this got to do with me?”

  She leaned forward in her earnestness. “All your life you’ve revolted against the status quo, Joe. You’ve beaten your head against the situation that confronted you, against a society you felt didn’t allow you to develop your potentialities. But now you admit you’ve been wrong. What is needed is to”—she shot a defiant glance at Frank Hodgson, to his amusement—“change the rules if the race is to get back onto the road to progress.” She shrugged. “Very well. You can’t expect it to be done single handed.
You need an organization. Others who feel the same way you do. Here we are.”

  He was truly amazed now. When he had finally admitted interest in what Nadine had hinted to be a subversive organization, he’d had in mind some secretive group, possibly making their headquarters in a hidden cellar, complete with primitive printing press, and possibly some weapons. He most certainly hadn’t expected to be introduced to the secretary of the Foreign Minister, and the working head of the North American Bureau of Investigation.

  Joe blurted, “But…but you mean you Uppers are actually planning to subvert your own government?”

  Holland said, “I’m not an Upper. I’m a Mid-Middle. What’re you Frank?”

  “Darned if I know,” Hodgson said. “I forget. I think I was bounced up to Upper-Middle about ten years ago, for some reason or other, but I was busy at the time and didn’t pay much attention. Every once in a while one of the Uppers I work with gets all excited about it and wants to jump me to Upper, but somehow or other we’ve never got around to it. What difference does it make?”

  Joe Mauser was not the type to let his mouth fall agape, but he stared at the other, unbelievingly.

  “What’s the matter?” Hodgson said.

  “Nothing,” Joe said.

  Philip Holland said briskly, “Let’s get on with it. Nadine”—his voice had a dry quality—“is one of our most efficient talent scouts. It was no mistake I met you at her home, a few weeks back, Joe. She thought you were potentially one of us. I admit to having formed the same opinion, upon our brief meeting. I now put the question to you direct. Do you wish to join our organization, the purpose of which is admittedly, to change our present socio-economic system and, as Nadine put it, get back on the road to progress?”

  “Yes,” Joe said. “I do.”

  “Very well, welcome aboard, as Frank said. Your first assignment will take you to Budapest.”

  * * * *

  They were throwing these curves too fast for Joe. Noted among his senior officers as a quick man, thinking on his feet, he still wasn’t up to this sort of thing. “Budapest!” he ejaculated. “The capital of the Sov-world? But…but why—?”

  Philip Holland looked at him patiently. “There are many ramifications to revolution, Joe. Particularly in this present day with its Frigid Fracas which has gone on for generations between the West-world and the Sov-world and with the Neut-world standing at the sidelines glaring at us both. You see, really efficient revolutions may simply not look like revolutions at all—just unusual results of historic accidents. And if we’re going to make this one peacefully, we’ve got to take every measure to assure efficiency. One of these measures involves a thorough knowledge of where the Sov-world stands, and what it might do if there were any signs of a changing in the status quo here in the West-world.”

  Frank Hodgson said idly, “I believe you have met Colonel Lajos Arpád.”

  Joe said, puzzled still again, “Why, yes. One of their military attachés. An observer of our fracases to see whether or not the Universal Disarmament Pact is violated.”

  “But also, Colonel Arpád is probably the most competent espionage agent working out of Budapest.”

  “That corseted, giggling nincompoop!”

  Frank Hodgson laughed softly. “If even an old pro like yourself hasn’t spotted him, then we have one more indication of Arpád’s abilities.”

  Philip Holland took up the ball again. “The presence of Colonel Arpád in Greater Washington is no coincidence. He is here for something, we’re not sure what. However, rumors have been coming out of the Sov-world, and particularly Siberia, and the more backward countries to the south, such as Sinkiang. Rumors of an underground organized to overthrow the Sovs.”

  “And that religious thing,” Nadine added.

  Frank Hodgson murmured, “Yes, indeed. We received two more reports of it today.”

  All looked at him. He said to Joe, “Some fanatic in Siberia. A Tuvinian, one of the Turkic-speaking peoples in that area once called Tannu-Tuva, and now the Tuvinian Autonomous Oblast. He’s attracting quite a following. Destroy the machines. Go back to the old way. Till the soil by hand. Let the women spin and weave, make clothing on the hand loom once more. Ride horses, rather than hovercraft and jets. That sort of thing. And, oh yes, kill those who stand in the way of this holy mission.”

  “And you mean this is catching hold in this day and age?” Joe said.

  “Like wildfire,” Hodges said easily. “And I wouldn’t be too very surprised if it would do the same over here. Pressures are generating, in this world of ours. We’ll either make changes peaceably or Zen knows what will happen. The Sovs haven’t been exposed to religion for several generations, Joe. Probably the Party heads had forgotten it as a potential danger. Here in the West-world we do better. The Temple provides us with a pressure valve in that particular area, but I still wouldn’t like to see our trank and Telly bemused morons subjected to a sudden blast of revival-type religion.”

