Deathwish World

by Mack Reynolds

  Dick, at the door, reported, “The rest of the boys have finished shaking down the reporters.”

  “Okay, let them in,” Forry said.

  There were a score or so of reporters and photographers. They were followed by three more of Roy’s Wobbly guards, who stationed themselves alertly about the walls of the room, while the newsmen found places.

  Most of the reporters had been here before. Roy’s press interviews were daily affairs, as were his sessions with freelancers doing special articles. The senior of the newsmen, a wrinkled veteran, who was moist of eye from prolonged battles with the bottle, said, “What spins, Roy?”

  Roy Cos, seated behind his desk, said, “I’m still here, Don. What’re my odds today?”

  “The bookies are giving even-steven that you get it today. Two to one that the Graf’s boys get you by tomorrow. Four to one the next day, eight to one by the next,” Don told him. Mary Ann winced; her face looked sick.

  “Jesus,” Forry said. “What’re the odds that he lasts the week out?”

  Don said, flatly, “A hundred to one against. The word is out that the Graf’s getting uptight about this. He likes to operate on the q.t. Publicity isn’t his forte. The insurance companies are probably giving him the prod, too. All this publicity about the Deathwish Policies is giving them a black eye. People all over, not just in the States, are getting indignant. It pretty well shows that anything goes in this profit-oriented world. The multinationals are completely without morals. A man is put in a position where he can’t make a real living and then coerced into giving up his life in return for a few days of hedonism. Yeah, the pressure is increasing on the multinational insurance companies, on the Swiss banks, on Lloyd’s of London—any outfit that’s got a finger in the pie.”

  Roy said, his smile working the usual wonder on his stoic face, “We’ll make a Wobbly out of you yet, Don.”

  The old reporter looked at some of the photographers and said, “Why don’t you guys wait until the interview’s over before getting your pix? You just get in the way when we’re trying to tape for Tri-Di.”

  “Elitist,” one charged amiably, and sought a chair.

  Forry said, “No special releases today, chum-pals. Fire away if you’ve got any questions for the Deathwish Wobbly.” One of them called out, “Roy, what’s your stand on world government? It’s in the air these days. You’ve probably heard that the Congress has invited Australia and New Zealand to join the United States. And it looks as though England and Ireland will get the same invitation.”

  Roy said, “We Wobblies are in favor of world government but can’t see much advantage to it, so far as the proles are concerned, so long as class-divided society is retained. We’d just continue to be in the same undesirable spot, subsisting on GAS. World government under an industrial democracy would be desirable, but under the status quo it would merely give the powers that be better control of us. Instead of having dozens of countries, each with its own special conditions, its own rules and regulations, they’d have all of us under the same thumb.”

  Another reporter held up a hand and said, “After you’ve taken over, are you Wobblies going to continue to use the computers to decide who’s going to work at what jobs?”

  Roy Cos touched the end of his nose and frowned. He said slowly, “What you’ve got to understand is that Wobblies are advocating an industrial democracy. It’ll be up to the people to decide such questions as that. We might come up with our ideas on how it should be handled, and then when the new order has taken over, the people might say, screw that, and vote in something else.”

  The questioner laughed and said, “Well, what is your personal opinion? How would you vote?”

  Roy said, “Yes, I’d be in favor of continuing to use the computers to select who should have what job. However, there are some angles. We don’t expect to put all of the population back to work at production. They’re not needed to produce all the products and services necessary for society. That’s where we differ from the Luddites. They want to destroy technology so that the whole work force can go back to production. That’s ridiculous. After a million years or so man has finally solved the problem of producing all the articles we need. Now we can settle back and enjoy our longing for leisure. True leisure is not wasted. It’s not only an opportunity to loaf. Man must spend this leisure intelligently, not sitting before Tri-Di screens sucking on trank pills or drinking syntho-beer.”

  Another reporter called, “Sure, but you’d be up against the same trouble we are now. There simply aren’t enough jobs to go around. The computers can’t find jobs where there aren’t any.”

