The Frederick Pohl Omnibus (1966) SSC

by Frederik Pohl

  "Then tell me something. It won't sound important. But it is. How many rifles did you sell in the past year?"

  Lasser looked puzzled, but he said, "Not many. Maybe half a dozen.

  Business is lousy all over, you know, since the Icicle Works closed."

  "And in a normal year?"

  "Oh, three or four hundred. It's a big tourist item. You see, they need cold-shot rifles for hunting the fish. A regular bullet'll set them on fire-touches off the hydrogen. I'm the only sporting-goods merchant in town that carries them, and-say, what does that have to do with Jimmy?"

  Pulcher took a deep breath. "Stick around and you'll find out.

  Meanwhile, think about what you just told me. If rifles are a tourist item, why did closing the Icicle Works hurt your sales?" He left.

  But not quickly enough. Charley Dickon scuttled over and clutched his arm, his face furious. "Hey, Milo, what the hell! I just heard from Sam Apfel-the bondsman-that you got that whole bunch out of jail again on bail.

  How come?"

  "They're my clients, Charley."

  "Don't give me that! How'd you get them out when they're convicted, anyway?"

  "I'm going to appeal the case," Pulcher said gently.

  "You don't have a leg to stand on. Why would Pegrim grant bail anyhow?"

  Pulcher pointed to Judge Pegrim's solitary table. "Ask him," he invited, and broke away.

  He was burning a great many bridges behind him, he knew. It was an exhilarating feeling. Chancy but tingly; he decided he liked it. There was just one job to do. As soon as he was clear of the scowling but stopped committeeman, he walked by a circular route to the dais. Dickon was walking back to his table, turned away from the dais; Pulcher's chance would never be better. "Hello, Pop," he said.

  Pop Craig looked up over his glasses. "Oh, Milo. I've been going over the list. You think I got everybody? Charley wanted me to introduce all the block captains and anybody else important. You know anybody important that ain't on this list?"

  "That's what I wanted to tell you, Pop. Charley said for you to give me a few minutes. I want to say a few words."

  Craig said agitatedly, "Aw, Milo, if you make a speech they're all gonna want to make speeches! What do you want to make a speech for?

  You're no candidate."

  Pulcher winked mysteriously. "What about next year?" he asked archly, with a lying inference.

  "Oh. Oh-ho." Pop Craig nodded and returned to his list, mumbling. "

  Well. In that case, I guess I can fit you in after the block captains, or maybe after the man from the sheriff's office-" But Pulcher wasn't listening.

  Pulcher was already on his way back to the little private bar.

  • • • •

  Man had conquered all of space within nearly fifty light years of dull, yellow old Sol, but out in that main ballroom political hacks were talking of long-dead presidents of almost forgotten countries centuries in the past.

  Pulcher was content to listen-to allow the sounds to vibrate his eardrums, at least, for the words made little sense to him. If, indeed, there was any content of sense to a political speech in the first place. But they were soothing.

  Also they kept his six fledglings from bothering him with questions.

  Madeleine sat quietly by his shoulder, quite relaxed still and smelling faintly, pleasantly, of some floral aroma. It was, all in all, as pleasant a place to be as Pulcher could remember in his recent past. It was too bad that he would have to go out of it soon...

  Very soon.

  The featured guest had droned through his platitudes. The visiting celebrities had said their few words each. Pop Craig's voluminous old voice took over again. "And now I wanta introduce some of the fine Party workers from our local districts. There's Keith Ciccareffi from the Hillside area. Keith, stand up and take a bow!" Dutiful applause. "And here's Mary Beth Whitehurst, head of the Women's Club from Riverview!" Dutiful applause-and a whistle. Surely the whistle was sardonic; Mary Beth was fat and would never again see fifty. There were more names.

  Pulcher felt it coming the moment before Pop Craig reached his own name. He was on his way to the dais even before Craig droned out: "

  That fine young attorney and loyal Party man-the kind of young fellow our Party needs-Milo Pulcher!"

  Dutiful applause again. That was habit, but Pulcher felt the whispering question that fluttered around the room.

