Deathwish World

by Mack Reynolds

  Two more men got out of the second limo and looked up and down the street, one apprehensively, the other as though resigned.

  Max said, “Jesus, is that the Deathwish Wobbly? Colorless looking little guy, isn’t he?”

  Forry Brown was saying, “Inside. Let’s get inside, damn it. I don’t like to be out in the open like this.”

  Roy Cos grunted and they headed for the door, the guards crowding around them now.

  Roy Cos’s manager hesitated and looked at one of the kids with the baseball bats. “Who the hell are you?” he said.

  The boy saluted with his bat. “We’re the Junior Wobblies, sir. Come to help protect Comrade Cos.” He wielded the bat as though it was a field marshal’s baton.

  Roy Cos looked at him. “Junior Wobblies?” he said. “There is no such organization. If there was, I would have heard of it.”

  The boy wasn’t fazed. He looked to be about seventeen—man sized, but with a teenager’s awkwardness. “We’ve organized on our own, Comrade Cos. We haven’t had time to get in touch with the national organization for their approval. There’s fifty of us here surrounding the building. If any of these professional mercenaries show up, we’ll give ’em hell.”

  Ron grunted in disbelief and his hand tightened on his Gyrojet.

  But Forry shook his head. “Let them alone,” he said. “The Graf doesn’t have any teenagers in his outfit. His need is for experienced professionals.” He clapped the boy on the shoulder. “Carry on, kid.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hamp and Max had joined the Wobbly contingent as they entered the building, three of the guards going ahead.

  Max said to Roy Cos, “We’re the delegates from the Anti-Racist League.”

  Roy shook hands. “I suppose you know my name,” he said. “And this is Forrest Brown, my business manager.”

  “Max Finklestein and Horace Hampton,” Max introduced them.

  “The meeting’s on the third floor,” Forry said nervously. “Let’s get going.”

  Ron and Les got into the elevator alone and rode up, to check out the way. The other guards packed around Roy and Forry, waiting.

  Roy looked over at Hamp wanly and said, “A helluva way to live.”

  The black nodded. The other was right. The elevator returned.

  On the third floor, Ron and Les were waiting. The whole group proceeded to a hall down the corridor from which sounds were emanating. They were evidently a bit late.

  Two members of the Synthesis committee were at the door checking credentials. Roy Cos, on the face of it, hardly needed them, but he went through the motions of proving himself a delegate from the Wobblies. Max presented a letter identifying himself and Horace Hampton.

  The meeting was a bore, doomed to failure from its inception. The Synthesis group, which had proposed it, was obviously sincere in its desire to unite all the radical elements but, as Hamp whispered to Max Finklestein, sincerity alone was dull as dishwater.

  There were perhaps thirty-five present, including the Synthesis committee, the bodyguards, and various delegates. The leading representatives were those from the Wobblies, the Nihilists, the Luddites, and the Libertarians, in addition to the Anti-Racists. The other delegates were from splinter groups and some, splinters from splinters. There was even one representative from an organization evidently unknown to the others, called Technocracy, Incorporated. Going at least a century and a half back, the Technocrats opted for a world government dominated by scientists, engineers, and technicians. He wasn’t quite booed down.

  A table in front of the hall acted as a rostrum and each delegation was called upon to give the program of its organization. Roy spoke for the Wobblies, Max Finklestein for the Anti-Racist League, a Nils Ostrander for the Nihilists, and a blowsy woman named Bertha Holtz held forth for the Libertarians, who evidently carried high the banner of the new women’s lib and that of the gays as well. After these four stars, the splinter groups each had their turn, turns that dealt almost exclusively with hair-splitting.

  Hamp and Max had seated themselves next to Roy Cos and Forry Brown, the guards being strategically placed about the room, all standing with their backs to the walls. Hamp spotted Nils Ostrander, who sat next to a younger, very earnest-looking man whose suit was by far the best of any of those present. He also spotted the other person he was looking for, an athletic-looking young fellow in his early twenties. The chairman had introduced him as the sole delegate from one of the smaller organizations back East, of which Hamp had never heard, and suspected that no one else present had either.

