The Mack Reynolds Megapack

by Mack Reynolds

  The Bécsikapu turned out to be largely what Max had reported and Joe expected. A rather small cellar cabaret, specializing in Hungarian wines and such nibbling delicacies as túrós csusza, the cheese gnocchis; but specializing as well or even more so in romantic atmosphere dominated by heartstring touching of gypsy violins, as musicians strolled about quietly, pausing at this table or that to lean so close to a feminine ear that the lady was all but caressed. It came to Joe that there was more of this in the Sov world than at home. The Sov proletarians evidently spent less time at their Telly sets than did the Lowers in the West-world.

  They found a table, crowded though the nightspot was, and ordered a bottle of chilled Feteasca. It wasn’t until the waiter had recorded the order against Joe’s international credit identification, that it was realized he and Max were of the West. So many non-Hungarians, from all over the Sov-world, were about Budapest that the foreigner was an accepted large percentage of the man-in-the street.

  Max said, making as usual no attempt to lower his voice. “Well, look there. There’s a sample of them not being as advanced, like, as the West-world. A waiter! Imagine using waiters in a beer joint. How come they don’t have auto-bars and all?”

  “Sure, sure, sure,” Joe said dryly. “And canned music, and a big Telly screen, instead of a live show. Maybe they prefer it this way, Max. You can possibly carry automation too far.”

  “Naw,” Max protested, taking a full half glass of his wine down in one gulp. “Don’t you see how this takes up people’s time? All these waiters and musicians and all could be home, relaxing, like.”

  “And watching Telly and sucking on tranks,” Joe said, not really interested and largely arguing for the sake of conversation.

  A voice from the next table said coldly in accented Anglo-American, “You don’t seem to appreciate our entertainment, gentlemen of the west.”

  Joe looked at the source of the words. There were three officers, only one in the distinctive pinch-waisted uniform of the Hungarians, a captain. The other two wore the Sov epaulets which proclaimed them majors, but Joe didn’t place the nationality of the uniforms. There were several bottles upon the table, largely empty.

  Joe said carefully. “To the contrary, we find it most enjoyable, sir.”

  But Max had had two full glasses of the potent Feteasca and besides was feeling pleased and effervescent over his success in getting Joe Mauser, his idol, to spend a night on the town with him. He’d wanted to impress his superior with the extent to which he had get to know Budapest. Max said now, “We got places just as good as this in the West, and bigger too. Lots bigger. This joint wouldn’t hold more then fifty people.”

  The one who had spoken, one of the majors who wore the boots of the cavalryman, said, nastily, “Indeed? I recognize now that when I addressed you both as gentlemen, I failed to realize that in the West gentlemen are not selective of their company and allow themselves to wallow in the gutter with the dregs of their society.”

  The Hungarian captain said lazily, “Are you sure, Frol, that either of them are gentlemen? There seems to be a distinctive odor about the lower classes whether in the West-world or our own.”

  Joe came to his feet quietly.

  Max said, suddenly sobered, “Hey, major, sir…easy. It ain’t important.”

  Joe had picked up his glass of wine. With a gesture so easy as almost to be slow motion, he tossed it into the face of the foppish officer.

  The Hungarian, aghast, took up his napkin and began to brush the drink from his uniform, meanwhile sputtering to an extent verging on hysteria. The major who had been seated immediately to his right, fumbled in assistance, meanwhile staring at Joe as though he were a madman.

  The cavalryman, though, was of sterner stuff. In the back of his mind, Joe was thinking, even as the other seized a bottle by its long neck and broke off the base on the edge of the table, Now this one’s from the Pink Army, an old pro, and a Russkie, sure as Zen made green apples.

  The major came up, kicking a chair to one side. Joe hunched his shoulders forward, took up his napkin and with a quick double gesture, wrapped it twice around his left hand, which he extended slightly.

  The major came in, the jagged edges of the bottle advanced much as a sword. His face was working in rage, and Joe, outwardly cool, decided in the back of his mind that he was glad he’d never have to serve under this one. This one gave way to rage and temper when things were pickling and there was no room for such luxuries in a fracas.

