“Now wait a minute,” Roy said, increasingly intrigued by one more example of the degeneracy of the present system. “What you’re saying is that an assassin…”
“More than one, I’d think,” Forry put in.
“…is immediately sent after the person who’s signed this contract. All right, what happens if the killer’s caught?”
“He’s arrested, of course, and they throw the book at him. But they can’t prove anything except his own guilt. None of the advanced countries have capital punishment any more. If he’s caught in America, he’s subject to deportation. If they nail him in, say, Common Europe, he’s thrown into the banger for, say, twenty years. But the Graf takes care of his own. Who ever heard of one of the Grafs boys spending much time in jail? One way or the other, he’s soon out, usually legally, since the Graf keeps the best criminal lawyers in the world. But if not legally, then illegally. His escape is greased and he drops out of sight, possibly to Tangier, where there are no extradition laws. He remains on pension for the rest of his life, unless they get him some local job. One of the Graf’s big centers is Tangier.”
“Who the hell’s this Graf?” Roy Cos said.
“It’s a German title, something like a British earl. He’s the boss of Mercenaries, Incorporated,” the little man told him. “Haven’t you ever heard of the Graf?”
“No, I told you I didn’t bother with crime news. But this thing fascinates me. What are some of the tricks the victims try to pull to remain alive?”
“Oh, I’ve heard of various scams. Often they’ll try to hole up in some manner so that the hit men can’t get at them. They’ll rent the whole top floor of some luxury hotel and try to seal themselves in, like Howard Hughes in the old days. Bodyguards and all. But in those cases, the assassin usually bribes one of the poor bastard’s hirelings to slip a cyanide mickey into one of his drinks, or whatever. Once or twice, it turned out that one of the bodyguards was a Graf man. Curtains.”
Roy Cos shook his head in amazement. “A million pseudodollars, always available. But suppose he spent that much in one day, and then the next day spent that much again, and so on?”
“It’d be damned hard to do,” the newsman told him. “There are clauses in the contract. He’s not allowed to buy presents that cost more than two hundred pseudodollars. He’s not allowed to donate to any cause. Once a crackpot religious fanatic decided to sign up and donate hundreds of thousands to the United Church, but that wasn’t allowed. On top of that, the company becomes your heir. Everything you buy reverts to them, after your death. You buy something expensive, like a luxury car, or a big house, or jewelry, and they take it over when you die.”
Roy shook his head. “I’d think the Lloyd’s underwriters would get leery.”
Forry shrugged again. “Like I said, it’s a gamble. To keep it that way, the daily premium is sky high. If the insured lives more than a few days, Lloyd’s wins. As usual, the computers of both the policyholders and the insurers have figured it out down to a hairline.”
Roy finished his drink, thought about it some more, shook his head again. Then he scowled and looked over at the other. He said, “What was that you mentioned about my taking out one of these Deathwish Policies?”
And Forry Brown said softly, “A million pseudodollars. Like I said, you’d have plenty to buy yourself premium Tri-Di time. Every day, until they got you. And you’d also be top news. Everybody and his cousin would listen in. You’d have your chance to put your Wobbly message across such as no minority organization has ever had.”
There was a prolonged blank silence until Roy Cos said finally, “Where do you come in on this, Forry Brown?”
Forry looked him straight in the eye, squinting through his cigarette smoke. “Somebody’s got to run interference for you, keep you alive long enough to do your thing. And I need a job—one that doesn’t have to match the computers of the National Data Banks.”
“You must think I’m drivel-happy,” Roy said in disgust.
“No, I think you’re a dedicated Wobbly and as things stand now you’ll spend your life trying to put over a message that no one hears. Have you ever read of Sacco and Vanzetti?”
Roy frowned. “Vaguely. A couple of early 20th century radicals.”
“That’s right. They were railroaded, charged with a payroll robbery where two men were killed. Because they were philosophical anarchists, they were sentenced to death. You wouldn’t believe the reaction that went up all over the world. American consulates and embassies in a dozen countries were marched upon. There were riots and demonstrations everywhere. Tens of thousands of letters of protest, ranging from students to world-famous intellectuals; hundreds of petitions, signed by hundreds of thousands. American officials were astonished. The President, getting reports from his ambassadors, is reported to have asked, ‘Who in the hell are Sacco and Vanzetti?’ But in spite of it all, after going through all possible appeals, they were executed.” A pause. “I’ll put it more strongly: they were martyred.”