  By the time each organization had had its say, the chairman was looking distressed; indeed, downright unhappy. He said, “Did anyone else wish to speak?”

  Hamp stood and said, “I wouldn’t mind doing a little summing up.”

  He was invited to the table and stood in front of it, rather than behind.

  He looked over them, sighed, and said, “This meeting is a farce and I suspect that by this time most of us realize it. It’s been a farce because its purpose is unobtainable. The organizations here can’t get together because they don’t stand for the same things. I can’t figure out what some of you do stand for. Everybody here is against something, but damn few are for anything. Cos’s Wobblies at least have a program, whether or not it’s valid, but the Nihilists proudly announce that they haven’t. All they want to do is tear down the present social system without having anything definite to replace it. The Libertarians want to reform the present Welfare State by granting more GAS for all proles, by pushing through still further rights for women and gays. They aren’t interested in complete change, just reform. The Luddites want to turn the wheels of progress backwards. They want to destroy modem technology and return to the days before automation and computerization, when all of the labor force was needed in production, distribution, and services. The trouble is that you can’t uninvent things any more than you can unscramble eggs. We of the Anti-Racist League have only one thing in common with the Luddites: our interest isn’t in overthrowing People’s Capitalism and neither is theirs. Neither is it the interest of the Libertarians. In fact, in the ranks of anti-racists are some who are wealthy and have an interest in maintaining the status quo, save on the racial question. You see, none of us stands for the same thing. We can’t unite.”

  The audience stirred, some muttering among themselves.

  Nils Ostrander, the delegate from the Nihilists, was on his feet angrily. “That’s defeatism! Quite a few of us stand for the complete dismemberment of the welfare state. We ought to get together to pull this rotten system down.”

  More mutterings and still more agitation. The saturnine Max Finklestein was looking at his companion in amusement.

  Hamp said deliberately, “I’ve done a lot of wondering about the Nihilists. You are a continuation of the terrorists of the late 20th century, such as the Symbiosis Army here in the States, and the Seicigun, the so-called Red Army of Japan, and similar groups in Germany and Italy. Anti-establishment, but pro-what? And, given the viewpoint of those who opt for the status quo, you serve a very definite need. Whether you want to be or not, you serve as agents provocateurs. The assassinations and kidnappings laid at your door serve to turn sincere people of good will away from any movement that proclaims the need for fundamental change. People are repelled by what you do in the name of radicalism, which puts a chip on their shoulders about all revolutionary groups—including the Wobblies, who foreswear force and violence and want to make their changes through legal means. In short, you’re the kiss of death to all the movements represented here tonight. If there was no such organization as the Nihilists, it would be to the interest of such outfits as the United Church, the IABI, the World Club and, for that matter, Mercenaries, Incorporated, to start one. They use you to louse up the image of anybody advocating change.”

  “That’s a lie!” Ostrander yelled in indignation.

  “Is it?” the black said emptily. “Let me give an example. Recently, the multi
millionaire World Club man, Harold Dunninger, managed to get himself on the shitlist of the United Church, as well as in the bad graces of some of the higher-echelon members of the World Club. Names? Harrington Chase, Moyer of the IABI, and Lothar von Brandenburg, the Graf, who was anxious to take the place scheduled for Dunninger in the top ranks of the World Club. Obviously it wouldn’t do for Dunninger to be eliminated by one of the Graf’s men. So the job was delegated to the Nihilists and the blame put on them.”

  “That’s a lie, you bastard!”

  “No, it isn’t, Ostrander. You engineered it yourself. You’re a mole in the Nihilists, an agent of the Graf.”

  The Nihilist delegate was gaping at him, his face white, only partially in anger. His younger companion seated next to him was eyeing him strangely.

