Deathwish World

by Mack Reynolds

  Silence. When Roy spoke, his voice carried rock-solid confidence. “Forry,” he said, “it’s a thing you wouldn’t know about. All of these boys are at least third-generation Wobblies. They got their ethics at grandpa’s knee.”

  “Two of my great-grandparents, as well,” Les said quietly.

  Roy continued, “I’ve known Les, Ron, Billy, and Dick all of their lives. Their parents are personal friends. When I was Billy’s age, I lived next door to his folks. I’ve changed his diapers. You see, Forry, being a radical becomes a way of life. Practically all of your family’s friends are Wobblies. You play with the children of other Wobbly families. Your fun is mostly picnics or dances or other entertainments thrown to raise funds for the movement. You attend meetings with your parents before you’re old enough to understand what the hell that sweaty, sincere guy with the microphone is talking about. When you’re old enough to notice girls, the ones you can approach easiest are Wobblies themselves, probably one of the girls you grew up with. If you have children, they’re raised in the same tradition, a sort of political ghetto. The radical movement in the United States started in 1877 with the socialistic Labor Party. The Wobbly movement got going in 1905, mostly with socialists. Do you know how many generations ago that was?

  “Think of it! Eight generations of us. Oh, new recruits do come in; not many, I admit. And sometimes Wobblies drop out and stay out. But largely our membership consists of people raised in the radical tradition. Forry,” he chuckled, “I’m beginning to suspect we’re starting to breed true. Young fellows like these four are born Wobblies.”

  “There goes your credibility,” Forry growled.

  “Just kidding, of course. But I selected these four because they’re third-or-more-generation revolutionists and all personal friends of mine, like their parents before them. If I can’t trust them, I don’t give a damn how soon they kill me.”

  “Okay, okay.” Forry Brown looked around at the four, one by one. They all wore expressions of faint embarrassment, with pride shining through.

  Roy said, “Now I’ve got a question. Back in Nassau, you asked Oliver Brett-James how big the benefits to his company were when I die, and how much the daily premiums he had to pay were. Why did you want to know?”

  Forry brought a pack of his smuggled cigarettes from a pocket and took his time lighting up. He said finally, “I wanted to know how much time we had before his company started hurting. As of midnight tonight, I start earning my way. Your publicity starts tomorrow. I’ve already gotten in touch with my contacts in Tri-Di news. They’re all going to broadcast the story of the Wobbly who took out a Deathwish Policy so that he’d acquire the credit needed to spread his message. Oh yes, tomorrow I start earning my ten thousand pseudodollars a day. The longer I keep you alive, the longer I keep my job. It stops the moment you do.”

  Les blurted, “Ten thousand a day!”

  Forry spread his hands. “Why not? There’s a personal risk. Suppose I get into the line of fire when somebody takes a shot at Roy? Or suppose somebody heaves a bomb that gets all of us? Besides, what is ten thousand to Roy? He has a million on tap every day. He can afford to keep his hired help happy. By the way, you four bodyguards will each get ten thousand daily.”

  Dick Samuelson growled, “You’re one thing, but we didn’t get into this for money. We don’t want any pay.”

  Roy Cos shook his head at that. He said, “No. Forry’s right, Dick. There’s nothing in that contract that says I can’t have a bodyguard and pay him as much as he’s worth. I’m not allowed to make donations to organizations—political, religious, or whatever. But you can squirrel your wages away. When I’ve finally had it, you boys can contribute as much to the movement as you like. If I last long enough, you’ll be rich. I don’t believe I’ve ever known a rich Wobbly. You’ll be in a position to make the biggest donations to the organization ever.”

  An identity screen bell rang from somewhere and all stiffened.

  “That’s probably Mary Ann,” Forry said, getting up. “But we should have posted a sentry before this. How about one of you fellows going up onto the roof? Make your own arrangements; I’d suggest a two-hour shift.”

  “Okay. I’ll take the first shift,” Billy said, standing too. With Ron going along, just for caution, Forry went to the front door of the villa and checked the screen. He seemed to be satisfied.