  He didn't give the question a chance to grow. He glanced once at the five hundred loyal Party faces staring up at him and began to speak. "

  Mr. President. Mr. Mayor. Justice Pegrim. Honored guests. Ladies and gentlemen." That was protocol. He paused. "What I have to say to you tonight is in the way of a compliment. It's a surprise for an old friend, sitting right here. That old friend is-Charley Dickon." He threw the name at them. It was a special political sort of delivery; a tone of voice that commanded: Clap now. They clapped. That was important, because it made it difficult for Charley to think of an excuse to interrupt him-as soon as Charley realized he ought to, which would be shortly.

  "Way out here, on the bleak frontier of interstellar space, we live isolated lives, ladies and gentlemen." There were whispers, he could hear them. The words were more or less right, but he didn't have the right political accent; the audience knew there was something wrong. The true politician would have said: This fine, growing frontier in the midst of interstellar space's greatest constellations. He couldn't help it; he would have to rely on velocity now to get him through. "How isolated, we sometimes need to reflect. We have trade relations through the Icicle Works-now closed. We have tourists in both directions, through the Tourist Agency. We have ultrawave messages-also through the Tourist Agency.

  And that's about all.

  "That's a very thin link, ladies and gentlemen. Very thin. And I'm here to tell you tonight that it would be even thinner if it weren't for my old friend there-yes, Committeeman Charley Dickon!" He punched the name again, and got the applause-but it was puzzled and died away early.

  "The fact of the matter, ladies and gentlemen, is that just about every tourist that's come to Altair Nine this past year is the personal responsibility of Charley Dickon. Who have these tourists been? They haven't been businessmen-there's no business. They haven't been hunters. Ask Phil Lasser, over there; he hasn't sold enough fishing equipment to put in your eye. Ask yourselves, for that matter. How many of you have seen airfish right over the city? Do you know why? Because they aren't being hunted any more! There aren't any tourists to hunt them."

  The time had come to give it to them straight. "The fact of the matter, ladies and gentlemen, is that the tourists we've had haven't been tourists at all. They've been natives, from right here on Altair Nine. Some of them are right in this room! I know that, because I rented myself for a few days-and do you know who took my body? Why, Charley did. Charley himself!" He was watching Lew Yoder out of the corner of his eye. The assessor's face turned gray; he seemed to shrink. Pulcher enjoyed the sight, though. After all, he had a certain debt to Lew Yoder; it was Yoder's slip of the tongue that had finally started him thinking on the right track. He went on hastily:

  "And what it all adds up to, ladies and gentlemen, is that Charley Dickon, and a handful of his friends in high places-most of them right here in this room-have cut off communication between Altair Nine and the rest of the Galaxy!"

  That did it.

  There were yells, and the loudest yell came from Charley Dickon. "

  Throw him out! Arrest him! Craig, get the sergeant-at-arms! I say I don't have to sit here and listen to this maniac!"

  "And I say you do," boomed the cold courtroom voice of Judge Pegrim. The judge stood up. "Go on, Pulcher!" he ordered. "I came here tonight to hear what you have to say. It may be wrong. It may be right. I propose to hear all of it before I make up my mind."

  Thank heaven for the cold old judge! Pulcher cut right in before Dickon could find a new point of attack; there wasn't much left to say anyway. "The story is simpl
e, ladies and gentlemen. The Icicle Works was the most profitable corporation in the Galaxy. We all know that. Probably everybody in this room had a couple of shares of stock. Dickon had plenty.

  "But he wanted more. And he didn't want to pay for them. So he used his connection with the Tourist Agency to cut off communication between Nine and the rest of the Galaxy. He spread the word that Altamycin was worthless now because some fictitious character had invented a cheap new substitute. He closed down the Icicle Works. And for the last twelve months he's been picking up stock for a penny on the dollar, while the rest of us starve and the Altamycin the rest of the Galaxy needs stays right here on Altair Nine and-"

  He stopped, not because he had run out of words but because no one could hear them any longer. The noises the crowd was making were no longer puzzled; they were ferocious. It figured. Apart from Dickon's immediate gang of manipulators, there was hardly a man in the room who hadn't taken a serious loss in the past year.

