Deathwish World

by Mack Reynolds

  He came to a street that might be Rue de la Liberte and headed up it. It was too dark to make out the signs. He thought the street should have had more pedestrian traffic and more lights than this.

  The blow that struck him on the back of the neck took him completely unawares. He felt his mouth sag open even as he crumbled.

  At first, he wasn’t completely out but agonizingly paralyzed. He could feel hands hastily going through his pockets, turning them inside out. Two more shadowy figures came hurriedly to his side. He tried to last but could feel no power in his limbs. One of his assailants thoughtfully kicked him in the side of the head and then the fog rolled over him.

  Chapter Six: Roy Cos

  From Greater Miami they were lobbed over to the island of New Providence by laser boost in approximately ten minutes.

  Roy Cos, strapped into his enveloping seat, took a deep breath as acceleration loads mounted and said, “Never been in one of these things before.”

  “I wish I could say the same,” Forry Brown told him, in his usual sour voice. “I hate the damn things.”

  Roy looked out the small, thick glass porthole at the unbelievable blue sea with its occasional frothed ripples of waves. “That’s the Gulf Stream, eh?”

  “Yeah,” Forry told him. “It keeps the Bahamas at a constant year-round temperature of between seventy and eighty in the shade. George Washington was one of the first tourists here. He called them ‘The Isles of Perpetual June.’”

  Below, the Wobbly organizer could already see small islands. He said, “How many of them are there?”

  They had reached the peak of their arc now, and for a few seconds were in free fall before their shuttle began the deceleration.

  The little ex-newsman said, “Most people think of the Bahamas as only the town of Nassau, but actually, there are about 700 islands and nearly 2,000 cays and rocks.” His tone took on a cynical singsong parody of a tour guide. “Scattered like a fistful of pearls in turquoise waters extending over an area of 70,000 square miles.”

  Roy looked over at him. “You’ve been here before, eh?”

  “That’s right. Actually, it’s one of the most beautiful resort areas in the world. Ah, we’re coming in.”

  The shuttle landed at the Windsor International Airport and Forry Brown had a cigarette in his mouth before they started down the gangway, jostling along with their fellow passengers.

  Roy Cos hadn’t experienced much in the way of nature’s charms in his forty-some years. It cost money to seek nature out on the mainland and he’d never had more than GAS. Now, his first impression as they walked in bright sunlight toward customs was one of flower-scented breezes. Even here at the shuttleport, there were gaudy Bahamian flowers—purple and red bougainvillea, yellow and red hibiscus, pink, white, and red oleander, royal purple passionflowers. Their mingling perfumes gave a subtle fragrance to the southeast trade winds. Not that Roy Cos knew their names. Beyond roses, daisies, and tulips he was lost in the world of flowers, as his parents before him. He was a prole born, and proles seldom had gardens.

  Customs was the merest of formalities. Forry Brown’s attaché case and Roy Cos’s battered briefcase weren’t even opened. However, Roy’s credit card, which doubled as his passport, brought up the eyes of the black man in the Bahama immigrations uniform.

  He said politely, “Suh, GAS credits are not valid in the islands.”

  Forry said, “Mr. Cos is my guest.” He handed over his own Universal Card.

  “Jolly well, suh,” the other told him, returning the ex-newsman’s credit card and then touching the brim of his cap in an easygoing salute.

  They passed on toward the metro station, where everyone seemed to be heading.

  Roy looked over at the other from the side of his eyes and said, “I didn’t know that immigrations men could tell what type of pseudodollar credits were accredited to a Universal Credit Card by just looking at it. And what was that about GAS credits not being valid?”

  “You can’t spend your GAS outside the limits of the United States of the Americas,” Forry told him. “The government wants you to spend it at home. Why subsidize foreign countries by spending unearned credits in them? The Bahamas, along with Cuba, are the only Caribbean islands that don’t belong to the United States. The Bahamas won’t join because it’s more profitable to stand on the sidelines and offer gambling and offbeat banking practices, such as numbered accounts, and multinational commercial deals like Deathwish Policies. Anything goes in the Bahamas; they haven’t got the restrictive laws we rejoice in at home. They figure any adult should be allowed to go to hell in his own way, just so that doesn’t interfere with anyone else.”

