The 34th Golden Age of Science Fiction: C.M. Kornbluth

by C. M. Kornbluth

  Taylor’s fingers began to play a tattoo on his annunciator board. Faces leaped into existence on its various screens as he fired orders. “Charles Orsino’s chief bodyguard for tonight—Halloran. Trace him. The works. He tried to kill Orsino.”

  He clicked off the board switches and turned grimly to Orsino. “Now you,” he said. “What have you been up to?”

  “Just doing my job, uncle,” Orsino said uneasily.

  “Still bagman at the 101st?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fooling with any women?”

  “Nothing special, uncle. Nothing intense.”

  “Disciplined or downgraded anybody lately?”

  “Certainly not. The precinct runs like a watch. I’ll match their morale against any outfit east of the Mississippi. Why are you taking this so heavy?”

  “Because you’re the third. The other two—your cousin Thomas McGurn and your uncle Robert Orsino—didn’t have guards to get in the way. One other question.”

  “Yes, uncle.”

  “My boy, why didn’t you tell me about this when you first came in?”

  CHAPTER IV

  A family council was called the next day. Orsino, very much a junior, had never been admitted to one before. He knew why the exception was being made, and didn’t like the reason.

  Edward Falcaro wagged his formidable white beard at the thirty-odd Syndic chiefs around the table and growled: “I think we’ll dispense with reviewing production and so on. I want to talk about this damn gunplay. Dick, bring us up to date.”

  He lit a vile cigar and leaned back.

  Richard W. Reiner rose.

  “Thomas McGurn,” he said, “killed April 15th by a burst of eight machine gun bullets in his private dining room at the Astor. Elsie Warshofsky, his waitress, must be considered the principal suspect, but—”

  Edward Falcaro snapped: “Suspect, hell! She killed him, didn’t she?”

  “I was about to say, but the evidence so far is merely cumulative. Mrs. Warshofsky jumped—fell—or was pushed—from the dining room window. The machine gun was found beside the window.

  “There are no known witnesses. Mrs. Warshofsky’s history presents no unusual features. An acquaintance submitted a statement—based, she frankly admitted, on nothing definite—that Mrs. Warshofsky sometimes talked in a way that led her to wonder if she might not be a member of the secret terrorist organization known as the D.A.R. In this connection, it should be noted that Mrs. Warshofsky’s maiden name was Adams.

  “Robert Orsino, killed April 21st by a thermite bomb concealed in his pillow and fuzed with a pressure-sensitive switch. His valet, Edward Blythe, disappeared from view. He was picked up April 23rd by a posse on the beach of Montauk Point, but died before he could be questioned. Examination of his stomach contents showed a lethal quantity of sodium fluoride. It is presumed that the poison was self-administered.”

  “Presumed!” the old man snorted, and puffed out a lethal quantity of cigar smoke.

  “Blythe’s history,” Reiner went on blandly, “presents no unusual features. It should be noted that a commerce-raider of the so-called United States Government Navy was reported off Montauk Point during the night of April 23rd-24th by local residents.

  “Charles Orsino, attacked April 30th by his bodyguard James Halloran in the lobby of the Costello Memorial Theater. Halloran fired one shot which killed another bodyguard and was then himself killed. Halloran’s history presents no unusual features except that he had a considerable interest in—uh—history. He collected and presumably read obsolete books dealing with pre-Syndic Pre-Mob America. Investigators found by his bedside the first volume of a work published in 1942 called The Growth of The American Republic by Morison and Commager. It was opened to Chapter Ten, The War of Independence!”

  Reiner took his seat.

  F. W. Taylor said dryly: “Dick, did you forget to mention that Warshofsky, Blythe and Halloran are known officers of the U. S. Navy?”

  Reiner said: “You are being facetious. Are you implying that I have omitted pertinent facts?”

  “I’m implying that you artistically stacked the deck. With a rumor, a dubious commerce-raider report and a note on a man’s hobby, you want us to sweep the bastards from the sea, don’t you—just the way you always have?”

  “I am not ashamed of my expressed attitude on the question of the so-called United States Government and will defend it at any proper time and place.”