  It was time for the police to come rushing in, as per the phone call Judge Pegrim had made, protestingly, when Pulcher urged him to the dinner. They did-just barely in time. They weren't needed to arrest Dickon so much; but they were indispensable for keeping him from being lynched.

  Hours later, escorting Madeleine home, Milo was still bubbling over.

  "I was worried about the Mayor! I couldn't make up my mind whether he was in it with Charley or not. I'm glad he wasn't, because he said he owed me a favor, and I told him how he could pay it. Executive clemency. The six of you will be free in the morning."

  Madeleine said sleepily, "I'm free enough now."

  "And the Tourist Agency won't be able to enforce those contracts any more. I talked it over with Judge Pegrim. He wouldn't give me an official statement, but he said-Madeleine, you're not listening."

  She yawned. "It's been an exhausting day, Milo," she apologized. "

  Anyway, you can tell me all about that later. We'll have plenty of time."

  "Years and years," he promised. "Years and-" They stopped talking. The mechanical cab-driver, sneaking around through back streets to avoid the resentment of displaced live drivers, glanced over its condenser cells at them and chuckled, making tiny sparks in the night.

  The Knights of Arthur

  There was three of us--I mean if you count Arthur. We split up to avoid attracting attention. Engdahl just came in over the big bridge, but I had Arthur with me so I had to come the long way round.

  When I registered at the desk, I said I was from Chicago. You know how it is. If you say you're from Philadelphia, it's like saying you're from St.

  Louis or Detroit--I mean nobody lives in Philadelphia any more. Shows how things change. A couple years ago, Philadelphia was all the fashion. But not now, and I wanted to make a good impression.

  I even tipped the bellboy a hundred and fifty dollars. I said: 'Do me a favour. I've my baggage booby-trapped--'

  'Natch,' he said, only mildly impressed by the bill and a half, even less impressed by me.

  'I mean really booby-trapped. Not just a burglar alarm. Besides the alarm, there's a little surprise on a short fuse. So what I want you to do, if you hear the alarm go off, is come running. Right?'

  'And get my head blown off?' He slammed my bags onto the floor.

  'Mister, you can take your damn money and--'

  'Wait a minute, friend.' I passed over another hundred. 'Please? It's only a shaped charge. It won't hurt anything except anybody who messes around, see? But I don't want it to go off. So you come running when you hear the alarm and scare him away and--'

  'No!' But he was less positive. I gave him two hundred more and he said grudgingly: 'All right. If I hear it. Say, what's in there that's worth all that trouble?'

  'Papers,' I lied.

  He leered. 'Sure.'

  'No fooling, it's just personal stuff. Not worth a penny to anybody but me, understand? So don't get any ideas--'

  He said in an injured tone: 'Mister, naturally the staff won't bother your stuff. What kind of a hotel do you think this is?'

  'Of course, of course,' I said. But I knew he was lying, because I knew what kind of hotel it was. The staff was there only because being there gave them a chance to knock down more money than they could make any other way. What other kind of hotel was there?

  Anyway, the way to keep the staff on my side was by bribery, and when he left I figured I had him at least temporarily bought. He promised to keep an eye on the room and he would be on duty for four more hours--

  which gave me plenty of time for my errands.

  • • • •

  I made sure Arthur was plugged in and cleaned myself up. They had water running--New York's very good that way; they always have water running. It was even hot, or nearly hot. I let the shower splash over me for a while, because there was a lot of dust and dirt from the Bronx that I had to get off me. The way it looked, hardly anybody had been up that way since it happened.

  I dried myself, got dressed and looked out the window. We were fairly high up--fifteenth floor. I could see the Hudson and the big bridge up north of us. There was a huge cloud of smoke coming from somewhere near the bridge on the other side of the river, but outside of that everything looked normal. You would have thought there were people in all those houses. Even the streets looked pretty good, until you noticed that hardly any of the cars were moving.