  Roy said, a bit impatiently, “What I just said was that we don’t expect to put everybody back to work at production and services. But such jobs aren’t the only kind of employment. Everybody physically and mentally capable of working, studying, or participating in the arts and sciences can be found a place. Be you ever so humble, the computers should be able to find something for you to do, the biggest consideration being that it’s what you like to do. If you’ve got a leaning toward one of the arts, then they won’t have you cleaning up the environment.”

  While Roy continued to field questions, one of the still-photographers sitting on the sidelines waiting his turn yawned and said to his neighbor, “That’s an interesting box you’ve got there. An old-timer. What is it, a holo or lite?”

  “Holo,” the other said.

  The first one yawned again and said, “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you here before. Who are you working for?”

  The other ran his tongue over his lower lip. “International. The editor sent me over for a few shots for…”

  The first photographer’s face had frozen. His voice was louder. “Like shit you are! I’m representing International and I’ve never seen you before.”

  Billy Tucker dropped his gun and lunged across the room, sent Roy Cos sprawling from his chair and landed atop him behind the desk, his arms spread, his huge wrestler’s body completely covering the smaller man.

  One of the Tri-Di cameramen brought his rig crashing down on the head of the false photographer, who reeled, dropping his camera. Ron Ellison came charging up from where he had stationed himself against a wall, reversed his stubby carbine, and clubbed the man.

  Another one of the reporters, in advance of his fellows, stepped in close and drove his fist into the interloper’s solar plexus. The others came up, largely getting in each other’s way.

  “Son of a bitch,” one of them snarled.

  Don, the veteran, looked at his Tri-Di photographer, who had sacrificed his camera in the initial attack. “You stupid cloddy,” he said. “That’s ten thousand pseudodollars worth of box. How’re we going to explain it to the office?”

  Forry Brown, rubbing his thin fist over his scraggly mustache while staring down at the fallen man, said absently, “The Deathwish Wobbly will pick up the tab, plus a bonus of five thousand.” He then looked at Ron. “How did this bastard get by you?”

  Ron said defensively, “He’s not armed. We shook him down like everybody else, real thoroughly. He hasn’t got so much as a pocket knife.”

  The photographers were all recording the scene, particularly of the fallen man, the shattered camera beside him, and of Billy Tucker and Roy, now emerging from their place on the floor behind the desk. The hulking Billy looked shamefacedly at the shambles.

  Mary Ann said, “Possibly he’s like that girl yesterday. Wanted to see Roy in person. Talk to him. Get his autograph.”

  The reporter who had originally started the ruckus by denouncing the now-unconscious intruder said, “Yeah, possibly. Let me take a look at that damned camera of his. He said it was a holo. He doesn’t know his ass from a holo in the ground.”

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Don said as the other scooped up the camera under discussion from the floor.

  While all watched, he fiddled with it. The back came away. Whatever the complicated jury-rigged device inside was, it had noth
ing to do with holo cameras.

  “For Crissakes, let me see that,” Forry rasped, taking it from the other’s hands. He stared at the insides, turned the instrument over to check the lens.

  He said in wonder, “This isn’t a camera. It’s a dart gun. The dart’s fired by springs and comes out through the opening where the lens is supposed to be.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Don said. “You gotta admit, the Graf’s tricky. When all these boys were firing away at Roy, flashing lights and all, this bastard could have fired his dart without anybody noticing it. It might feel like nothing more than an itch, and Roy’d scratch it. And, sure as hell, the poison wouldn’t work until our phony photographer, here, was already on his way out of the building, safe as a pig in shit.” Roy shook his head wearily, sighed, and said to Ron, “Couple of you boys get him out of here and turn him over to the fuzzies down in the lobby.”

  Forry said, “Tell them that our lawyers will prefer charges. If we can get him to admit he was hired by the Graf, we’ll sue Lothar von Brandenburg through the World Court. Not that it’ll do any good directly, but it’ll be one more bit of damning evidence against the whole establishment.”

  Don said, “We’ll do up the releases from that angle, Forry. Come on chum-pals, let’s get out of here. This is news!”