  “I’ll be damned. You mean you can even buy heroin here, openly—and things like tobacco?”

  “Yes,” the other told him ironically, flicking his cigarette butt into a waste receptacle.

  The metro system had probably been imported from the United States, Roy realized. The vacuum cars had them into downtown Nassau within minutes.

  They emerged from the central metro station onto an avenue teeming with pedestrians and bicycles but even more devoid of cars than an American city would have been. This was the downtown area, the harbor immediately before them. Roy’s first impression was that the whole place was a museum. Only in historical films had he seen buildings which seemed to go back to at least Victorian days.

  Forry looked around too, a warmth in his squinting eyes. He obviously liked the town. He said, continuing his tour guide lecturing, “This is Bay Street, the main tourist shopping center. It’s a free port, no taxes, so the tourists go hog wild. Over there is Rawson Square, with the government administration buildings. Over there’s the post office, and that statue’s Queen Victoria. The garden behind contains the Public Library and museum, which dates back to 1799 and was originally built as a jail.”

  They turned left on Bay Street, walking along as rapidly as the shopping traffic would allow. The buildings seemed completely devoted to tourist stores, bars, and restaurants.

  Roy said, “I wouldn’t think they’d have much need for jails in a place like this.”

  His small gray companion laughed. “In its earliest days, this island was a pirate center. Blackbeard himself built a lookout tower down the beach a ways. After the pirates were kicked out, the Bahamas went into a depression until the American revolution, when they became prosperous smuggling military supplies to the colonists. Then they went into the doldrums again until our Civil War, when they became the clearinghouse for sneaking cotton out to England and France and smuggling guns in to the Confederates. Then another depression until Prohibition, when they all got rich running rum. Eventually they hit on becoming an all-out, anything-goes resort area. Now they’ve parlayed that up to include international banking—and other criminal activities. Oh, never fear, they’ve always been able to use a good jail here in Nassau.”

  They turned down Parliament Street, and shortly the shops gave way to small business buildings and private homes. Even business was housed in ancient structures. The private homes were largely built of island limestone with upper porches that hung over the streets. To protect them from the sun, wide verandas had been built in graceful wooden construction with louvers to admit cooling breezes.

  The Wobbly organizer stared at something coming down the street. He said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a horse-drawn carriage before.”

  “That’s a surrey,” the other told him. “They hate cars out here. You seldom see one, except those used by government.” The newsman looked at a card he drew from his jacket pocket. “This seems to be the address.”

  It was a prosperous-looking business establishment, in the Victorian tradition. There was a small bronze plaque which Roy couldn’t make out above the entry, and a uniformed black standing before it. The man touched his cap at their approach and held open the door. They seemed to use more manpower here than in the automated States.

  The interior continued the Victorian motif, with a
few concessions to the tropics. There was a pervasive Britishness about it all. Roy had expected the company would be American, with some affiliation to a sinister background such as the Mafia.

  Forry Brown seemed to sense what his companion was thinking and said, “This outfit is a subsidiary of one of the big insurance companies in Hartford. It’s multinational, of course, specializing in Deathwish Policies, though it has some other far-out bits of business going.”

  There was a sterile reception office presided over by a live receptionist, plain of face, her dull hair done up in an unfashionable bun. She wore a washed out, shapeless light dress.

  Forty said, “Good morning. Mr. Roy Cos on appointment to see Mr. Oliver Brett-James.”

  “Very good, sir,” she clipped, checking a notepad. “You are expected. Mr. Brett-James will see you immediately.” She did the things receptionists do, speaking into a comm set, saying, “Yes, sir,” a couple of times, and then pressing a button.

  She came to her feet saying, “This way, please,” and led them down a short hallway.