  Max was yelling something from behind, something that didn’t come through in the bedlam that had suddenly engulfed the Bécsikapu.

  At the last moment, Joe suddenly struck out with his left leg, hooked with his foot the small table at which the three Sov officers had been sitting and twisted quickly, throwing it to the side and immediately into the way of his enraged opponent.

  The other swore as his shins banged the side and was thrown slightly forward, for a moment off balance.

  Joe stepped forward quickly, precisely, and his right chopped down and to the side of the other’s prominent jawbone. The Russkie, if Russkie he was, went suddenly glazed of eye. His doubling forward, originally but an attempt to regain balance, continued and he fell flat on his face.

  Joe spun around. “Come on, Max, let’s get out of here. I doubt if we’re welcome.” He didn’t want to give the other two time to organize themselves and decide to attack. Defeat the two, he and Max might be able to accomplish, but Joe wasn’t at all sure where the waiters would stand in the fray, nor anyone else in the small cabaret, for that matter.

  Max, at the peak of excitement now, yelled, “What’d you think I been saying? Come on, follow me. There’s a rear door next to the rest room.”

  Waiters and others were converging on them. Joe Mauser didn’t wait to argue, he took Max’s word for it and hurried after that small worthy, going round and about the intervening tables and chairs like an old time broken field football player.

  XVIII

  Joe Mauser had assumed there would be some sort of reverberations as a result of his run-in with the Sov officers, but hadn’t suspected the magnitude of them.

  The next morning he had hardly arrived at the small embassy office which had been assigned him, before his desk set lit up with General Armstrong’s habitually worried face. He said, without taking time for customary amenities, “Major Mauser, could you come to my office immediately?” It wasn’t a question.

  In General George Armstrong’s office, beside the general himself, were his aide, Lieutenant Anderson who Joe had at long last sorted out from Lieutenant Dickson, Lieutenant colonel Bela Kossuth and another Sov officer whom Joe hadn’t met before.

  Everybody looked very stiff and formal.

  The general said to Joe, “Major Mauser, Colonel Kossuth and Captain Petöfi have approached me, as your immediate superior, to request that your diplomatic immunity be waived so that you might be called upon on a matter of honor.”

  Joe didn’t get it. He looked from one of the two Hungarians to the other, then back at Armstrong, scowling.

  Lieutenant Anderson said, unhappily. “These officers have been named to represent Captain Sándor Rákóczi, major.”

  Bela Kossuth clicked his heels, bowed, said formally, “Our principal realizes, Major Mauser, that diplomatic immunity prevents his issuing request for satisfaction. However”—the Hungarian cleared his throat—“since honor is involved—”

  At long last it got through to Joe. His own voice went coldly even. “General Armstrong, I—”

  The general said quickly. “Mauser, as an official representative of the West-world, you don’t have to respond to anything as dashed silly as a challenge to a duel.”

  The faces of the two Hungarians froze.

  Joe finished his sentence. “… I would appreciate it if you and Lieutenant Anderson would act for me.”

  Kossuth clicked his heels again. “Gentlemen, the code duello provides that the challenged choose the weapons.”
<
br />   General Armstrong’s face, usually worried, was now dark with anger. “Choice of weapons, eh? Against Sándor Rákóczi? If you will excuse us now, gentlemen, Lieutenant Anderson and I will consult with you in one hour in the Embassy Club and discuss the affair further. I say frankly, I have never heard of a diplomat being subjected to such a situation, especially on the part of officers of the country to which he is accredited.”

  The Hungarians were unfazed. Kossuth looked at his wrist chronometer. “One hour in the Embassy Club, gentlemen.” The two of them clicked again, bowed from the waist, and were gone.

  * * * *

  General Armstrong glared at Joe. “Dash it, if you hadn’t been so confoundedly quick on the trigger, I could have warned you, Mauser.”

  Joe Mauser wasn’t over being flabbergasted. “You mean to tell me,” he said, “that those people still conduct duels? I thought duels had gone out back in the Nineteenth Century.”