  When they were gone, Dick said, “Roy, the party’s getting rough—two people in two days penetrating our security. Maybe we ought to go to ground again; hide out somewhere.”

  Roy shook his head again. “In the first place, there’s no place to hide. They’d find us, sooner or later. In the second place, there’d be no more broadcasts, no more publicity. We’re just beginning to get the message over. We can’t stop now.”

  Ron said, “Did you see how those news boys lit into him? They got to him before we could. That slob’ll spend a week in the prison hospital, if he’s lucky.”

  Forry squinted his eyes through the dribbling smoke of his inevitable cigarette. “It’s a good sign,” he said. “The press has been sympathetic from the first. Hell, it’s been first-rate copy since we first made our news releases. But now they’re really rallying around.” He chopped out a cynical laugh. “Can you imagine some of those tough bastards beginning to accept what Roy’s saying?”

  “It’s early in the day for it,” Roy said, “but how about a drink? I could use one. That dizzard almost accomplished what he came for.”

  Mary Ann looked at him in alarm. “You don’t mean that he fired a dart at you!”

  “No. But I was nearly squashed to death under Billy, here.”

  As Ron went over to the bar to take orders, there came the blat-blat-blat of a copter outside.

  Dick Samuelson took up his automatic carbine and went out through the French windows to threaten it off. It wasn’t anything new. Since the word had gotten out that the Deathwish Wobbly was stationed in the New Tropical Hotel penthouse, aircraft, undoubtedly hired by rubberneckers, had circled almost daily. Roy’s team had decided that the threat of a commando raid on the part of the Graf’s men wasn’t very likely. The invaders would have been at a considerable disadvantage, now that Roy had augmented his guard to eight well-armed men. They would have been mowed down as they attempted to disembark. Besides, in the shootout, Roy would have been able to escape, along with Mary Ann and the other noncombatants of the team.

  Taking their drinks, they paid little attention to the guard who had gone out on the roof and was shaking his weapon at the aircraft, until Ron blurted, “Jesus Christ! Dick’s down!”

  The three guards in the living room dropped their drinks to the floor, grabbed up their guns, and headed for the roof garden on the double.

  Dick was sprawled out on the terrace in agony. He called weakly, “Sniper! On the roof opposite!” His face contorted and he passed out.

  Billy and Les ran for him, grabbed him by the arms, and pulled him back toward the penthouse, bending double to present as small a target as possible. Ron upended a heavy wrought-iron patio table and knelt behind it, steadying his Gyrojet on its edge. He traversed the roof opposite with rapid fire, emptying the clip with one burst. He slapped the side of the gun so that the magazine fell away and fumbled in a pocket of his prole jacket for another.

  Dick’s two rescuers hauled him into the living room, where the others were standing to each side of the windows out of the line of fire. Billy and Les dragged their fallen companion to a couch and got him onto it.

  Billy, his face pale, snapped, “He’s hit bad! Doctor!”

  Mary Ann, her usual prim efficiency slipping, squealed and dashed for the phone on her desk. She banged the activating stud and screamed, “Doctor! Doctor! Immediately in the penthouse. Emergency, emergency!”

  Ron, bending double as his companions had, came hurrying back from the rooftop garden. “He’s gone, I think,” he blurted. Breathing deeply, he stared at Dick, sprawled on the couch. Roy, Forry, Billy, and Les were all hovering above him, trying to get his jacket off, trying to staunch the flow of blood. He said, “It must’ve all been a put-up. That chopper came over to draw us out. The guy on the roof was waiting. Dick’s about the same size as Roy and, of course, we all dress the same.”

  “Where the hell’s that doctor!” Forry grated.

  One of the new guards opened the door and stuck his head in. “What the hell’s going on?” he said, his eyes bugging when he saw Dick. “There’s a doctor out here.”

  “Let him in, for Christ’s sake,” Roy said. “Dick’s been hit. He’s bleeding all over the place.”

  The doctor came hurrying in. He was in a white jacket and carrying the standard physician’s black bag. He was a dignified-looking type, gray of hair, weary of face.