  She held open a door and bestowed on them what she probably thought was a smile.

  Roy and Forry entered a moderately large office, once again with a Londonish feel—stolid, spotless, cold. Mr. Oliver Brett-James was standing behind an old-fashioned wooden desk. He was tubby, almost naked of scalp, red rather than tanned, his complexion more from bottles than the Bahamian sun. His smile was conservatively polite, though he seemed surprised to see two of them. “Mr. Cos?” he said.

  “That’s right,” Roy told him. Neither of them made a motion toward shaking hands. Under the circumstances, it didn’t seem exactly called for.

  “And you, sir?” the Englishman said to Forry.

  “Forrest Brown,” Forry said. “I’m Mr. Cos’s business agent.”

  “Business agent? Well, no reason why not, I daresay. Be seated, gentlemen. Shall we get immediately to business? Here is the contract. It goes into effect tomorrow. And here is your International Credit Card, drawn on our Swiss bank in Berne. Each day, as you undoubtedly know, you will have one million pseudodollars at your disposal. It doesn’t accumulate, of course, but each day you have that amount available.”

  Roy and Forry had taken chairs in front of the desk. Forry said sourly, scratching a thumbnail over his meager mustache, “Suppose we read the contract before signing.”

  “Certainly, old chap,” the Briton said. “I merely thought that you were already cognizant of its contents, in which case there’d be no point in mucking around.” He handed a three-page sheaf of paper to each of them and then leaned back patiently in his swivel chair.

  His two callers read what he had given them carefully.

  Forry had already dug up copies of the standard Deathwish Policy and this didn’t deviate from it.

  After a few minutes, while they were still reading, Brett-James cleared his throat and said, “Please take note of Clause Three. You must understand that we will not tolerate frivolous expenditures. That is, suppose you decide to purchase a diamond or a painting. If the price is over 10,000 pseudodollars, we will have an expert evaluate the item. We do not expect to have you spending, say, 50,000 pseudodollars on something which is really worth but 15,000. We expect our specialists to check out the true value, within reason. Of course the gem or painting, as the case might be, reverts to us upon your, ah, unfortunate demise.”

  Forry looked up finally and said, “Just how much does the policy pay off in benefits to you when Mr. Cos, ah, passes on?”

  Oliver Brett-James stiffened. “I say, that isn’t really a concern of yours now, is it?”

  Forry took him in. “Yes,” he said. “The details of this transaction will help me in supervising his interests.”

  The other didn’t like it, but he said finally, “Our corporation will receive ten million pseudodollars in the way of benefits.”

  Forry said gently, “And how much are the daily premiums that you must pay?”

  “See here, Mr., uh, Brown. This is of no interest to…”

  “We think it is,” the ex-newsman said. He brought a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and shook forth a smoke. “We either find out, or Mr. Cos doesn’t sign.” He put the cigarette in his colorless lips and brought forth his lighter.

  Brett-James stared at him for a long moment, but finally said, “The daily premiums are one million pseudodollars.” The gray-faced Forry nodded as he lit up, blowing smoke through his pinched nostrils. “Clear enough. You have to do Roy in within ten days or you start losing money.”

  The signing of the contract was witnessed by the receptionist and another nonentity she brought in, a young man who avoided Roy’s eyes as he signed.

  When the two witnesses were gone, Brett-James rubbed his hands together and said, “Jolly well. I daresay you’ll be returning immediately to the mainland. Where will you be staying?”

  Forry looked at him flatly. “Get serious,” he said. “Do you think we’d give you that much of a head start?” He put Roy’s copy of the contract into his attaché case.

  When they had left, the other pressed a button on his desk and four men entered, one of them the young witness. Brett-James said, “You’ve got the photos, the tapes and all?”

  The oldest of the four nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well, get to work on both of them. Check out this Forrest Brown chap. We’ll want to know just where he fits in.” Brett-James made a motion with his hand. “All right, Maurice, tail them. Follow the instructions I gave you earlier.”