  “Well, you’re mistaken,” Armstrong bit out. “It seems to be a practice that can crop up in any decadent society. Remember Hitler reviving it among the German universities? Well, it’s all the rage now among the officers of the Sov world. Limited, however, to Party members, the lowly proletariat are assumed not to have honor.”

  Joe shrugged, “I’m not exactly an amateur at combat, you know.”

  The general snorted his disgust and turned to his aide. “Lieutenant, go find Dr. Haer for me. Then wait in the outer office until it’s time for us to meet those heel-clicking Hungarians.”

  “Yes, sir,” Andersen saluted, shot another look at Joe as though in commiseration, and left hurriedly.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Joe said.

  Armstrong pulled open a desk drawer, brought forth a bottle and glass, poured himself a strong one and knocked it back without offering any to his junior officer. He replaced the bottle and glass and turned his scowl back to Joe. “Haven’t you ever heard of Sándor Rákóczi?”

  “No.”

  “He happens to be All-Sov-world Fencing Champion and has been for six years. He also is third from the top amongst the Red Army pistol and rifle marksmen. I once saw him put on an exhibition of trick handgun shooting. Uncanny. The man has abnormal reflexes.”

  * * * *

  The door opened and Nadine was there. “Joe,” she said. “Dick Andersen says you’ve been challenged to a frame-up duel by Sándor Rákóczi.” Her eyes hurried on to Armstrong. “George, this is ridiculous. Joe has diplomatic—”

  Joe wasn’t getting part of this. He broke in. “What do you mean, frame-up, Nadine? We got into a hassle in a nightspot last night.”

  Armstrong said. “Everybody simmer down, dash it!” His eyes went to Joe. “Sándor Rákóczi doesn’t get into hassles in nightspots—not unless he’s been ordered to. Captain Rákóczi is what in the old days was known as a hatchetman.” He snorted in deprecation. “The Party no longer conducts purges amongst its own. Everything is all buddy-buddy now. Purges are something from the past. However, those on the very top sometimes find this unfortunate. One manner that has been devised to remove such Party members who have become a thorn in the side of the powers that be, is to have them challenged by such as Sándor Rákóczi.”

  Joe settled down into a chair, more dumbfounded than ever. “But that’s ridiculous. Why? Why should they want me eliminated?”

  Nadine said hurriedly, “You don’t have to accept.”

  Joe said, “If I don’t, I’ll be laughed out of town. Remember that big banquet the Pink Army gave me when I first arrived? The celebrated Major Joseph Mauser fling? What happens to West-world prestige when the celebrated Joe Mauser backs down from a duel?”

  General Armstrong mused, “If Mauser refuses the duel, he’s right, he’ll be laughed out of town. If he accepts it, and is killed, he is still removed from the scene.” He looked from Joe to Nadine. “Somebody evidently doesn’t want Joe Mauser in Budapest.”

  Pieces were beginning to fit in.

  Joe looked at George Armstrong. “You’re one of us, aren’t you? One of the Phil Holland, Frank Hodgson group.” He looked at Nadine. “Why wasn’t I told? Am I a junior member or something, that I can’t be trusted?”

  Armstrong snorted. “You should study up on revolutionary routine, Joe. The smaller the unit of organization, the better. The fewer members you know, the fewer you can betray. Here in the Sov-world, back before the Sovs came to power, the size of their cells was five members, so the most any one person could betray was four.”

  The tic started at the side of Joe’s mouth.

  Armstrong said hurriedly. “Don’t misunderstand. Your fortitude isn’t being questioned. Bravery no longer enters into it. There are methods today under which nobody could hold up.” He seemed to come to a sudden decision. “We can’t let this take place. You’ll have to back down, Mauser. Somehow, there’s been a leak and your real purpose in being in Budapest is known. Very well, Phil Holland and the others will simply have to send someone else to replace you.”

  But Joe had had enough by now. “Look,” he said. “Everybody seems to think I can’t take care of myself with this foppish molly and his fancy swordsmanship. I’ve had fifteen years of combat.”

  “Joe!” Nadine said, “don’t be silly. The man’s a professional assassin. This is his field, not yours.”

  Joe said flatly, “On the other hand. I have a job to do and it doesn’t involve being run out of Budapest.”