  I opened the little bag and loaded my pockets with enough money to run my errands. At the door, I stopped and called over my shoulder to Arthur: 'Don't worry if I'm gone an hour or so. I'll be back.'

  I didn't wait for an answer. That would have been pointless under the circumstances.

  After Philadelphia, this place seemed to be bustling with activity.

  There were four or five people in the lobby and a couple of dozen more out in the street.

  I tarried at the desk for several reasons. In the first place, I was expecting Vern Engdahl to try to contact me and I didn't want him messing with the luggage--not while Arthur might get nervous. So I told the desk clerk that in case anybody came inquiring for Mr. Schlaepfer, which was the name I was using--my real name being Sam Dunlap--he was to be told that on no account was he to go to my room but to wait in the lobby; and in any case I would be back in an hour.

  'Sure,' said the desk clerk, holding out his hand.

  I crossed it with paper. 'One other thing,' I said. 'I need to buy an electric typewriter and some other stuff. Where can I get them?'

  'PX,' he said promptly.

  'PX?'

  'What used to be Macy's,' he explained. 'You go out that door and turn right. It's only about a block. You'll see the sign.'

  'Thanks.' That cost me a hundred more, but it was worth it. After all, money wasn't a problem--not when we had just come from Philadelphia.

  • • • •

  The big sign read 'PX,' but it wasn't big enough to hide an older sign underneath that said 'Macy's.' I looked it over from across the street.

  Somebody had organized it pretty well. I had to admire them. I mean I don't like New York--wouldn't live there if you gave me the place--but it showed a sort of go-getting spirit. It was no easy job getting a full staff together to run a department store operation, when any city the size of New York must have a couple thousand stores. You know what I mean? It's like running a hotel or anything else--how are you going to get people to work for you when they can just as easily walk down the street, find a vacant store and set up their own operation?

  But Macy's was fully manned. There was a guard at every door and a walking patrol along the block-front between the entrances to make sure nobody broke in through the windows. They all wore green armbands and uniforms--well, lots of people wore uniforms.

  I walked over.

  'Afternoon,' I said affably to the guard. 'I want to pick up some stuff.

  Typewriter, maybe a gun, you know. How do you work it here? Flat rate for all you can carry, prices marked on everything, or what is it?'

  He sta
red at me suspiciously. He was a monster; six inches taller than I, he must have weighed two hundred and fifty pounds. He didn't look very smart, which might explain why he was working for somebody else these days. But he was smart enough for what he had to do.

  He demanded: 'You new in town?'

  I nodded.

  He thought for a minute. 'All right, buddy. Go on in. You pick out what you want, see? We'll straighten out the price when you come out.'

  'Fair enough.' I started past him.

  He grabbed me by the arm. 'No tricks,' he ordered. 'You come out the same door you went in, understand?'

  'Sure,' I said, 'if that's the way you want it.'

  That figured--one way or another: either they got a commission, or, like everybody else, they lived on what they could knock down. I filed that for further consideration.

  Inside, the store smelled pretty bad. It wasn't just rot, though there was plenty of that; it was musty and stale and old. It was dark, or nearly.

  About one light in twenty was turned on, in order to conserve power.

  Naturally the escalators and so on weren't running at all.

  • • • •

  I passed a counter with pencils and ball-point pens in a case. Most of them were gone--somebody hadn't bothered to go around in back and had simply knocked the glass out--but I found one that worked and an old order pad to write on. Over by the elevators there was a store directory, so I went over and checked it, making a list of the departments worth visiting.

  Office Supplies would be the typewriter. Garden & Home was a good bet--maybe I could find a little wheelbarrow to save carrying the typewriter in my arms. What I wanted was one of the big ones where all the keys are solenoid-operated instead of the cam-and-roller arrangement--that was all Arthur could operate. And those things were heavy, as I knew. That was why we had ditched the old one in the Bronx.

  Sporting Goods--that would be for a gun, if there were any left.

  Naturally, they were about the first to go after it happened, when everybody wanted a gun. I mean, everybody who lived through it. I thought about clothes--it was pretty hot in New York--and decided I might as well take a look.