  “Shut the hell up, you two,” Edward Falcaro growled. “I’m trying to think.” He thought for perhaps half a minute and then looked up, baffled. “Has anybody got any ideas?”

  Charles Orsino cleared his throat, amazed at his own temerity. The old man’s eyebrows shot up, but he grudgingly said: “I guess you can say something, since they thought you were important enough to shoot.”

  Orsino said: “Maybe it’s some outfit over in Europe or Asia?”

  Edward Falcaro asked: “Anybody know anything about Europe or Asia? Jimmy, you flew over once, didn’t you? To see about Anatolian poppies when the Mob had trouble with Mex labor?”

  Jimmy Falcaro said creakily: “Yeah. It was a waste of time. They have these little dirt farmers scratching out just enough food for the family and maybe raising a quarter-acre of poppy. That’s all there is from the China Sea to the Mediterranean. In England—Frank, you tell ’em. You explained it to me once.”

  Taylor rose. “The forest’s come back to England. When finance there lost its morale and couldn’t hack its way out of the paradoxes that was the end. When that happens you’ve got to have a large, virile criminal class ready to take over and do the work of distribution and production. Maybe some of you know how the English were. The poor beggars had civilized all the illegality out of the stock. They couldn’t do anything that wasn’t respectable. From sketchy reports, I gather that England is now forest and a few hundred starving people. One fellow says the men still wear derbies and stagger to their offices in the city.

  “France is peasants, drunk three-quarters of the time.

  “Russia is peasants, drunk all the time.

  “Germany—well, there the criminal class was too big and too virile. The place is a cemetery.”

  He shrugged: “Say it, somebody. The Mob’s gunning for us.”

  Reiner jumped to his feet. “I will never support such a hypothesis!” he shrilled. “It is mischievous to imply that a century of peace has been ended, that our three-thousand-mile border with our friend to the West—”

  Taylor intoned satirically: “Un-blemished, my friends, by a single for-ti-fi-ca-tion—”

  Edward Falcaro yelled: “Stop your damn foolishness, Frank Taylor! This is no laughing matter.”

  Taylor snapped: “Have you been in Mob Territory lately?”

  “I have,” the old man said. He scowled.

  “How’d you like it?”

  Edward Falcaro shrugged irritably. “They have their ways, we have ours. The Regan line is running thin, but we’re not going to forget that Jimmy Regan stood shoulder to shoulder with Amadeo Falcaro in the old days. There’s such a thing as loyalty.”

  F. W. Taylor said: “There’s such a thing as blindness.”

  He had gone too far. Edward Falcaro rose from his chair and leaned forward, bracing himself on the table. He said flatly: “This is a statement, gentlemen. I won’t pretend I’m happy about the way things are in Mob Territory. I won’t pretend I think old man Regan is a balanced, dependable person. I won’t pretend I think the Mob clients are enjoying anywhere near the service that Syndic clients enjoy. I’m perfectly aware that on our visits of state to Mob Territory we see pretty much what our hosts want us to see. But I cannot believe that any group which is rooted on the principles of freedom and service can have gone very wrong.

  “Maybe I’m mistaken, gentlemen. But I cannot believe that a descendant o
f Jimmy Regan would order a descendant of Amadeo Falcaro murdered. We will consider every other possibility first. Frank, is that clear?”

  “Yes,” Taylor said.

  “All right,” Edward Falcaro grunted. “Now let’s go about this thing systematically. Dick, you go right down the line with the charge that the Government’s responsible for these atrocities. I hate to think that myself. If they are, we’re going to have to spend a lot of time and trouble hunting them down and doing something about it. As long as they stick to a little commerce-raiding and a few coastal attacks, I can’t say I’m really unhappy about them. They don’t do much harm, and they keep us on our toes and—maybe this one is most important—they keep our client’s memories of the bad old days that we delivered them from alive. That’s a great deal to surrender for the doubtful pleasures of a long, expensive campaign. If assassination’s in the picture I suppose we’ll have to knock them off—but we’ve got to be sure.”

  “May I speak?” Reiner asked icily.

  The old man nodded and re-lit his cigar.