  Hamp shrugged in contempt. “You pretended it was a kidnapping to raise funds for your organization but you put the ransom so high there was no chance of it being met. Then you killed him, per orders of the Graf. I don’t have the proof with me here tonight, but now that I’ve made the charge, I have no doubt that your fellow Nihilists will look into the matter.”

  The black flicked a hand at the chairman to indicate that he was through and returned to his chair.

  Forry Brown looked at him, amusement on his wizened face. “You really throw the shit in the fan, don’t you?”

  Roy Cos was looking thoughtful. “You know,” he said, “I think you’re right, Hamp. I’ve often wondered about what motivates those Nihilists. They’re just too far around the bend to be true.”

  Hamp’s talk had been the finish of the meeting. It broke up into squabbles, everybody standing as they argued.

  Max said mildly, “What happened to our friend, Nils Ostrander?”

  Billy Tucker had come up, worried about the way the gathering was now milling around. He said, “I just saw him light out, arguing with that kid with him. Shouldn’t we get out of here?”

  Hamp said to Roy, “I’d like to talk to you a little more. Could it be arranged?”

  Roy Cos said, “We’re staying in a suite at the Drake, just for the night. Why don’t you come over with us?”

  “Right,” Hamp told him. “But just a minute. I want to say something to someone here.”

  “Hurry it up,” Forry Brown told him, scowling. “I don’t like Roy to be exposed to so many people for so long, and we’ve still got to run the gauntlet in the street. By this time the word’s probably gotten around that the Deathwish Wobbly is inside this building and there might be a few thousand rubberneckers out there, with a few of the Graf’s men sprinkled among them.”

  Hamp made his way across the room and confronted one of the delegates, who looked as though he was preparing to leave.

  Hamp said, looking directly into the man’s eyes, “Hello, Pinell. I understand you’re looking for me.”

  The other was too young to be very adept at covering but he tried. He said, “The name’s Merson and I represent…”

  “Your name’s Franklin Pinell,” Jerry interrupted flatly, “and you were sent by the Graf and Peter Windsor to hit me. You’re the son of the late Buck Pinell, co-founder of Mercenaries, Incorporated, who has an account amounting to some forty-five million pseudodollars in a bank in Berne.”

  Frank Pinell’s eyebrows went up in shock. He said, “How the hell would you know a thing like that?”

  “I own the bank,” Hamp said. “Now, look, I want to talk to you but I have something else on the fire right now. Where are you staying?”

  “At the Drake, but…”

  “Wizard. That’s where I’m going right now. In fact, maybe I’ll register myself. I’ll see you later tonight. What name did you say you were going under?”

  “Merson,” Frank said weakly.

  “See you later,” Hamp returned to where Roy and Forry and the bodyguards were waiting.

  Forry, ever suspicious, said, “Who the hell was that?”

  Hamp grunted amusement. “A guy the Graf sent to finish me off. Maybe I’ll tell you about it someday.”

  Some of the delegates were still arguing out in the hall as the group of them headed for the elevator. Max said to Hamp, “I’ve got some things to do tonight, including a report to the Executive Committee. I’ll meet you in the morning.”

  “Great,” Hamp told him. “I’ll register at the Drake.”

  The guards took over again at the elevator. Billy and Ron went down first to check out the lobby. When the elevator returned the five remaining guards, plus Roy, Forry, Hamp, and Max, all crowded in. So did several of the other delegates, two of them still arguing. Forry began to remonstrate about their coming along in this elevator load, but Roy shook his head wearily and the little ex-newsman shrugged it off.

  Halfway down, Roy’s business manager gave a startled cough. Max darted a look at him. “For Christ’s sake,” he blurted. “What’s wrong?”

  The small man’s face was wet and shiny and gray of color. He had both of his fists clamped tight against his chest. His jaw was going up and down as if he was trying to say something that wouldn’t come.

  Les blurted, “He’s having a heart attack!”

  Two of the guards grabbed the stricken man by the arms, supporting him. The elevator came to a halt at the ground floor and the group emerged, hauling Forry Brown with them. They headed for a chair.

  Hamp yelled at the top of his voice, “A doctor! Get a doctor from that police ambulance across the street!”