“I guess I have read something about it,” Roy said vaguely, still scowling.
The newsman brought forth his wallet and fished in it. “This is one of the final things Bartolomeo Vanzetti wrote. He was self-educated.”
Forry Brown read softly from the tattered clipping: “If it had not been for this thing, I might have lived out my life talking at street comers to scorning men. I might have died unmarked, unknown, a failure. Now we are not a failure. This is our career and our triumph. Never in all our full life could we hope to do such work for tolerance, for justice, for man’s understanding of man, as now we do by accident.
“Our words—our lives—our pains: nothing! The taking of our lives—lives of a good shoemaker and a poor fish peddler—all! That last moment belongs to us. That agony is our triumph.”
Forry Brown looked up from the clipping. “Their deaths weren’t the end. Hundreds of articles about them were published for years. Best-selling books were written about the Sacco-Vanzetti case. There was even a long-running play on Broadway, and a hit movie film. In becoming martyrs, Bartolomeo Vanzetti and Nicola Sacco at long last put over their message. Decades later, they were vindicated by the State of Massachusetts. They hadn’t even been guilty.” Across the table, the eyes of Roy Cos were shining.
Chapter Four: Horace Hampton
Horace Greeley Hampton looked about appreciatively at the Mini-city of Greenpoint when he emerged from the vacuum tube metro station. He had been in similar towns before, but never this one. Located scenically in the rolling hills of Eastern Pennsylvania, it was composed of four ultra-modern high-rise apartment buildings, the condominiums of the 21st century. Each seemed approximately fifty stories in height, twin-towered and sheathed in aluminum and glass. Not as imposing as the hundred-floor apartment buildings of the big cities, yet large enough to contain all the amenities—an ultra-market, automated kitchens, parking areas, theatres, auditoriums, sports arenas. Much of it lay in the several basement levels below ground. The restaurants throughout each of the buildings would be in wide variety, ranging from Malay and Polynesian to vegetarian, by the way of every well-known cuisine the world offered. Greenpoint offered all of the amenities, far beyond those available to the high-rises devoted to proles.
In the early days of the mini-cities, there had been comparatively little class discrimination. An ultra-condo would house five thousand or more families, ranging from proles on GAS in apartments on the lower levels, to the extremely wealthy in the rarefied heights, in swank penthouses and terrace apartments. The higher you ascended in the towering buildings, the larger and more expensive became the apartments. Needless to say, the more posh became the restaurants, nightclubs, and theatres.
Around each of the four apartment towers of Greenpoint lay a square mile of gardens, lakes, small streams, carefully tended woods. It was complete with bridle and bike paths, sports and picnic grounds, playgrounds, sidewalk cafes, and skating areas. Very attractive indeed.
Greenpoint
was a new development in the progress of the mini-city. Hamp doubted that a single prole family was in residence, not even in the lowest levels. The only proles in Greenpoint would be service workers commuting from other nearby towns. Private cars and even hovercabs were, of course, prohibited on the surface; small electric buses wound slowly around the narrow roads that connected all points, all buildings.
Hamp looked again at his note, checked a bus schedule on a bulletin board next to the entry to the metro terminal, and waited to be taken to the William Penn Building.
It was late afternoon and he hoped to be in Manhattan by evening. This line of League work was strange to him. In the years that he had been active in the organization, he had never been utilized for making initial contacts with possible recruits. He was aware of the continuing necessity of the work and the League system. Someone would attend a lecture and sign the card handed around at its end. Or someone would hear a League Tri-Di broadcast and write in for more information. Or someone would read a League pamphlet or book and be moved to request a visit from a member for discussion. But Hamp had quickly risen from the ranks, had been sent to the training school for field operatives, and had participated in trouble-shooting ever since.