  As he headed for the fallen man, those gathered around Dick Samuelson made way for him. Even as he crossed the room, he snapped his bag open and began to fish in it. Billy roared, “He’s no damned doctor,” and made a flying tackle.

  The newcomer dropped his bag and smashed into the floor, hitting full on his face. The wrestler swarmed onto him, expertly, snagged an arm and pressed it behind and up the back.

  Ron scooped up the bag and stared down into it. He reached inside and brought out a small Gyrojet hideaway gun. “Holy smog,” he said, “a shooter.”

  The other guards came pressing in from the corridor, guns at the ready.

  Billy hauled the fake doctor to his feet and slugged him mercilessly in the face, shattering his glasses and bringing blood.

  “Another doctor,” Forry blurted at Mary Ann, who had abandoned her phone and was standing, both fists to her mouth, her eyes popping in distress. “Have the manager come, accompanying the regular hotel doctor. Goddammit, Dick’s still pumping his life out.”

  She got back on the phone.

  Forry said to Billy, in disgust, “How in the hell did you know he wasn’t a doctor?”

  Billy Tucker, who was still manhandling his victim, aided now by Les, who was no gentler, looked slightly embarrassed. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Just instinct, I guess.” They all looked at him. The wrestler said uncomfortably, “He got here too soon. Besides, he looked too much like a doctor.”

  Forry closed his eyes in weariness. “Give me strength,” he muttered.

  Roy, who had settled down in his chair behind his desk, said emptily, “Take him down to the lobby, Billy. You go too, Les. Turn him over to the fuzzies. Same story as that photographer.”

  Ferd Feldmeyer was over at the bar, pouring himself a fresh drink. He said, “We’d better call the press boys back. This makes a bigger story.”

  “To hell with publicity,” Roy snapped. “Take care of poor Dick first.”

  * * * *

  A half hour later, the place was reasonably cleaned up. The faithful guard, Dick, had taken a side wound. Happily, the slug hadn’t been explosive, as was so usual these days, and had gone completely through. According to the hotel doctor, there was little fear for his life—only a protracted stay in the hospital.

  Forry said,
“He’ll continue on the payroll like everybody else.”

  Ron looked at him. “You’re damn right he will.”

  Ron was the only guard in the room for the time. Billy was out on the roof, on the off chance that either the copter or the sniper might make a return performance. The others were in the corridors or stationed at the entries. Everybody was uptight.

  Feldmeyer shook his head until his lardy jowls wobbled. He said, “What motivates a cloddy like that? Suppose he’d got his gun out and shot Roy? We’d all have been on him like a ton of bricks. He didn’t have a chance of making a getaway.”

  Forry grunted. “When the Graf can’t find anybody else to take a chance, there’s always the John Wilkes Booth type kicking around that you can steam up to do the job. Think of all the international fame that would accrue to anybody who finishes the Deathwish Wobbly. Besides, one way or the other, the Graf will probably have that fake photographer and the phony doctor loose within six months. With his kind of money and muscle, you can do almost anything in this world.” In spite of all the excitement, Roy hadn’t dispelled his earlier despondency. He took a pull at his third drink, though they hadn’t had lunch yet.

  He said, his voice reflecting his inner despair, “Dick might have been killed.”

  The others were seated around, quiet in their own inner thoughts.

  Ron looked over at his chief quickly. He said, rejection there of the other’s obvious thoughts, “Dick knew that. We all knew we were taking a chance when we signed up. You’re the only one not taking a chance.” He hesitated, before adding, “You don’t have a chance, Roy, but you’re in here pitching. What would you expect us to do? We’re just as avid Wobblies as you are.”

  Roy Cos shrugged that off. “It was a mistake,” he said, deep weariness in his voice. “What good’s it done? I don’t see the multitudes swarming in to join the Wobblies.”

  “There are some,” Mary Ann said, trying to keep obvious compassion for her lover from her voice.

  Roy looked at Forry, rather than her. “Yes,” he said. “Most of ’em are crackpots trying to get in on the act. We don’t need crackpots. We need devoted militants.”