  Forry Brown’s eyebrows were high, his eyes bulging as though in surprise. His jaw continued to move, soundlessly. And even as they lowered him into the chair, he passed out.

  Two white-jacketed young men, Red Cross bands around their arms, came hurrying in with a stretcher. They expertly snaked the stricken man onto it and trotted from the lobby with him.

  Ron said, “I’ll go along,” and followed after.

  Les was the first to recover from surprised confusion. He said to Roy, “Let’s get out of here. They’ll take him to the hospital. There’s nothing we can do and meanwhile, for all we know, there are a couple of the Graf’s boys waiting outside.”

  Roy nodded dumbly.

  Hamp said, “Under the circumstances, we’ll have to call off our get-together.”

  But the Wobbly organizer shook his head. “No, if we’ve got anything to say to each other, we might as well do it. There’s no guarantee I’ll last the night.”

  The six remaining guards stationed themselves around Hamp and their charge as the body of them moved out the door and made a beeline for the limousines. Roy, Hamp, and Billy got into the rear of one, two of the guards into the front. Then the three remaining got into the lead car. Hamp looked out the window. The crowd had grown considerably larger and the teenage kids with their baseball bats held it back, very businesslike. A half-drunk prole waved one hand high and yelled, “’Ray for Deathwish Wobbly!”

  “Yeah,” Roy muttered as they took off.

  The bodyguards of the Wobbly national organizer had their parts down pat by this time. They moved with precision and cool efficiency. The limousines smoothed up to an entry in the area of the Drake Hotel. The three in the lead vehicle popped out and scouted the vicinity, two of them going into the hotel. Then the three returned to the second limousine and stood alert while its occupants emerged. Then all moved into the hotel and took the service elevator.

  All of Cos’s basic crew were accommodated in one large suite, Hamp was introduced to Mary Ann Elwyn and Ferd Feldmeyer, and Roy went over to the bar while Les told the secretary and speech writer what had happened.

  “Damn,” Feldmeyer said, his plump little mouth looking petulant. “Those cigarettes. How bad did it look?”

  “Bad,” Billy said in disgust. “He passed out. But the medics were there immediately. Nowadays they ought to be able to do something. A man no older than Forry usually doesn’t die from his first heart attack.”

  Roy had knocked back a first drink. He said, looking at Ferd, “Had he ever had on
e before?”

  “Not as far as I know. I’ve known him for years and he never mentioned any heart trouble.”

  When the drinks had been distributed, Roy Cos looked over at the black. He said, “Well, we should hear about Forry within the hour. Meanwhile, what did you have in mind, Hampton?”

  Hamp half emptied his glass. He said, “As you know, I’m from the Anti-Racist League. That’s my prime interest. I wondered what you thought of the World Club. The story is beginning to surface that they’re in favor of establishing a World State. They’re behind bringing all of Latin America into the United States, and now Australia and New Zealand. I suspect that the Common Europe countries will be next and I also suspect that such nations as Spain, Portugal, and Italy will line up overnight, and the rest soon after. Hell, even commie countries, beginning with Cuba and Yugoslavia, wouldn’t be far behind.”

  Roy said, “And?”

  The black regarded him questioningly. “It would seem to me that under a World State racism would disappear.”

  Roy shook his head very emphatically. “Why? Suppose we had a United States of the World. Why would that end racism? It hasn’t been ended in the United States, so far. Sure, if it was a world government under the Wobbly program, there’d be no reason for racism. But under the status quo? Suppose the World Club took over and made the United Church the state religion. The Prophet does precious little to hide his anti-Semitism. That reactionary Harrington Chase is hand in glove with him. The Jews aren’t about to join up with the United Church, like so many other smaller religions are. Most of them, these days, are agnostics or atheists and won’t support any organized religion. Those who are still Orthodox cling to the faith that’s held them together for three thousand years. So the Prophet’s down on them, and if his outfit ever becomes the state religion, Jews will be in trouble.”