  The woman who came through looked every inch the office worker. A little on the plain side, though with a comfortably nice figure, she was neatly efficient in appearance, conservatively dressed, and wore no makeup whatever. She was in her late thirties and carried an attaché case.

  “Good evening, Forrest,” she said.

  “Forry,” he told her. “We’re going to be seeing a good deal of each other under rather hectic circumstances in the days to come. No need, nor time for formality. Did you bring your things?”

  “They’re out in the car I rented,” she said. “It’s automated, so we can return it to the agency without any difficulty.”

  “This is Ron Ellison,” he told her. “One of the team. He’ll get your bags and you can pick out a room for yourself. Meanwhile, come on back and meet the rest.”

  While Ron went for her luggage, Forry and the newcomer went to the living room. The men stood to be introduced and Forry did the honors.

  Roy said, “Isn’t there a drink around here?”

  Forry had stocked a fairly good bar. While Les was making the drinks, Forry told the Wobbly organizer, “I’ve known Mary Ann Elwyn for years. She’s a damn good secretary. Her pay will be the same as everybody else’s—ten thousand a day.” He smiled a small smile as she gasped. “Enough to keep her honest, we’ll hope. If we last the week out, she’ll have enough to retire. Seventy thousand pseudodollars, on top of her GAS, could equal a nice standard of living. If you last for more than a week, each day adds another ten thousand to her nest egg.”

  Roy Cos was frowning. He said in complaint, “Forry, what the hell do I need with a secretary?” He sent his eyes over to the young woman. “Not that I have anything against you.”

  “Are you kidding?” Forry said to him. “When this thing starts, you won’t even be able to handle your mail. If you last the first week out, she’ll be needing stenographers to help her.”

  “I’m highly experienced, Mr. Cos,” Mary Ann said briskly. “Forry has explained the situation to me and my duties. I’m not too keen on the physical danger, but—well, ten thousand pseudodollars a day…” she hesitated for a moment, then, “…buys me a lot of courage.”

  Roy made a gesture of acceptance. “It’s all right with me. Forry’s the organizer of this scheme. I suppose he knows what he’s doing.”

  Billy Tucker came hurrying into the room. His eyes swept quickly over the new secretary but then went on to Roy Cos. He said, “Roy, there’s a car coming down the road. At least two men in it.”

  “Probably Ferd and Jet,” Forry said, putting down his glass and grinding out his cigarette. “We don’t really have to start worrying until after midnight, Billy. Then this guard duty becomes serious.” He stood and headed for the door.

  The younger man said after him, “Yeah. And I wish to hell you hadn’t made us throw away those guns.”

  “We’ll see about that soonest,” the ex-newsman said over his shoulder. “As soon as the publicity starts, we’ll put in a demand for gun permits through our law firm. We’ve got a law firm on retainer, too, Roy. If they refuse to issue gun permits for the bodyguard of the Deathwish Wobbly, a howl will go up that’ll mean just that much more publicity.”

  He left the room to go for the front door. Billy went over to the bar, poured himself a ginger ale, and carried it with him to his post.

  Roy Cos said to his brand new secretary, “Do you know anything at all about the Wobblies, Ms. Elwyn?”

  “Mary Ann,” she said. “I knew practically nothing, until Forry brought up the matter of a temporary job…” She flushed, then quickly added “…or maybe not so tempo
rary, with you. I looked your organization up in the National Data Banks but I’m afraid that it’s not my cup of tea. I’ve never been interested in political economy.”

  Forry re-entered, followed by two newcomers. Both carried portable typewriters—one a late-model voco-typer and, by the looks of the case, the other an old electric.

  Roy and his three bodyguards stood for introductions, and again, Forry did the honors.

  Roy looked at the two blankly, not having the vaguest idea why either of them were present. But Forry took over, first sending Les for drinks for the newcomers and then for refills for the rest of them.

  When all were seated again, he said, “Jet Peters is your publicity man, Roy. He used to work for one of the big cosmocorps, a multinational corporation specializing in uranium. But he was spelled down, the same as I was, by the computers. A younger guy got his position.”