  * * * *

  As they walked back toward Bay Street, Forry looked at his wrist chronometer. “We’ve got over an hour before the next shuttle to Miami. We might as well eat. Blackbeard’s Tavern is a good place.”

  “Right,” Roy said, immersed deeply in bleak thoughts. They reached the shopping center and turned left.

  The little ex-newsman stopped at a shop and said, “Just a minute. I might as well stock up here.”

  The sign said, ‘Solomon’s Mines,’ and they entered to find the store devoted almost exclusively to tobacco products. Roy muttered, “Jesus Christ. In the States this shop would’ve been raided before it opened.”

  His companion ordered a dozen packs of Russian Imperial Gold Tip Blacks and began stuffing them into his pockets. “A fraction of what they cost on the black market at home,” he said. “Here, stick these away.” He handed Roy six packs.

  “Wait a minute,” Roy Cos said indignantly. “Suppose they nail me with them at American customs. It’s a bad policy for a member of the Wobblies. A radical can’t afford to be anything else offbeat. It gives them a handle to get at you.”

  Forry said impatiently, “They never search your person at customs unless you’re a known smuggler or have a criminal record when they check you out in the data banks.”

  Roy shrugged in resignation and distributed the six packages of cigarettes about his pockets.

  As they left the shop, the little newsman was tearing one pack open. He shook out a gold-tipped, black-papered cigarette and said, “Like to try one?”

  “For God’s sake, do I look stupid? You think I want to wind up with my lungs eaten away and my heart pounding overtime?”

  Forry grinned. “They’ve been denouncing alcohol for centuries, but I notice you’re not particularly opposed to taking a drink.”

  “It’s only excessive use of alcohol that’s condemned,” Roy told him, his tone righteous. “Moderate use of alcohol has been a blessing to man since prehistory.”

  “By Christ, you radicals are the most conservative cloddies going. You’re worse than the United Church. Excess of anything will do you in. Drink enough water and you’ll drown.”

  They argued companionably, deliberately avoiding the subject uppermost in both their minds.

  Blackbeard’s Tavern turned out to be a cozy bar and restaurant, with a small calypso band playing in the background, surprisingly softly. They took a table and a white-jacketed, barefooted black was there
immediately to take their order.

  Forry said, with obvious anticipation, “Native Bahamians have their own food specialties that are hard to get elsewhere. Conch, for instance—a kind of shellfish. We’ll have conch chowder, green turtle pie, and baked Andros crabs. And black beer to go with it.”

  Roy put down his menu and let the other do all of the ordering. When the waiter was gone, he said, “I think we were followed.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that,” Forry said. “Forget about it. The contract doesn’t go into effect until tomorrow. But don’t forget that tomorrow starts at midnight. Meanwhile, they most certainly don’t want anything to happen to you before then. That bastard tailing us is more like a bodyguard than anything else, at this stage. It’ll be something else if we see him tomorrow.”

  The waiter brought large mugs of very dark beer and, shortly afterward, the conch chowder. They ate without joy, stolidly going through the motions while lost in their thoughts. It had been one thing, planning this coup, but getting down to the nitty-gritty in Brett-James’s office had brought home reality. The contract was signed now and there was no going back; as of midnight, Roy would have a price on his pelt.

  Again they avoided saying what was uppermost in both of their minds. Forry skated near it with, “Funny how societies always seem to provide for the future by accident. Ever consider that maybe this bland food is preparing us for a dull future?”

  Roy frowned at his plate. “It is kind of tasteless. You mean we’re getting ourselves ready for an era of the blahs?”

  The little newsman said, “A slow dissolution, maybe.” He nodded agreement with himself. “Without necessarily deliberate planning, society provides for the future. In this case, a future in which over ninety percent of the population became proles. The big difference between proles and slaves is that the slaves had to work to maintain the upper classes. But now machinery does practically all of the work and proles are real drones, absolutely worthless.”