  General Armstrong said, “Dash it, don’t go drivel-happy on us, Mauser. I’ve just told you, the man’s the best swordsman in Europe and Asia combined, and the third best shot.”

  “How is he with Bowie knives?” Joe said.

  XIX

  To Mauser’s surprise, the Sovs actually turned up two genuine Bowie knives. He had expected the duel, actually, to have to be conducted with trench knives or some other alternative. But the Sovs, ever great on museums, had located one of the weapons of the American Old West in a Prague exhibit of the American frontier, the other in Budapest itself in an extensive collection of fighting knives, down through the ages, in a military museum.

  Formally correct, Lieutenant colonel Bela Kossuth appeared at Joe Mauser’s apartment three days before the duel, a case in his hands. Max, in his role as batman, conducted him to Joe, doing little to keep his scowl of dislike for the Hungarian from his face. Max was getting fed up with the airs of Sov officers; caste lines were over here, if anything, more strictly drawn than at home.

  Joe came to his feet on recognizing his visitor and answered the other’s bow. “Colonel Kossuth,” he said.

  Bela Kossuth clicked heels. He held the case before him, opened it. Two heavy fighting knives lay within. Joe looked at them, then into the other’s face.

  Kossuth said, “Frankly, major, your somewhat unorthodox selection of weapons has been confusing. However, we have located two Bowie knives. Since it is assumed that the two gentlemen opponents are not thoroughly familiar with, ah, Bowie knives, it has been suggested that each be given his blade at this time.”

  Joe got it now. Sándor Rákóczi hadn’t become the most celebrated duelist in the Sov-world by making such mistakes as underrating his opponents. The weapon was new to him. He wanted the opportunity to practice with it. It was all right with Joe.

  Kossuth clicked his heels again. “Our selection, unfortunately, is limited to two weapons. Since you are the challenged, Captain Rákóczi insists you take first choice.”

  Joe shrugged and took up first one, then the other. It had been some time since he had held one of the famous frontier weapons in his hands. When still a sergeant in the Category Military, he had once become close companions with an old pro whose specialty was teaching hand-to-hand combat. Over a period of years, he and Joe had been comrades, going from one fracas to another as a team. He had taught Joe considerable, including the belief that of all blade hand weapons ever devised, the knife invented by Jim Bowie, whose frontier career ended at the Alamo, was the most efficient.

 
Joe ran his eyes over the blades carefully. On the back of one was stamped, James Black, Washington, Arkansas. Joe had found what he was looking for, however, he pretended to examine the other knife as well, ignoring the Sheffield, England stamp of manufacture.

  * * * *

  The Bowie knife: Blade, eleven inches long by an inch and a half wide, the heel three eighths of an inch thick at the back. The point at the exact center of the width of the blade, which curved to the point convexly from the edge, and from the back concavely, both curves being as sharp as the edge itself. The crossguard was of heavy brass, rather than steel and a further backing of brass along the heel, up to the extent where the curve toward the point began. Brass, which is softer than steel, and could catch an opponent’s blade, rather than allowing it to slip off and away.

  Joe balanced the weapon he had selected, and shrugged. “This one will do,” he said.

  Kossuth clicked the case with the remaining knife shut. He could see no difference between the two. The selection of weapons had been a formality.

  Max saw him to the door and returned to the living room. He said worriedly, “Major, sir, you sure you’re checked out on that thing? I’ve been asking around, like, and they put these duels on Telly here, just like we got fracases back home. This here Captain Rákóczi’s got one whopper of a reputation. He’s quick as a snake. Kinda like a freak. He can move faster than most people.”

  “So they’ve been telling me,” Joe mused, balancing the frontier weapon in his hand. It had a beautiful balance, this knife so big that it could be used as a hatchet or machete.

  * * * *

  He was still contemplating the vicious looking blade when Nadine entered. He smiled up at her, put the knife aside on the table, and came to his feet.

  She looked at Max, and the little man turned and left the room.

  Nadine said, “Joe, a plane is leaving this afternoon. A West-world plane for London.”

  Joe looked at her speculatively. “I won’t be on it.”