  Roy could see that possibility. The other was somewhere in his early fifties and looked both tired and cynical. He was sloppily dressed, a bit bleary of eye, a tremor in his hands. A drinker, the Wobbly decided.

  Roy said, “Publicity? I thought you were handling publicity, Forry.”

  “I am,” the ex-newsman said, getting out his cigarettes again. “But I won’t be able to handle it all. Jet’s an old pro. He’ll come up with dozens of ideas that wouldn’t occur to me. He’s got a lot of contacts, too. He’ll earn his ten thousand.” All eyes went to the second of the two newcomers, who had been introduced as Ferd Feldmeyer. He was not just overweight, but almost obscenely fat. Like many fat men, he bought his clothes too small so that he bulged in them. He was pale of face, thin of dirt-blond hair, and his small mouth seemed to pout. Ferd Feldmeyer was less than handsome. Forry said, “Ferd is your speechwriter.”

  “Speechwriter! Holy smog, Forry, I don’t need a speechwriter. I do my own speeches, usually off the cuff. Why, this guy isn’t even a Wobbly, so far as I know. How could he write my speeches, even if I wanted him to?”

  Ferd Feldmeyer might not have been much for looks but his voice was deep and had a ring of sincerity. He said, “Since Forry approached me on this, I’ve been reading up on your movement day and night—including your own publications, not just the material in the National Data Banks. I’ll tell you something about political organizations and religions, or philosophies, for that matter. You should be able to sum yours up in two hundred words. If you can’t, something’s wrong with your movement. Right now, I could sit down and tear off a speech for you that would give the Wobbly position—maybe better than you’ve ever presented it. On top of that, I’d drop in a little humor, some good quotations, and wind it up with a blockbuster of a gimmick ending that’d have them anxious to tune in to your next broadcast.”

  Forry said reasonably, “You’re not going to be able to give your standard talks off the cuff on Tri-Di, Roy. They’ve got to be written out, and you’re going to have too many to write yourself. You’re not only going to speak often on Tri-Di, TV, and even radio, but we’re going to line you up for personal appearances, lectures, and so forth. Ferd and Jet are also going to double for you as your ghosts.”

  Roy stared at him. “My what? That’s one thing that nobody else can do for me… die.”

  The former newsman said, “Sorry, Roy; poor choice of words. I meant ghost writers. If this publicity hits the way I think it will, there’ll be calls for articles from all sorts of periodicals from all over the world. Maybe we’ll even do a book.” He squinted his eyes and said thoughtfully, “That reminds me of something. Do you speak Spanish?”

  “No.”

  The little man turned his eyes to Mary Ann Elwyn, who had been sitting quietly, primly, her hands in her lap. She had refused the drink Les offered. Forry said, “Make a note, Mary Ann. We need computer translators to put Roy’s speeches into Spanish, French, and Italian.”

  The secretary quickly opened her attaché case, brought forth a stylo and notepad, and scribbled away.

  Jet said, “How about Russian and Mandarin?”

  Forry thought about that but then shook his head. “Not yet. For the time being, the Wobbly movement is aimed at the West. Maybe later, if I understand the program correctly, it might spread to the Soviet Complex and China. Okay, Roy?”

  “I suppose so,” the Wobbly said. This whole thing seemed to be getting more and more out of his hands. The ineffective-looking little Forrest Brown was taking over with a vengeance. Thus far, Roy Cos had precious little to do—except to stay alive as long as possible.

  Forry spoke through the smoke that dribbled from his mouth. “We’d better get down to definite plans. Like I said, we start the publicity tomorrow. We also wrap up the arrangements for the first Tri-Di talk, nationwide, beamed worldwide from satellites. When Roy’s made that first speech, the publicity will really hit. He’ll be big news. Everybody in the country will be on the edge of their chairs waiting for the Deathwish Wobbly…” He broke off and looked at Jet Peters. “I think we ought to use that bit of business in our publicity. The Deathwish Wobbly. The revolutionist so sincere that he’s willing to die for the chance of spreading it.” He looked back to Roy and the others. “They’ll be sitting on the edges of their chairs, waiting to see how long it’ll take for the Graf’s men to get to you.”