  Joe looked back at Holland. “I still don’t get my going to Budapest. How, why, when?”

  Holland glanced at a desk watch and became brisk. “I have an appointment with the President,” he said. “We’ll have to turn this over to some of the other members of this group. They’ll explain details, Joe. Nadine’s going, too. In her case, as a medical attaché in our Embassy, in Budapest. You’ll go as a military observer, check on potential violations of the Universal Disarmament Pact.” A sudden thought struck him. “I imagine it would add to your prestige and possibly open additional doors to you, if you carried more status.” He looked again at the telly-mike on his desk. “Miss Mikhail, in my office here is Joseph Mauser, now Mid-Middle in caste. Please take the necessary steps to raise him to Low-Upper, immediately. I’ll clear this with Tom, and he’ll authorize it as recommended through the White House. It that clear?”

  In a daze, Joe could hear the receptionist’s voice. “Yes, sir. Joseph Mauser to be raised to Low-Upper caste immediately.”

  XV

  Budapest, basically, had changed little over half a millennium.

  The Danube, seldom blue except when seen through the eyes of a twosome between whom spark has recently been struck, still wandered its way dividing the old, old town of Pest from the still older town of Buda. Where the stream widens there is room for the one hundred and twelve acres of Margitsziget, or Margaret Island to the West-world. Down through the ages, through Celts and Romans, Slavs and Hungs, Turks and Magyars, none have been so gross as to use Margitsziget for other than a park.

  Buda, lying to the west of the Danube, is of rolling hills and bluffs and of ancient towers, fortresses, castles and walls which have suffered through a hundred wars, a score of revolutions. It dominates the younger, more dynamic, Pest which stretches out on the flat plains to the east so that though you stand on the Hármashatárhegy hill of Buda and strain your eyes, you are hard put to find the furtherest limits of Pest.

  The jetport was on the outskirts of Pest, and the craft carrying Nadine Haer, Joseph Mauser and Max Mainz, settled in for a gentle landing, the autopilot more delicate far than human eye served by human hand.

  Max, his eyes glued to the window, said, “Well, gee, it don’t look much different than a lotta the other towns we passed over.”

  Nadine looked at him and laughed. She alone of the three of them had ever been outside the boundaries of the West-world having attended several international medical conventions. Over the years, the Frigid Fracas had laid its chill on tourism, so that now travel between West-world and Sov-world was all but unknown, and even visiting the Neut-world was considered a bit far out and somewhat suspect of going beyond the old time way of doing things—even among the Uppers. Securing a passport for a Middle’s trip, not to speak of a Lower’s, involved such endless bureaucratic red tape as to be nonsensical.

  Nadine said to Joe’s batman, “What did you expect, Max?”

  “Well, I don’t know, Miss Haer. I mean, Dr. Haer. Kind of gloomier, like. Shucks, I’v
e seen this here town on Telly a dozen times.”

  “And seeing is believing,” Joe muttered cynically. “It looks as though we have a reception committee.” He looked at Nadine. “Are we supposed to know each other?”

  She shrugged and made a moue. “It would be somewhat strange if we didn’t, seeing that we flew over in the same aircraft, and were the only passengers to come this far.”

  He nodded and as the plane came to a halt, helped her from her chair, even as the plane’s ladder slipped out and touched to the ground.

  Joe grunted and said, as though to himself, “You realize that for all practical purposes there hasn’t been any improvement in aircraft for a generation?”

  Nadine looked at him from the side of her eyes, even as they descended. “That’s what I keep telling you, Joe. We’ve become ossified. When a society, afraid of change, adopts a policy of maintaining the status quo at any cost, progress is arrested. Progress means change.”

  He grinned at her. “Sure, sure, sure. Please, no more lectures, teacher. Let what’s already in my head stew a while.”

  * * * *

  On the ground, Nadine was met by one contingent from the Embassy and from the Sov-world authorities, and Joe and Max by another. Joe became occupied, hardly more than noticing that she had been whisked away in a hoverlimousine, ornately bedecked with official flags and stars.

  Joe, no longer holding military rank, in spite of his mission, was in mufti, and restrained himself from returning the salute when greeted by two fresh young lieutenants from the Embassy and a be-medaled lieutenant colonel in Sov-world uniform, whose tight-waisted tunic reminded Joe of that worn by Colonel Lajos Arpád, the military attaché Joe had come across twice in West-world fracases, and who Frank Hodgson had branded an espionage agent. Joe swore again, inwardly, that these Hungarian officers must wear girdles under their uniforms, and wondered vaguely if they did so in combat.

  The lieutenants, who could have been twins, so alike were they in size, bright smiling faces, uniform and words of welcome, saluted Joe, shook hands, and then turned to introduce him to the Sov-world officer.