  “I have been called—behind my back, naturally—a fanatic,” Reiner said. He pointedly did not look anywhere near F. W. Taylor as he spoke the word. “Perhaps this is correct and perhaps fanaticism is what’s needed at a time like this. Let me point out what the so-called Government stands for: brutal ‘taxation,’ extirpation of gambling, denial of life’s simple pleasures to the poor and severe limitation of them to all but the wealthy, sexual prudery viciously enforced by penal laws of appalling barbarity, endless regulation and coercion governing every waking minute of the day. That was its record during the days of its power and that would be its record if it returned to power. I fail to see how this menace to our liberty can be condoned by certain marginal benefits which are claimed to accrue from its continued existence.” He faltered for a moment as his face twisted with an unpleasant memory. In a lower, unhappier voice, he went on: “I—I was alarmed the other day by something I overheard. Two small children were laying bets at the Kiddy Counter of the horse room I frequent, and I stopped on my way to the hundred-dollar window for a moment to hear their childish prattle. They were doping the forms for the sixth at Hialeah, I believe, when one of them digressed to say: ‘My Mommy doesn’t play the horses. She thinks all the horse rooms should be closed.’

  “It wrung my heart, gentlemen, to hear that. I wanted to take that little boy aside and tell him: ‘Son, your Mommy doesn’t have to play the horses. Nobody has to play the horses unless he wants to. But as long as one single person wants to lay a bet on a horse and another person is willing to take it, nobody has the right to say the horse rooms should be closed.’ Naturally I did not take the little boy aside and tell him that. It would have been an impractical approach to the problem. The practical approach is the one I have always advocated and still do. Strike at the heart of the infection! Destroy the remnants of Government and cauterize the wound so that it will never re-infect again. Nor is my language too strong. When I realize that the mind of an innocent child has been corrupted so that he will prattle that the liberties of his brothers must be infringed on, that their harmless pleasures must be curtailed, my blood runs cold and I call it what it is: treason.”

  Orsino had listened raptly to the words and joined in a burst of spontaneous applause that swept around the table. He had never had a brush with Government himself and he hardly believed in the existence of the shadowy, terrorist D.A.R., but Reiner had made it sound so near and menacing!

  But Uncle Frank was on his feet. “We seem to have strayed from the point,” he said dryly. “For anybody who needs his memory refreshed, I’ll state that the point is two assassinations and one near miss. I fail to see the connection, if any with Dick Reiner’s paranoid delusions of persecution. I especially fail to see the relevance of the word ‘treason.’ Treason to what—us? The Syndic is not a government. It must not become enmeshed in the symbols and folklore of a government or it will be first chained and then strangled by them. The Syndic is an organization of high morale and easy-going, hedonistic personality. The fact that it succeeded the Government occurred because the Government had become an organization of low morale and inflexible, puritanic, sado-masochistic personality. I have no illusions about the Syndic lasting forever, and I hope nobody else here has. Naturally I want it to last our lifetime, my children’s lifetime, and as long after that as I can visualize my descendants, but don’t think I have any burning affection for my unborn great-great grandchildren. Now, if there is anybody here who doesn’t want it to last that long, I suggest to him that the quickest way to demoralize the Syndic is to adopt Dick Reiner’s proposal of a holy war for a starter. From there we can proceed to an internal heresy hunt, a census, excise taxes, income taxes and wars of aggression. Now, what about getting back to the assassinations?”

  Orsino shook his head, thoroughly confused by now. But the confusion vanished as a girl entered the room, whispered something in the ear of Edward Falcaro and sat down calmly by his side. He wasn’t the only one who noticed her. Most of the faces there registered surprise and some indignation. The Syndic had a very strong tradition of masculinity.

  Edward Falcaro ignored the surprise and indignation. He said placidly: “That was very interesting, Frank, what I understood of it. But it’s always interesting when I go ahead and do something because it’s the smart thing to do, and then listen to you explain my reasons—including fifty or sixty that I’m more than positive never crossed my mind.”

  There was a laugh around the table that Charles Orsino thought was unfair. He knew, Edward Falcaro knew, and everybody knew that Taylor credited Falcaro with sound intuitive judgment rather than analytic power. He supposed the old man—intuitively—had decided a laugh was needed to clear the air of the quarrel and irrelevance.