  He ground out his current cigarette and took up the drink sitting on the cocktail table before him. “Until the first Tri-Di broadcast, we won’t show. We’ll not leave this house. Nobody here will use their credit cards, on the off chance that the enemy might have connected one of us with Roy. I’ll pay all expenses, as I did for renting this place, with my card. It’s an unnumbered account and they won’t be able to trace me with it. The moment we make that broadcast, Roy will begin to use the million pseudodollars a day available to him on his Swiss International Credit Card. And from then on we’re on the defensive. But the more this pyramids, the more publicity Roy gets, the better his chances are of avoiding the Graf’s hit men. There’ll be mobs wherever he goes, making it difficult for assassins to get through to him. I hope. A good many of those people are going to be on Roy’s side. He’s the underdog, and fighting against terrible odds. They’ll be out to get any assassins who turn up. And these men of the Graf’s are pros, not fanatics. They’re not interested in making martyrs out of themselves. That’ll be one of the biggest advantages we have.”

  Les Bates looked at his wrist chronometer. He announced, “Four hours to go until midnight.”

  Chapter Ten: Lee Garrett

  Of all the major cities of the world, only Rome, the City of the Seven Hills, had not banned surface vehicles. It wouldn’t, at least not in the older areas of town, originally settled by Romulus and his tribesmen, glorified by Augustus, later made the center of the world’s most powerful religion. It couldn’t because old Rome was a museum of three thousand years’ standing. It would have been impossible to dig metros and underground highways. The archeological world would have been up in arms. Excavations would have destroyed a multitude of buried ancient temples, tombs, arenas, and fortifications going back as far as the Etruscans. These all lay ten to fifty feet below the surface, someday to be dug out with loving care. Even the pressures of modem transport could not threaten to destroy the remnants of a tiny synagogue where once, perhaps, Paul had given sermons; a governmental building where Caesar had issued his edicts; an aqueduct which once supplied the water for the baths of Diocletian.

  However, private vehicles were discouraged to the point where only the most powerful, through wealth or governmental position, were allowed their personal conveyances. Otherwise, traffic was limited to emergency vehicles and to public cabs and buses. It still amounted to considerably more traffic than was to be seen elsewhere.

  Thus it was that Lee Garrett found herself riding from the shuttleport to the city’s center in a small taxi. It had been some years since she had been in this wondrous city, and she recognized a score of landmarks with a thrill.

  “Destinatio, Signorina?” the admiring cabby had ask
ed her, his eyes indicating appreciation of her fine blond hair, piled high on her head, of her very un-Italian blue eyes, not to speak of her svelte figure.

  The Roman way of the male toward any girl with the least pretensions of pulchritude returned to her and she smiled, remembering. “Number 17, Via della Pilotta,” she told him in impeccable Italian.

  He looked over his shoulder again. “But Signorina, the Palazzo Colonna is no longer open to the public, not even on Saturday mornings.”

  “So I understand,” she told him.

  They were passing through the Piazza di Spagna, for centuries the center of the Bohemian artist element, with its medieval Fontana dil Barcaccia by Bernini still watered by a Roman aqueduct. And with its famed Scala di Spagna, known as the Spanish Steps by many tourists. Lee Garrett smiled.

  A church here, a palace there, a monument to some long-dead emperor farther on. They sped through the Piazza di Trevi, with its baroque fountain where visitors threw coins to guarantee that one day they would return. And shortly they pulled up before the huge complex that was the Palazzo Colonna, once the most sumptuous of the patrician houses of Rome. Lee brought her International Credit Card from her handbag and put it in the payment slot of the cab.

  There were two uniformed young men at the entry, looking in their red medieval garb something like the Swiss guards at the Vatican and bearing, of all things, halberds, shafted weapons of the 15th century with ax-like cutting blades, beaks, and terrible spikes. Lee, amused, remembered reading somewhere that the unlikely looking devices had been designed as can openers against armored horsemen. She wondered if there was presently a horse in all Rome, not to speak of a man in armor.

  One of them approached, bowed, and politely opened the cab door for her.