But it would seem that Lee Garrett was a possible recruit worthy of special attention. Max Finklestein had said the new contact was white, which was easy to believe. Hamp doubted that there were many blacks or other racial minorities residing in Greenpoint. Not that there would be any restriction, theoretically. The nation’s laws wouldn’t stand for that, but non-whites would be made to feel less than welcome.
He entered the sumptuous lobby of the William Penn Building, very well done in marble, beautifully furnished and decorated in an early Pennsylvania motif, and approached one of the small bank of reception desks. He sat across from the reception screen and said, “I wish to visit Lee Garrett. I believe that I am expected.”
“Your identity, please, sir,” the screen said.
Hamp brought forth his card, put it in the slot with his right thumb on the appropriate square.
“Thank you,” the mechanical voice said.
He retrieved the credit card and relaxed in the chair.
After only a couple of minutes, the screen said, “You are expected, sir. Apartment 1012. Please take elevator seven, eight, or nine.”
Hamp stood, looked about, and located the elevators. A few people in the lobby looked at him with mild surprise. Not only was he black, but his clothes, though a bit above the usual prole level, were hardly of the quality most often seen in Greenpoint. He had expected such interest and ignored it.
Elevator eight was empty. He stepped in and said, “Apartment 1012, please.”
The elevator’s screen said, “Your identity card, please.” He put it in the slot, pressed his thumb on the identity square of the screen.
“Thank you, sir.” The door closed and the elevator smoothly began to rise.
He emerged on the tenth floor and arrived shortly at Apartment 1012. Its identity screen picked him up as he stood before it and the door opened. He entered and found himself in a small entrada.
A feminine voice called out, “In here. You’ll have to forgive me, but I’m busy.”
Hamp shifted his shoulders in a shrug and walked into a living room. He blinked slightly at its opulence. The Anti-Racist League had its wealthy members, but there must have been few who lived on a higher scale than this. One whole wall, facing a terrace with a superb view beyond, was glass. The furnishings were a little on the ultra-modem side, and Hamp was somewhat taken aback by its femininity. It was hardly a man’s room. Could this Lee Garrett be gay?
At the far side, a young woman was busily stirring the contents of a crystal mixing glass. She concentrated as though counting the exact number of turns of the long green swizzle stick in her hand.
She looked over at him as he entered and offered a dazzling smile. “I guessed that a martini would be in order, right?”
It wasn’t an autobar, and sitting on its top were an Imperial quart of British gin, whose label Hamp recognized, and a fifth of French vermouth. Excellent guzzle!
“It sounds wizard,” he admitted. “Uh, my name is Horace Hampton. I had an appointment with Mr. Garrett.”
“Ms. Garrett,” she said, smiling again as she poured drinks into two cocktail glasses. “I’m Lee Garrett.”
Hamp stared. He’d had no indication from Max Finklestein that this new contact was a youthful blonde, startlingly blue of eye, immaculately turned out and, frankly, implausibly beautiful. She wore a gold and red afternoon frock that would have cost half a year’s credit to a prole on GAS. Her hairdo and her cosmetics were such that surely she had just emerged from a beauty salon, or a dressing room of an advertising agency.
She strode over gracefully, handed him one of the martinis, and smiled again, devastating him. “Shall we toast the end of all conflict?”
“I can’t fight that,” Hamp told her.
They sipped, Hamp taking her in all over again, not quite believing it. In real life, they just didn’t come so downright pretty.
She said, “Please be seated, Mr. Hampton. I’ll have to confess that this is all new to me. I’ve never joined any sort of organization before.”
Hamp sat on a couch and took another sip of the cocktail. “About eight to one,” he judged.
“Seven,” she told him. “My father’s formula. He was a fanatic. A perfect martini had to be made just so. I believe he actually dropped one friend because the man insisted on putting in an olive rather than a twist of lime rind.”
Hamp said, “Well, I can’t fault him on this formula.”
Lee Garrett had seated herself on the couch with him. Now she leaned forward and put her half empty glass on the cocktail table before them.
She said, “Tell me all about the Anti-Racist League, Mr. Hampton. I’ve read quite a bit of the standard literature this past month or so and I’m in complete agreement with your stated goals. But it occurred to me that there must be restrictions on what you can openly publish.”