  Falcaro went on: “The way things stand now, gentlemen, we don’t know very much, do we?” He bit a fresh cigar and lighted it meditatively. From a cloud of rank smoke he said: “So the thing to do is find out more, isn’t it?” In spite of the beard and the cigar, there was something of a sly, teasing child about him. “So what do you say to slipping one of our own people into the Government to find out whether they’re dealing in assassination or not?”

  Charles Orsino alone was naive enough to speak; the rest knew that the old man had something up his sleeve. Charles said: “You can’t do it, sir! They have lie-detectors and drugs and all sorts of things—” His voice died down miserably under Falcaro’s too-benign smile and the looks of irritation verging on disgust from the rest. The enigmatic girl scowled. Goddam them all! Charles thought, sinking into his chair and wishing he could sink into the earth.

  “The young man,” Falcaro said blandly, “speaks the truth—no less true for being somewhat familiar to us all. But what if we have a way to get around the drugs and lie-detectors, gentlemen? Which of you bold fellows would march into the jaws of death by joining the Government, spying on them and trying to report back?”

  Charles stood up, prudence and timidity washed away by a burning need to make up for his embarrassment with a grandstand play. “I’ll go, sir,” he said very calmly. And if I get killed that’ll show ’em; then they’ll be sorry.

  “Good boy,” Edward Falcaro said briskly, with a well-that’s that air. “The young lady here will take care of you.”

  Charles steadily walked down the long room to the head of the table, thinking that he must be cutting a rather fine figure. Uncle Frank ruined his exit by catching his sleeve and halting him as he passed his seat. “Good luck, Charles,” Uncle Frank whispered. “And for Heaven’s sake, keep a better guard up. Can’t you see the old devil planned it this way from the beginning?”

  “Good-bye, Uncle Frank,” Charles said, suddenly feeling quite sick as he walked on. The young lady rose and opened the door for him. She was graceful as a cat, and a conviction overcame Charles Orsino that he was the canary.

  CHAPTER V

 
Max Wyman shoved his way through such a roar of voices and such a crush of bodies as he had never known before. Scratch Sheet Square was bright as day—brighter. Atomic lamps, mounted on hundred-story buildings hosed and squirted the happy mob with blue-white glare. The Scratch Sheet’s moving sign was saying in fiery letters seventy-five feet tall: “11:58 PM EST… December 31st… Cops say two million jam NYC streets to greet New Year… 11:59 PM EST… December 31st… Falcaro jokes on TV ‘Never thought we’d make it’… 12:00 midnight January 1st… Happy New Year …”

  The roar of voices had become insane. Max Wyman held his head, hating it, hating them all, trying to shut them out. Half a dozen young men against whom he was jammed were tearing the clothes off a girl. They were laughing and she was too, making only a pretense of defending herself. It was one of New York’s mild winter nights. Wyman looked at the white skin not knowing that his eyes gloated. He yelled curses at her, and the young men. But nobody heard his whiskey-hoarsened young voice.

  Somebody thrust a bottle at him and made mouths, trying to yell: “Happy New Year!” He grabbed feverishly at the bottle and held it to his mouth, letting the liquor gurgle once, twice, three times. Then the bottle was snatched away, not by the man who had passed it to him. A hilarious fat woman plastered herself against Wyman and kissed him clingingly on the mouth, to his horror and disgust. She was torn away from him by a laughing, white-haired man and turned willingly to kissing him instead.

  Two strapping girls jockeyed Wyman between them and began to tear his clothes off, laughing at their switcheroo on the year’s big gag. He clawed out at them hysterically and they stopped, the laughter dying on their lips as they saw his look of terrified rage. A sudden current in the crowd parted Wyman from them; another bottle bobbed on the sea of humanity. He clutched at it and this time did not drink. He stuffed it hurriedly under the waistband of his shorts and kept a hand on it as the eddy of humanity bore him on to the fringes of the roaring mob.

  “Syndic leaders hail New Year… Taylor praises Century of Freedom… 12:05 AM EST January 1st …”