“How do you mean, Ms. Garrett?” He put his own glass down, empty. It had been a lifesaver. He had put away too much brandy the night before and was now wondering if she’d offer another.
She said, “Oh, call me Lee. After all, if we’re to be comrades in arms, we shouldn’t stand on formality.”
Hamp said, “Comrades in arms call me Hamp.”
“What I mean is, the League is no namby-pamby organization. But it certainly can’t come right out and advocate force and violence. That’s illegal. So it doesn’t say that in so many words in the public literature. Is there other written material, meant only for members?”
“Not that I know of. Just what did you want to know about the League that you couldn’t find in our books?”
“Well…” She frowned prettily. “Just about everything, I suppose. I mean, tell me all about it.”
“You know, I’m surprised at your interest. Why should you be concerned with racism?” He smiled to take the edge off his words. “Back in Adolf the Aryan’s day, you would have been considered the Nordic ideal.”
She thought about it, finally coming up with, “Well, I suppose I’m a do-gooder, at heart. And I’m developing a bit of guilt over all this,” she waved at the elegant furnishings, “when so many, especially among minorities—or in some countries where the colored are actually the majority—have so little and suffer so much. My father left me more than I need for the rest of my life. But… well, I do nothing. I’m fed up with my friends and relatives all in the same position. I want to do something worthwhile.”
Hamp nodded. “It’s not an unknown reaction. Engels, the collaborator of Karl Marx, was a wealthy manufacturer. The Russian anarchist Kropotkin was a prince. Norman Thomas, the American socialist, was married to a very wealthy woman.” He grinned suddenly. “But they rose above it.”
“So tell me more about racism and how you… we… can go about ending it.”
> Hamp took a breath and said, “You must realize that racism is one of our oldest American traditions. The United States declared its independence, utilizing some of the most noble language in the history of the fight for man’s freedom, in 1776. One hundred years later marked the last major battle between the whites and American Indians. The Sioux won the battle but lost the war. One century. In that short span whole tribes disappeared. Many tens of thousands were killed outright; many more died of starvation. Some went down before the white man’s diseases: measles, smallpox, and so on. At any rate, here was racism at its naked worst.”
Lee nodded, her eyes serious, then glanced at his drink. “Good heavens, I’m a terrible hostess. Could I give you a refill?”
He handed his glass to her and she went over to the ornate little bar. She brought the new ones in champagne glasses, so that they were at least doubles. Hamp made no complaint.
She told him, her voice very sincere, “I couldn’t agree with you more in regard to the Indians. Most white Americans will concede the Amerind got a raw deal.”
“Now that it’s too late,” Hamp said.
“Well, but we actually invited Chinese labor.” Perhaps, he thought, she was testing him.
“Sure—coolie labor, back in the 19th century, to do manual work on the railroads. The discrimination was pretty tough. Among other things, they weren’t allowed to bring over their wives and families, under the Oriental Exclusion Laws. No women at all. They resorted to all sorts of tricks to get around that. The smuggling of Chinese women into the United States from Mexico was very common. Even Jack London, in his yacht, The Snark, participated in that.” He saw the blank look on her face and added, “Jack London was an American writer of the rough and tough school. Quite a radical. Damn’ good man.”
“Those, I like,” she replied, and took more of her martini. “Go on.”
“The Chinese and later Japanese were hard workers. The whites in the Western states, especially California, could see the handwriting on the wall. Soon Orientals, even when born American citizens, were forbidden to own land. The Japs, who were wonderful farmers, got around that by leasing land for ninety-nine years. They became real competition to the United Farmers, multi-millionaire whites living as far off as New York, who were the first in the world to invent so-called factories-in-the-field. These were farms of hundreds of thousands of acres, tilled by wage workers using the latest agricultural machinery and fertilizer. At any rate, the Japanese, with their driving industry, had just about achieved a monopoly in truck farming, involving a great deal of hand labor. When the Second World War came along, the whites solved this by having all Japanese on the west coast rounded up and shipped to concentration camps. Their property went for sacrifice prices. Even after the war, they never really recovered.”
Deathwish World Page 6
